Chapter 11 #2
"You find this amusing?"
"I find it predictable," I say, still smiling. "We went to a party. People took photos. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Papa."
He swipes the screen. Another article fills it: The Salzburg Scandal Finally Going Public.
The main photo is us on the red carpet, polished and deliberate, but below it the images turn messier.
Me in the Wengen pub, squeezed in at the team table, Nico's arm slung around my shoulders.
Me kissing him at the Adelboden party, his hand tangled in my hair.
My father doesn't say anything. Just swipes again.
A different outlet. Same photos. Same breathless speculation.
But this one also features the selfie I took at Reiteralm, the one I thought was playful and raw and mine.
Now, looking at it through the lens of a tabloid headline, I see what they see.
Nico's race suit unzipped to mid-chest, hair tousled like we just crawled out of the forest. Which we did.
Someone reposted it on Instagram with a comment underneath: Guess he's got scratches from her fingernails under that suit. Bitches like her bite. Why do men fall for such a scam?
The article doesn't spare us. It speculates how long we've been "carrying on," fills the text with insinuation and nastiness dressed up as concern for Austria's golden boy.
"There's more," my father says, pulling the tablet away. "But I find this sufficient."
Nausea rolls through me. I picture Nico right now, probably sitting in some team meeting or press conference that should be about racing, fielding questions about me instead.
Katharina's tight, furious expression. The jokes in the locker room that aren't really jokes.
My perfect plan, the polished soft-launch I choreographed so carefully, just became ammunition.
"Some of these articles are old," I say, voice flat. "Like, old news."
"Yes." His tone is unreadable. "Your affair has been very popular on the internet lately."
"You knew." It's not a question.
"Everybody knew."
"So why now?"
"Because you made a move," he says simply. "You went public. That changes things."
"Isn’t that what you wanted?"
"Not entirely." He pauses, eyes still on me. "But I'd say your behavior in Kitzbühel was an improvement over your…"
"…happiness," I hear myself say.
He looks at me for a long second, but doesn't comment.
"The question is, élise," he says, setting the tablet down on the table between us like evidence, "what now?"
I look up, my face carefully blank, because I have no idea where this conversation is going.
"What do you mean?"
His eyes narrow. "How serious is it?"
The question lands like a trap. I can feel the weight of the answer he wants, the careful calibration required. If I say I love him, he'll laugh in my face. If I say he's the perfect choice, he'll be deliriously happy and start planning our future like a corporate merger.
So, I choose the third option. The one designed to make him furious.
"He's just a random fuck."
The slap comes so fast, I don't see it. Just the crack of his palm against my cheek, sharp and cold, and then the sting spreading across my face like fire.
"Liar."
My hand flies to my cheek. My eyes water, but I don't blink.
"Everybody knows you're smitten with the boy," he says, voice flat and calm, as if he didn't just hit me. "What, you think I didn't have you followed?"
My stomach drops. "You what?"
"Reiteralm," he says. "The gondola. The hotel in Pichl. I know all of it."
Jacque. It has to be Jacque. The only person who knew, the only person who could have—
"Not Jacque," my father says, reading my face. "He's too loyal. I had to hire someone else."
"Then why not replace Jacque?" My voice comes out hoarse, shaking. "If you can't trust him, why keep him?"
"Because you trust him." He leans back in his chair, studying me like I'm a balance sheet. "Which means he can keep you safe. You trust him with your stupid ideas. I can sleep when I know he's around you."
The words should sound like care. They don't. They sound like inventory management.
Silence stretches between us. My cheek throbs. I feel the weight of the cash in my purse on the floor beside me, the secret account, the plan I don't even have yet.
"So what now?" I ask quietly. "You want me to drop him?"
He almost smiles. "Why would I want you to drop him? He's pure gold. A champion. A perfect match for my daughter."
The word match lands like a stone in my chest. It sounds cold, he used the word on purpose.
"I thought," he continues, "that I'd just have a chat with you.
Praise you for finally becoming a Moreau.
Let you go to Schladming and handle it the way you did in Kitzbühel.
" He picks up his espresso cup, takes a sip, sets it down with deliberate precision.
"But your words just now reveal that you are not an adult.
You're still an immature, spoiled brat who risks turning into the embarrassment and scandal that ruins our reputation. "
I dig my nails into my palms.
"In Schladming," he says, "there will be no wild party. You will bring him to the Tauernblick chalet. I will meet him properly. You will both behave like a grown-up couple."
I see it instantly. The only way to "have" Nico under this arrangement is to drag him into my cage.
I flash back to Kitzbühel. His face when he crossed the finish line, alive and feral and free, surrounded by fans screaming his name.
The noise, the cowbells, the wildness of it.
That's his world. Not marble salons and silver coffee services and men like my father turning people into portfolio pieces.
I remember that night in the suite. The heat, the way he needed to own me, the way I let him because it was the only honest thing we had. If we're in the cage together, that's all we'll ever be. Just bodies and heat and no soul left.
I can't let my father turn him into a branded pet.
I have to protect him. From the Moreaus. From me. Even if it means doing something stupid.
"Fine," I say. My voice is steady now, cold. "I'll bring him. But I need to warn him first. And not before the race. After."
"No."
"Papa—"
"Either you take the deal exactly as I've laid it out," he says, leaning back in his chair, "or you stay here and we invite him to a controlled dinner later this week. Your choice."
I let the silence stretch, as if I'm weighing my options. As if I have any intention of doing what he wants.
"Okay," I say finally, careful to sound reluctant. "I'll stay. We'll do the dinner. Because I can't just show up in Schladming and drag him to your feet like a prize. I have to talk to him first. I'll call him after the race."
"Good."
"Invite him here. To dinner."
"Fine."
I pause, as if the thought just occurred to me. "But I'll need to meet him over coffee first. Alone. To explain it."
His eyebrow lifts. "Alone."
"He's not going to agree to this if I spring it on him in front of you, Papa. Please."
He studies me for a long moment, eyes calculating, weighing whether this is defiance or strategy. I hold his gaze, let my shoulders sag just enough to look like someone accepting defeat.
"Fine," he says at last. "Coffee. Then dinner. Here."
I nod, slow and obedient, like a daughter who's finally learned her place.
My phone buzzes in my purse. I glance down. Lina's name flashes on the screen.
Perfect.
"élise? I just got to Schladming. I read the articles—"
"Can you handle it?" I cut her off, voice clipped.
A pause. "élise… I need you to explain something. We need a strategy…" She's trying to match my professional tone, confused by the shift.
"Fine. I'll be at the office in twenty minutes," I say, crisp and cold, still holding my father's eyes.
A pause on the other end. "I'm not in the office. I'm in Schladming."
"That deal needs to stay exactly as it is," I say, putting enough Moreau executive authority into my voice that my father's expression shifts from suspicion to mild approval.
"What deal? What are you talking about?"
"Just tell him to wait for me, okay?"
"Who?"
"Teresa, do as I say and make him wait."
"Who's Teresa? élise, what—"
I end the call and look at my father, lifting an eyebrow in exasperation.
"The idiots at the Thomahawk partnership almost blew the entire sponsorship deal. We've had that branded cooperation for years. I need to go sort it out before they sink it completely."
He studies me for a moment, jaw tight. I can see the calculation behind his eyes, weighing whether this is real or theater.
"We have a deal, élise," he says finally, voice low and measured. "Coffee with him. Then dinner here. This week."
"Of course." I stand, smoothing my coat. "I'll return after I've handled this mess. We can have lunch. You'll want to hear about the races, anyway. And how the Eiswerk positioning is holding up after…" I gesture vaguely toward the tablet still sitting on the table. "All of that."
His expression softens just a fraction. Racing. Business. The language he understands.
"Lunch, then," he says. "Don't make me wait."
"I won't, Papa."
I walk out, heels clicking on the marble, spine straight, every step measured and controlled until I'm through the door and out of his sight.
Then I run.
The second I'm in the car, engine roaring to life under my hands, I point it toward the A10 and drive.
Not to the office.
To Schladming.
***
I've been pacing this conference room for twenty minutes.
Long table. Too many chairs. Whiteboard covered in someone else's abandoned diagrams. A window overlooking the parking lot where I can see Nico's team van pulling in, headlights cutting through the dark. It's late. The night race is over.