He fixes me with his glacier gaze. “You report it to me. Not PR. Not HR. Me directly.”
“Babysitting, then.” I let the word hang between us, sweet as poison.
He doesn’t blink. “If that’s what you want to call it. A visible leash is still a leash.”
“And what about our star racer, Reiner?” I ask lightly, swirling my wine, pretending indifference I absolutely do not feel. “He’s a handful, from what I hear.”
His eyes narrow by a fraction. “Especially Reiner. He’s too valuable to lose, and too reckless to trust. His contract is the largest we’ve ever signed. If he puts a foot wrong, I want to know before the press does.”
“Poor boy,” I say, lips curving. “I’d regret having him on a leash.”
He doesn’t flinch. “You will protect what is ours. You have excellent instincts for PR. I trust you to keep the assets in line.”
I would love nothing more than to chase him to hell with the offer. To refuse to be a decoration for his favorite plaything, a watchdog on a velvet cushion. But these particular assets are to my liking.
I meet his eyes, smiling without warmth. “Of course, Father. I’ll keep your pets in line.”
He studies me, bushy eyebrows raised, sniffing for a trick. That stare used to make me feel naked when I was younger. Notanymore. I hold his gaze, the smile never leaving my face. At last, he nods, satisfied.
He plucks his phone from the stack of folders, already dialing. “Wonderful. I’ll call the board now. They’ll have the paperwork by Monday, and you can start immediately.”
“I’d travel to the races?” I ask, as if it’s an afterthought. My mind is already on snow and finish lines.
“Of course,” he snorts. “But there is no need for you to be everywhere. I don’t expect you to fly to America.”
“Oh, they’re racing in America?” I tilt my head, feigning ignorance because I know it irritates him.
My father looks at me with his usual disdain. “You might want to do some research, chérie. So that you don’t embarrass me.”
Silence settles like frost before Mother jumps in, warm and chattering as always. “We are so proud, darling.” Her hand lands over mine, light and trembling.
Her remark is so at odds with our exchange that, for a second, I want to shake her off. Then I see the concern in her eyes and fake a smile instead.
“I know, Mother.”
There were times when I was angry at her for not protecting me from him—from his spiteful remarks, his cruelty, his ambition. But those times are gone. Now I know I’m stronger than she is. She is the one who needs protection.
I squeeze my mother’s hand and look back at my father.
“Don’t worry, Father,” I smirk. “I don’t expect to make you proud, but I will protect your assets.”
I may even protect your assets from you.
The dining room is colder than ever. I take another sip of wine, letting it burn all the way down.
***
Later, in the quiet of my room, the silk of my pajamas caresses my calves as I settle in. A glass of deep red Shiraz sits on the nightstand, and my laptop is open, humming with a life of its own.
The blue light of the screen is a cold, clinical contrast to the warmth of the wine. I find myself watching a replay of the Birds of Prey course in Beaver Creek, Colorado. The skiers aren’t even skiing; they are falling with style, their bodies coiled like springs as they hurtle toward the lip of a precipice.
I click into the Gemini tab. My fingers feel clumsy, my movements lacking the usual Moreau precision.
Me:how far do they actually fly on that golden eagle jump in beaver creek? looks like big
The AI doesn't hesitate. Its text scrolls out with a sickening, rhythmic pulse.
AI:On the Golden Eagle jump at Beaver Creek, racers can fly between 40 to 60 meters (approximately 130 to 200 feet) through the air. The distance depends on the racer's line and speed coming off the previous turn.
