Kassier/in–supermarket chain. No experience required. Flexible hours. Immediate start.
I click on it before I can stop myself.
The job description is simple. Scan groceries. Smile at customers. Operate the till. Minimum wage. Thirteen euros an hour.
I do the math in my head without meaning to. Forty hours a week. Two thousand a month, maybe less after taxes. It is more than nothing. It’s more than sitting here with nothing to do watching Nico try to kill himself so that he can provide for his princess.
It is also standing behind a counter in a polyester vest, scanning soup cans for people who will not look at me twice.
My finger hovers over the "Apply Now" button.
I press my lips together. Hard. My throat feels like I swallowed glass.
I am Élise Moreau. I speak four languages. I have a degree from Geneva. I have shaken hands with diplomats and sat through twelve-course dinners with mean oligarchs without flinching. I am not supposed to stand behind a counter.
But I left my family with a few thousand euros in my account and no plan exceptaway, and now I am staring at a supermarket job listing because it might be the only place where they’ll want a banished princess.
My phone rings.
I jolt so hard the laptop slides off my knees. I catch it, barely, and set it on the bed. My heart is hammering.
The number on the screen is Austrian, but I do not recognize it.
I swipe to accept. "Élise Moreau speaking."
"Élise?" The voice is crisp, professional, faintly amused. "Katharina Berger. Do you have a minute?"
"I—yes," I manage. "I have a minute."
"Good." There is the sound of papers rustling in the background. "I hear you are currently… underemployed."
My face goes hot. Of course she knows. Nico must have told her. Or Thomas. Or someone. The whole damn circus probably knows by now.
"I am looking," I say, keeping my voice level. "It takes time."
"I am sure it does." Her tone is neutral, impossible to read. "That is actually why I am calling. Vektor is looking for someone. PR and athlete liaison. Trilingual minimum, preferably four. Someone who understands sponsors, can handle media without melting, and will not faint the first time a racer yells at them."
I blink. "Vektor."
"Yes. You know them, I assume. They sponsor half the speed guys and most of the women's tech team. They are professional, efficient, and they pay on time. They are also the main rivals of Eiswerk. Which means your father cannot pull any strings with them.”
“I applied for a job there, they did not even answer.”
“Well,” I almost hear her frown. “Perhaps they would this time when it comes with a proper recommendation.”
My heart is doing something strange in my chest. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I think you would be good at it." She says it like it is obvious. "I have watched you manage your father's expectations, smile through press events, and keep your composure while dating Austria's least subtle athlete. Those are all transferrable skills."
I look down at my laptop. The supermarket job listing is still glowing on the screen.
"I do not have experience," I say quietly.
"Not enough on the paper, a few months with Eiswerk.” She pauses. "It is not a high-profile job, Élise. With my recommendation they’ll give you a shot. The position starts in two weeks. You will travel to some races, not all. Mostly logistics and content coordination. Possibly some athlete babysitting, but they are less dramatic than your father, so it should be manageable."
"Katharina." My voice cracks. I swallow hard, force it steady. "Why are you doing this?"
She is quiet for a moment. Then: "That’s what friends do.”
