Chapter Twenty-Seven
NATALIA
I am smiling before I even reach the door.
The kind of smile that sneaks up on you when your brain is somewhere in the clouds, a little too far into the future.
The yoga studio had been warm and quiet, sunlight pouring in through wide windows while snow drifted lazily outside, and the entire time I kept thinking about him—about the way he kissed my forehead before he left this morning, half dressed for skiing, hair still damp, eyes softer than he probably realized.
Don’t try to save the world while I’m gone.
As if that’s something I can just turn off.
But today I hadn’t tried to save the world.
Today I had let myself imagine something else.
What an offseason in Scottsdale might look like.
Luka in my kitchen, pretending to hate the dry heat while secretly loving it. Luka trying to cook and burning something expensive. Luka in my bed without an expiration date attached to it.
The thought makes my chest feel light and dangerous all at once.
I push open the chalet door and call out his name automatically.
"Luka?"
The word echoes slightly.
No answer.
That’s fine. He could be in the shower. Or grabbing something from the car. Or back out for one last run before lunch.
I step inside and shut the door behind me, brushing snow off my sleeves.
That’s when something feels wrong.
Not dramatically wrong.
Just… off.
It takes a second for my brain to pinpoint it.
The kitchen counter is clear.
Too clear.
The coffee mug he left by the sink last night is gone. The protein bar wrapper that had been sitting near the edge of the table isn’t there. His jacket, previously slung casually over the back of the chair, had vanished.
My stomach tightens.
"Luka?" I call again, louder this time.
Nothing.
I walk further into the chalet, slower now, my senses sharpening in that instinctive way they do when something doesn’t add up.
The living room looks staged, as if no one has been living in it.
My heartbeat begins to thud in my ears as I move toward the bedroom.
The bed is made. The duffel bag that had been near the dresser is gone. As well as his boots, which had been by the door.
His toiletries no longer line the bathroom counter, and there is not a single trace of him left in this room.
For a few seconds, my brain refuses to accept what my eyes are seeing. Maybe he switched rooms. Maybe he—
But no.
People don’t take every belonging with them unless they’re not coming back.
The air in the room feels thinner.
Then I remember… my phone. I left it here by accident when I went to yoga.
I turn toward the bedside table quickly, hope rising stupidly and desperately in my chest that he left me a text or call to let me know where he went.
I see the yellow square sticky note stuck to my phone before I see anything else. His scrawl written over the top.
Relief hits me so hard my knees almost give out.
He left a note. He wouldn’t just leave. He wouldn’t just disappear after—
I step closer.
Three words: Carey says Congrats.
For a moment, my brain doesn’t compute.
Congrats?... on what?
My mind scrambles, trying to connect pieces that don’t fit together.
I grab my phone and pull the sticky note off it. The screen lights up instantly. It’s already open to Carey’s text.
Great work on the Popovich case. I knew you’d get him to crack. I don’t normally condone sleeping with the client to advance your career, but it seems to have paid off. Gabriella is impressed. Congrats.
The words blur.
The floor feels like it tilts slightly beneath me.
"No," I whisper.
I swipe out of the message and my notifications flood the screen.
There’s a dozen or so breaking news alerts, and a handful of missed calls from Molly, and a dozen or more calls from Randolph.
The headlines are screaming about anonymous sources confirming VELVT misrepresentation.
My pulse pounds so violently I can hear it in my ears. The thought I can’t shake. He woke up to all of this… and then he saw Carey’s text.
There’s only one explanation for why he disappeared. I already know it. He thinks I did this. That I slept with him to get the information.
Last night, lying against his chest, he had asked me to try something new.
Trust.
And this morning, the universe handed him proof that trusting me was a mistake.
I hit his contact and pressed call, but it didn't go through. He turned it off, which means he’s already on his way to the airport or he’s already boarding.
Which means he made the decision to leave without speaking to me. The painful thought of that is almost unbearable. Because it confirms something I have been terrified of since the moment I let myself feel something real for him.
When things get hard, he runs. When he feels betrayed, he doesn’t wait for explanations. Instead, he protects himself.
I stare at Carey’s message again, and something hot replaces the panic because she did this.
I hit her contact before I could overthink it.
She answers quickly, too quickly.
"Well," she says, "I was wondering how long it would take you to call."
"What did you do?" My voice shakes, but I don’t try to hide it. "How could you use that information?"
"You weren’t going to use it," she replies evenly. "So I did."
"You promised me you’d stall for me. You told me that you’d give me forty-eight hours."
"Well, I changed my mind. I gave you twelve hours and that should have been enough. The opening to make this fix was deteriorating. I made the right call, and you know it. If you weren’t sleeping with him, you’d agree."
I ignore her accusation; that has nothing to do with this. "We were working on mediation," I say, pacing now. "The Olympic Committee was open to a discussion. We were going to fix this without blowing up his trust."
"Natalia," she says, her tone turning clinical, "a ‘source’ isn’t him. It’s a strategic release. VELVT can’t deny internal miscommunication without exposing themselves legally. The narrative shifts the heat off Luka and onto them. That’s a win."
"At the cost of the client’s trust?" I demand. "At the cost of the relationship we were building?"
"We were hired to get him out of trouble," she fired back. "That’s exactly what we did. Gabriella is thrilled. Randolph sees the benefit now that scrutiny is aimed at VELVT instead of Luka. I’m getting my promotion. The firm looks decisive."
"And Luka?" I ask quietly.
"He’ll go back to being the difficult hockey player he’s always been," she says lightly. "The world rights itself."
My throat burns.
"He’s like that because he doesn’t trust anyone," I say. "And now you’ve handed him proof that he shouldn’t."
There’s a pause and then she laughs softly.
"Hold on," Carey says. "I didn’t betray his trust, Natalia. You did that all on your own."
The line goes dead.
I stand there, phone in my hand, trying to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
I didn’t leak the information to the press, but I told her about it when I had sworn to Luka that I wouldn’t tell anyone. I believed she would protect it. I believed she would prioritize the client over the optics, but in doing that, I gave her the weapon.
I pull up flights because I can’t just stay here. I have to get home and convince him to talk to me. I need to make this right, but as I search for flights, I notice that every single one today is booked solid.
The earliest I can leave is tomorrow.
He is already gone, probably sitting on a plane right now, believing every worst fear he confessed to me, and there is nothing I can do about it.
I sink down onto the edge of the bed, the sticky note still sitting on the table like a verdict.
Carey says Congrats.