Salzburg, Austria, November 10
ÉLISE
The soft clink of silverware, the muted shuffle of our gloved butler, the faint scent of truffle oil hovering over dishes nobody wants to eat; this is what passes for family in our house.
Father looks particularly pleased with himself tonight. His posture is upright, his lips pressed into the approximation of a smile that never reaches his eyes. My father is not a man. He is a species of glacier: slow, relentless, always expanding, even when you think climate change has finally killed him.
He sits at the head of the marble dining table, chilling the air of the entire room, every surface as cold as the unsmiling butler who slides behind us like a well-trained ghost. Father’s hands rest on a clutch of manila folders, and I don’t need a single calorie of the caviar quivering on my plate to know I’m tonight’s menu.
”Élise.” Father says my name without warmth. I prefer it that way; the alternative is worse.
The room feels like a boardroom, not a home. So do the topics.
”I am told your appearance at Sölden was not only noticed, but very well received,” he says, voice smooth as polished steel. “It looks like you finally learned some responsibility.”
I swirl my wine, watching the deep red climb the sides of the glass instead of looking at him. “Of course, Father. Responsibility is the family sport.”
“Good.” He taps the folders once, a little flourish of ownership. “Because I have decided to appoint you Global Athlete & Brand Strategy Manager at Eiswerk. You’ll watch our investments.” He says it like a coronation.
I raise an eyebrow, letting a beat of silence stretch. “Athlete investments? Since when do we invest in chaos?”
“There will be no more chaos.” His mouth thins, ice forming. “Eiswerk’s athletes have enjoyed too much freedom for too long. From now on, the family will be visibly present.”
“I thought Eiswerk was your toy, not an investment.” I let a lazy smile curl my lips, as if this bores me.
“I don’t like the direction the brand is taking,” he says, shrugging off my jab as if it never landed.
“And the grand title stands for what, exactly?” I tilt my head. “I doubt you’d trust me with actually directing any of your investments.”
He ignores that too. “You’ll attend most major events and PR department meetings. Smile. Listen. Let them know the Moreaus are watching.”
“So much for responsibility,” I murmur, the edge in my voice sharp as crystal.
“Yes, responsibility, Élise.” His fist hammers the table, making the cutlery jump.
I don’t even blink at his display of power. I just hold his gaze with my bored one.
“How is that responsibility,” I ask softly, “when all I have to do is smile, Father?”
“It’s time you do more than smile and wave.” A muscle jumps in his jaw; the glacier is shifting.
I narrow my eyes. There is always a trap. Perhaps this time I simply haven’t spotted it yet.
“Why Eiswerk?” I ask. “Aren’t there more important investments for me to play the role?”
“As you said,” he smiles thinly. “Eiswerk is my toy, not a major investment. I want them directed. If you fail, our family will still live.”
“Thank you for your trust, Father.” I let just enough poison lace the word.
“I need to ensure the athletes under our brand behave,” he continues. “All major brands do that, all athletes have rules to follow. Eiswerk ignores this and lets the national PR managersdo whatever they please. It’s chaos, and I want all our business assets to walk the line.”
"Business assets…” I tap my fork against the plate. “You mean people. Athletes. Right?”
“Precisely.” His eyes gleam. “Eiswerk is my only brand where the assets are alive. It’s chaos.”
I drag the fork slowly across porcelain, enjoying the tiny scrape. “And if one of your assets starts to misbehave?”
