Chapter 12
The Price for Loving a Princess
Playlist:
Esme Rose: Fuck Being a Princess
Idina Menzel: Into the Unknown
Schladming, Austria, January 27
NICO
The hotel conference room door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds too final. élise is still inside, probably wiping her face, fixing her hair, doing whatever she needs to do before she walks back out into the world like nothing just happened.
Like we didn't just blow up both our lives.
I walk back to the team hotel with my hands shoved deep in my pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold.
The night race is long over, but the crowds are still celebrating.
Music blares from the bars lining the street, fans spilling out onto the sidewalks with beer and flags and that wild energy Schladming always has after a night race.
Someone recognizes me, yells my name, raises a glass.
I wave without stopping, duck my head, keep walking.
The lobby is too bright when I walk in, all polished wood and glass and that fake alpine charm hotels like this always have. I can hear voices from the breakfast room off to the side. Team debrief must still be going.
I should go to my room. Pack. Get out of here before someone asks questions I don't know how to answer.
Instead, I walk toward the voices.
Lukas sees me first. He's leaning back in his chair, a glass of beer in one hand, phone in the other, that lazy grin already forming. "There he is. Thought you got lost."
"Something like that." I pull out a chair and sit down harder than I mean to.
Thomas is at the head of the table, Katharina next to him, both of them looking at me like they already know something's wrong. Martin's there too, flipping through notes on his phone, half-listening.
"You good?" Thomas asks.
"Yeah. Fine."
"You look like shit," Lukas says cheerfully.
"Thanks."
Katharina sets her tea down. "Where's élise?"
The question lands heavier than it should. "Dealing with something."
"That's vague."
"It's complicated."
"It's always complicated with you two," Lukas mutters, but there's no real bite in it. Just tired amusement.
Thomas leans forward, elbows on the table, studying me with that quiet intensity he gets when he's trying to read a situation. "Did your forbidden romance blow up already? You two break up?"
I almost laugh. "No. We're moving in together."
Silence.
Complete, suffocating silence.
Lukas's grin freezes halfway. Katharina's eyebrows shoot up. Thomas just stares at me like I've announced I'm retiring to join a circus.
"You're what?" Katharina says finally.
"Moving in together. Our place—well, my place. In Reiteralm."
"Jesus Christ, Nico." Lukas sets his glass down. "You've been public for, what, a week? And now you're playing house?"
"It's not like that."
"Then what's it like?"
I don't have an answer. Or I do, but it's too messy to explain. That her father knows. That he wants to own us both. That she ran, and I couldn't let her run alone, and now we're doing something that feels less like a choice and more like the only option left.
"It's complicated," I say again, and the words taste like a cop-out.
Katharina's still looking at me, and there's something in her expression I don't like. Pity, maybe. Or concern. "Nico, do you even want this?"
"Of course I want this."
"That's not what I asked."
I meet her eyes, and for a second I can't answer. Because I do want it. I want élise. I want to be the guy who protects her, who gives her a place to land when her whole world falls apart. But do I want this? The weight of it? The way it feels like I'm carrying something I don't know how to hold?
"I want her," I say finally. "So yeah. I want this."
Katharina doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push.
"Moving your sponsor into your shoebox," Lukas says, shaking his head. "Can't wait to see how that works out. Just imagine how many shoes this one has."
It's meant to be a joke. I know it's meant to be a joke. But it doesn't land. It just sits there in the air, sharp and uncomfortable.
I don't laugh.
Nobody laughs.
"I have to go," I say, pushing back from the table. "I need to help her pack. I'll meet you guys in Reiteralm after."
"Nico—" Thomas starts, but I'm already standing.
Katharina turns toward the window, looking out at the parking lot below. "At least they let her keep the fancy car."
I follow her gaze. élise's Audi is still there, sleek and black and completely out of place in the team lot.
"I guess that's the Audi she ran away in," I say flatly.
The silence that follows is worse than the first one.
Martin clears his throat, clearly trying to break the tension. He glances at Thomas and Katharina, half-smiling. "You two didn't have this level of drama, turned you envy them?"
Thomas doesn't smile back. "I woke up in intensive care. Different genre of disaster."
Katharina reaches for his hand across the table. They don't say anything else.
I turn and walk out before anyone can stop me.
The hallway feels too long. The elevator takes too long. My room is too quiet when I finally get there, just my gear bag on the floor and the smell of hotel soap and someone else's life.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my phone.
No messages from élise yet.
I should feel good. Protective. Like I'm doing the right thing.
Instead, I just feel trapped.
***
The fish tank is marvelous. Orange-white striped clownfish chasing each other, a big blue tang nibbling at a stone, blue light and fresh colors and cute little hermit crabs with their long legs tasting the glass.
I wouldn't need a mental coach if I had this at home.
You'd have to relax just by looking at it.
It’s just that at this precise moment, not even Finding Nemo on live stream does not help.
I've been dreading this moment for three days.
The Moreau flat sits on one of Salzburg's most expensive streets, the kind of address that comes with a view of the Hohensalzburg Fortress and neighbors who don't need to work.
The entrance hall is all marble and cold light, a staircase curving up to the private floors.
And this massive fish tank built into the wall, glowing like some kind of underwater dream.
élise texted me this morning. He knows I'm leaving. Come when you're ready. I'll be upstairs packing.
I'm not ready. But I'm here anyway. Having come by train and three buses.
I hear footsteps behind me, and turn my gaze from the pack of Nemos. Not élise. A man in his fifties, perfectly tailored charcoal suit, hair just starting to gray at the temples. He looks exactly like I expected, and nothing like I expected at the same time.
Laurent Moreau doesn't smile. He just extends a hand.
"Mr. Reiner. Finally meeting you—a pleasure." His grip is firm, controlled, the handshake of someone who's spent a lifetime sizing people up in boardrooms. "Or, as you're kidnapping my daughter, may I call you Nico?"
I shake his hand, force myself to hold his gaze. "Nico's fine."
"She's upstairs," Laurent says. "But I thought we might have a word first."
It's not a request.
He leads me into a side room, smaller than I expected but no less intimidating. Two chairs, a low table, a fireplace that's not lit. He sits, motions for me to do the same.
I sit. My hands feel too big, awkward on my knees.
Laurent studies me for a long moment, and I can feel the weight of it. The assessment. The calculation.
"Look at you," he says finally. "Face to face with the villain of your love story."
I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
He leans back, crosses one leg over the other. "But you have no idea what you're doing. Neither of you do." His voice is calm, almost conversational. "She'll come running back. She has no money, no job, no prospects without her name. And you…"
"You taking away my sponsorship?" The words come out sharper than I mean them to.
Laurent pauses. Then, quiet: "I am not the villain of this story, Nico."
"Then who is?"
"Reality."
The word hangs between us.
He uncrosses his legs, leans forward slightly.
"Your contract is safe. Your future with élise is not.
" He says it like he's explaining a business deal, not my life.
"How long do you think she'll be happy in a small flat in an alpine village, eating instant noodles and wearing two pairs of shoes until they fall apart? She's a Moreau."
"We'll get by."
"You might." His eyes don't leave mine. "She won't."
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. "You don’t believe I can take care of her?"
“No,” he says flatly. “I don’t think you can.”
For the first time, something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile. More like recognition.
"But prove me wrong, Nico." He straightens his cuffs. "I do enjoy a surprise."
So that’s the price for loving a princess: she jumps, I promise I’ll build the parachute while we fall.
Footsteps on the stairs. élise appears in the doorway, two suitcases at her side, face carefully blank.
"Ready?" she asks, looking at me, not her father.
I stand. "Yeah. Let's go."
Laurent doesn't move to help. He just watches as I grab the suitcases, as élise walks past him without a word. We're almost to the door when his voice stops us.
"Take care of her, Nico."
I turn. He's standing in the doorway to the side room, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.
I can't tell if it's a blessing or a threat.
"I will," I say.
élise doesn't look back.
***
We load the suitcases into her car in silence. She climbs into the passenger seat, stares straight ahead as I start the engine and pull out of the drive.
It's not until we're on the highway when she speaks again.
"What did he say to you?"
"That you'll come running back."
"And what did you say?"
"That you won't."
She looks at me then, and there's something fragile in her eyes. "You believe that?"
I should say yes. Should tell her I'm certain, that we're going to be fine, that love is enough.
But I think about the way Laurent looked at me like I was a kid playing dress-up in a grown man's life.
"I have to," I say finally.
She doesn't ask what I mean. Just reaches for my hand on the gearshift and holds on tight as the highway stretches in front of us, and mountains pass along.
***
My flat looks different when we pull up. I've lived here for a year—bought it to get some space from the federation, from my mother, from everyone who thought they had a say in my life. It's always felt like mine. Small, but mine.
Now, looking at it with élise beside me and her two massive suitcases in the trunk, it just feels small.
"Here we are," I say, killing the engine.
She nods, doesn't move.
"élise."
"I know." She unbuckles her seatbelt, opens the door. "Let's go."
I grab her suitcases from the trunk, and we climb the stairs to the second floor. The key sticks in the lock like it always does. I have to jiggle it twice before the door finally opens.
One bedroom. A living area that's also the kitchen if you count the two-burner stove and the counter that's barely wide enough for a cutting board.
Bathroom so small you have to step into the shower to close the door.
And everywhere—everywhere—my mess. Jackets thrown over the back of the couch, gloves and goggles on the counter, training gear piled in the corner.
Dirty dishes in the sink from breakfast three days ago.
I meant to clean before she got here, but there wasn't time.
I set her suitcases down in the middle of the room. They take up half the floor space.
"I can move some stuff," I say, already reaching for the jackets. "Make room."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. You can't even open your suitcase without—"
"Nico. It's fine."
I stop. Look at her. She's smiling now, that bright, wide smile she uses when she's performing. I've seen it enough times to know the difference between this and the real thing.
"It's perfect," she says.
I don't believe her. But I nod anyway, because what else am I supposed to do?
She kneels down, opens the first suitcase. Dresses spill out. Coats. Shoes that look like they cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.
"Where should I put these?" she asks, holding up a pair of heels.
I look around. The closet is full of my race suits and jackets. The shelves are stacked with protein shakes and old race bibs I never threw away.
"I'll clear some space," I say.
She nods, sets the shoes down carefully on top of the suitcase like they're fragile. Then she pulls out her phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Taking a photo." She angles the phone toward the suitcase, the window behind it with the view of the mountain. Her thumb hovers over the screen.
"élise."
"What?"
"You're filming this?"
"I'm documenting it." She taps the screen, swipes, types something I can't see. "My followers want to know what's going on. And my influencer contracts are my only income now, so I need to keep them happy."
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. "So we're just… putting our life on Instagram?"
She looks up at me, and there's something sharp in her eyes now. "Look, I'm not happy about this either. But we need the money."
The words land like a slap.
We need the money.
She's monetizing us. Turning the flat, the groceries, me into a storyline her followers can consume. And I don't know if I'm allowed to hate that, because she's right—we do need the money.
But hearing it out loud, standing in this flat that suddenly feels too small with her suitcases blocking the door and my gear taking up every inch of space, makes it more real than I want it to be.