Chapter 14
The Old Battlefields
Prague, Czechia
ZLATA
Every step up the stairwell burns my quads, a slow, sour ache that has nothing to do with the gates I skied this morning and everything to do with what waits at the top.
Each stair feels steeper than the last, as if the building is trying to warn me off.
My hands shake around the strap of my race bag, stupid little tremors that make me hate myself a bit.
Hate that a man who used to be my whole world can still make me feel like this in my own home.
I make myself stop outside the door, inhaling until my lungs sting.
Keys, lock, turn. I force my fingers to steady, to be competent at something as basic as getting inside my own apartment.
The door opens with its familiar soft creak.
I set the race bag down carefully, as if it contains explosives instead of damp gear, and loosen my boots and step out of them.
Socks on cool hallway tiles. One more breath.
“Hello?” My voice sounds thin, too high, as I walk into our cozy little living room.
Peter is sprawled on the couch like he owns the place, ankles crossed, legs casually spread, some mindless show playing on our TV. He takes his time looking up, as if he’s granting me an audience.
“Hi,” he says finally, and his face lights up in what looks like a genuine smile. The old one. The one that used to disarm me on sight.
I feel my own mouth twitch, muscle memory more than intention. The tension in my shoulders loosens a notch; that smile is still a weapon, even if I’m trying to build armor against it.
I turn away before it can work too well and head toward the kitchen corner. “Did Anna offer you something to drink?” I call over my shoulder, grateful for the excuse to fuss with glasses and cupboards.
“You know she hates me,” Peter answers, the TV going silent behind me as he switches it off. “But I brought my own.”
I turn back. There on the coffee table sits a chilled bottle of prosecco in a sweating silver sleeve, two tall glasses already waiting like an ambush.
“Come on,” Peter says, already reaching for the bottle. The cork pops with a soft, celebratory sigh. He pours pale gold into both glasses with practiced ease. “Sit with me for a moment. How are you doing anyway?”
I hesitate just long enough to feel it, then move. I sit on the far end of the couch, leaving a deliberate, safe strip of fabric between us. I accept the glass he hands me, careful not to let our fingers touch.
“I’m good,” I say, after a sip. The wine is crisp and cold, bubbles stinging my palate, something floral and familiar blooming on my tongue. “And this is very good.”
“I know.” He shrugs, self-assured as ever. “I know what you like.”
The sentence lands like a small, sharp knife. Of course he does. He taught me half of what I like. The prosecco turns faintly bitter in my mouth; I put the glass down, a reminder snapping back into place.
“Anna mentioned,” I say, looking straight into his blue eyes, refusing to soften, “that you have the money you owe me.”
His smile tilts into something sly. “I hoped we’d circle the topic a little longer,” he says. “Catch up first.”
“Don’t deflect, Peter.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I don’t pull it back.
He sighs theatrically, leans back. “How much did you say it was?”
“I sent you the exact amount,” I say. “The deposit from our flat. Half of my last rent. Gas from the trip when you took my car. It’s all in the spreadsheet I emailed you.”
“Yeah,” he says, flat now. “That money. I don’t have it.”
Silence drops between us, thick and unsurprising. Of course, he doesn’t. It would have been too easy if he’d turned up with an envelope and an apology. Still, some naive part of me had hoped.
“Peter,” I say slowly, “you have the deposit from our flat. When you handed the apartment over, the landlord returned it in full. I know. I checked with him.”
His mouth curls. “How clever of you.” A pause. “But I needed to use that. I’ll give you your money, but you’ll have to wait.”
“It’s been four months,” I say. “I need that money.”
“Oh, come on, Bunny,” he drawls, and the old nickname slices right through me. “You don’t seem to be doing so badly. Skiing in Austria twice in one month. Unless you found another sponsor…”
My spine snaps straight. “Another sponsor? You never paid for my trips.”
“I took care of you,” he snaps back, irritation flashing for a second. “Took you places. I even took you skiing, even though I hate the mountains.”
“That’s not the point.”
My phone starts ringing. Of course it does. It’s on the table, screen up, because I made the rookie mistake of forgetting this isn’t a neutral space today.
“My sad, hot Austrian” flashes on the display under Fabio’s topless photo, his stupid, adorable grin framed in a neat circle.
Heat floods my face. I snatch the phone and flip it face down. The ringing cuts off.
The silence that follows is worse than any sound.
“So,” Peter says quietly after a beat, voice gone deadly calm, “that’s why you’re so uptight with me. You finally found someone to fuck you properly, right? Is that it?”
Tears prick behind my eyes, hot and humiliating. I blink hard, refuse to let them fall.
“That is none of your business,” I say, my voice steady by some miracle.
He watches me for a second, then the charming boy mask slides back into place. “Sorry, bunny,” he purrs. “Couldn’t help it. It’s only natural I’m jealous after loving you for seven years.”
I don’t rise to it. “If you don’t have the money for me, why are you here?”
“I wanted to see you,” he says. Flat. Almost honest.
Oscar chooses that moment to jump onto the table, delicate paws landing next to the empty olive bowl. He sniffs the rim, then turns to Peter, tail flicking. When Peter reaches out, Oscar leans into his hand, letting him scratch under his chin. Traitor.
“See?” Peter says. “Even Oscar is friendlier than you.”
My hands start trembling again. I clasp them in my lap to hide them.
“I kind of miss him meowing at five a.m.,” Peter adds, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“You threatened to throw him out of the window,” I remind him.
“I still miss him,” Peter says with a shrug. “I miss you.”
The words hang there, heavy as wet wool. He isn’t lying, not exactly. He misses the version of me that fit seamlessly into his life. That’s what makes this harder; he’s not a monster. Just dangerous for me.
“I want my money back, Peter,” I say. “What should I do? Call a lawyer?”
His eyes narrow. “Where would you get a lawyer?”
“You know Eva’s husband is a cop,” I say. “He’ll help me find one.”
“So, we live together seven years,” he says slowly, “and now you’re threatening me with cops and lawyers?”
“I want my money back,” I repeat, because if I say anything else, I’ll start apologizing, and I refuse to do that anymore.
He stares at me, then exhales. “Okay. Give me a month. Next month, I’ll bring it.”
“No need to come over,” I say quickly. “You can just transfer it, you know.”
“Bunny,” he smiles, leaning forward a little, eyes softening in a way that used to melt me. “If fifty-two grand is what I have to pay for an hour with you, I’ll happily do that.”
So, he knows exactly how much he owes me. The casual precision makes my skin crawl.
“Okay,” I say, because I’m too tired to argue the number or the hour. “But I’m exhausted, and it’s time for you to go.”
He hesitates, then stands, smoothing invisible creases from his trousers. “You won’t even walk me to the door?” he asks. “Do you hate me that much?”
I grit my teeth, then decide on dignity. I’m not a sulky teenager, and I don’t want to give him that power. I get up and walk with him down the short hallway.
“See you in a month,” he says, and before I can react, he steps in and kisses me. Hard. His hand clamps the back of my neck, pulling me closer.
For one stunned second, my body locks, old muscle memory screaming at me to just let it happen, to make it easier.
The grip is firm, possessive. I think about shoving him away, but it’s over almost as quickly as it began.
He releases me, turns, and steps out, the door slamming shut a little too loud behind him.
I stand there, staring at the wood, breath shallow.
Then my knees give. I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, back pressed against the cool surface, and the tears finally break free.
They spill hot and uncontrollable down my cheeks, my whole body shaking like I’ve just come out of an ice bath.
The door to Anna’s room opens almost instantly. Of course, she was listening. Of course, she was waiting for the first crack to rush through.
“Zlata?” she says softly, already crossing the hall toward me.
Anna is on me before I can wipe my face, dropping to the floor and wrapping her arms around my shoulders.
I fold into her without grace, ugly-crying into her sweatshirt while she strokes my hair and murmurs meaningless words that still somehow help.
Time shrinks to breath and shaking and the solid weight of her against me.
When the worst of it ebbs, she helps me up and steers me gently to the couch. The prosecco bottle still sweats on the table, two glasses standing there like evidence. Anna eyes them, reaches for the bottle, and studies the label.
“If the bastard brings anything useful, we might as well take it,” she says.
Then, very deliberately, she picks up the glass Peter used, carries it to the sink, and washes it. Once. Twice. A third time, scrubbing as if she can erase his fingerprints to the last molecule. Only when she’s satisfied does she set it upside down on the rack and come back with a fresh one.
The exaggerated thoroughness of it knocks a hiccup of laughter out of me. I press my palms to my wet face, feeling myself slowly reassemble.
“Better?” she asks, flopping down beside me.
“A little,” I sniff. “I feel so stupid.”
“You weren’t stupid,” she says immediately.
“I mean now,” I insist. “He was actually… nice. Mostly. And I still had to fight every instinct in me to please him. To say the thing he wanted to hear, sit where he wanted me, drink the wine he brought, and smile as if nothing happened. My whole body just goes on autopilot around him.”
Anna leans back, watching me. “That’s not stupidity,” she says quietly. “That’s seven years of conditioning.”
I swallow. The word fits too well.
“Did he at least talk about the money?” she asks after a moment.
I huff out a humorless laugh. “Of course, he doesn’t want to give it back. He admitted he used the deposit. Says he’ll ‘pay me in a month’. You know what that means—he’ll use it as an excuse to see me again.”
“We should tell Eva to ask for Jan’s advice,” Anna says, eyes flashing. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I know.” I stare at my hands. “But I also know he’ll play poor and dramatic if I go in guns blazing. I wanted to give him one last normal chance. One month. If he doesn’t pay, then we go official. I won’t die of hunger meanwhile.”
Anna studies me for a beat, then nods reluctantly. “Okay. One month. But then you’re done being nice.”
“Deal.”
Silence settles for a moment, softer now. Oscar hops up onto the armchair, curls himself into a judgmental loaf, tail wrapped neatly around his paws.
“So,” Anna says eventually, voice gentler, “do I get to ask how it went with your sad, hot Austrian?”
Despite everything, my lips twitch. “Fabio,” I say. Just saying his name feels like opening a window. “I saw him.”
Her eyebrows arch. “You will elaborate on it, right?”
“It was…” I search for the word. “Beautiful. Stupid and intense and so, so good. We skied together, he trained me, we… connected. It felt like living inside a fake happily ever after for a few days.”
“And now?”
“It’s over,” I say, feeling the words land, heavy.
She blinks. “Already? Why?”
“Because Fabio doesn’t expect me to make him happy,” I say slowly, surprised at how true it sounds out loud.
“He’s… decent. Solid. He actually listens.
And this stupid instinct I have to please, to twist myself around a man’s needs, is still there.
I could feel it starting with him, too. He might be the most decent guy I’ve ever met, but I’m a mess. Look at me.”
Anna snorts softly. “What I see is someone who faced her manipulative ex in her own living room tonight and didn’t fold. That’s not a mess, that’s progress.”
I sigh, leaning my head back against the couch. “Maybe. But Fabio called while Peter was here. I had to mute it. I should probably call him back and explain. I feel… bad.”
“Bad about Peter?”
“Bad about all of it,” I say. “But mostly about Fabio. He didn’t deserve a breakup text and a missed call.”
Anna tops up our glasses and gently clinks hers against mine. “Then finish this, brush your teeth, and call him from bed. At least do the ‘adult closure’ thing.”
We finish the prosecco in quiet sips, the fizz softening the edges of the evening. Eventually, we both yawn at the same time and laugh.
“Go,” Anna nudges me. “I’ll deal with the rest. Oscar and I will guard the door.”
***
In my room, the darkness feels oddly comforting. I crawl into bed in an oversized t-shirt, phone heavy in my hand. The chat with Fabio is still open, our earlier messages now shadowed by my last text.
My heart pounds as I hit the call button. It rings only twice.
“Zlata,” he says, and there’s irritation under my name, thin and sharp.
“You called,” I say, uselessly.
“I called because you broke up with me over a text,” he snaps. The hurt in his voice is louder than the anger.
I close my eyes. Honesty, I promised myself. “It wasn’t the right moment,” I say. “My ex came by. It wasn’t… nice. And when you called, I couldn’t talk.”
There’s a pause. I can hear him breathing. “So what you wrote is still valid?” he asks finally. “We’re over?”
My throat tightens. “Fabio, I told you. I’m a mess. I need to sort out my life. Don’t push me, please.”
“So what, I should wait until you sort out your life?” he says, frustration creeping back in. “Like your toy on a shelf?”
“Wait?” I repeat, stung. “You have a season to race. You have a life that’s so full I barely fit in it as it is. I wouldn’t call that ‘waiting’.”
I hear myself getting irritable, my voice sharpening to defend something I’m not even sure I believe in fully yet.
He exhales, a harsh, tired sound. “Fine,” he says. “Good luck with… sorting things out.”
The distance in his tone hurts more than if he’d shouted.
“Good luck with your races,” I manage. “I’ll be watching.”
There’s a beat where I think he might say something else. He doesn’t. The line clicks dead. I’ve just hurt the only man who didn’t ask me to bend.
I lie there in the dark, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to the silence on both ends of my life and trying to believe that choosing myself, for once, will be worth the cost.