But then again, do I need to know?
Would knowing change the line?
I round the edge of the tent, already reaching for a cup.And then I see her.
She's standing near the far side, not quite in the racers' circle, but close enough to be seen.Tablet in hand, pretending to scroll, but I know her face well enough by now, she's listening.Controlled, curious, self-contained.Like a cat on a hunt.
She's wearing those small silver earrings I gave her.They move when she tilts her head, and she does, just slightly, as Bellini steps into her space like he owns it.
His jacket's half-zipped.Of course it is.
Relaxed posture.That casual smirk.
The man moves like he thinks the snow bends for him.Maybe it does here.He grew up in Bormio; this is his hill.No sign of nerves, then.His old man probably pushed him down the black course with a diaper still on his cute Italian bum.
And the way he's looking at her—God.Like she's dessert after the main course, I bet he imagines undressing her slowly, letting that smug mouth of his trail down her stomach while she's stretched across some linen hotel bed, all warm skin and soft breath.
The idea hits me like a punch.My gut tightens with something hot and primitive.Because she's not his to picture like that, she's not his, period.
"Working hard or hardly working?"Matteo says, all casual charm.
Seriously?That's the line?
She smiles.Not wide.But not cold, either.I can't hear her reply, but her posture doesn't say walk away.She's open.At ease.
He leans in slightly, relaxed and too familiar.I grab a paper cup and fill it from the dispenser, as if it's the most fascinating task in the world.
I should walk away, but I can't.A beast is bubbling in my chest, some animal I have not yet met.
Then I hear it.His voice drops low, but not low enough:
"My uncle's got a stake in Eurosport Italia.We could arrange an intro—nothing formal, just a soft landing.Could open doors."
What the hell?
He's offering her a career boost now?Like it's a party favor?
And she… hesitates.
Not the usual polite head-tilt or step-back.Her fingers go still.She's actuallythinkingabout it.
I freeze mid-sip.The water tastes like metal.
Does she not see through that?
Katharina's not naïve.She reads people faster than I read terrain.But she's standing there, letting Bellini hand her favors like they don't come with strings.
"Still haven't accepted that dinner, by the way," he adds, his voice syrupy.
"It's not personal," she replies."Just busy."
She gives him the soft smile—the one she usually saves for small sponsors or journalists she's trying to nudge off the record.Pleasant.Not interested, but not harsh enough to shut the door.
And somehow, that's worse than a no.
And then she sees me.
Too late.
