Sixty meters. I visualize the length of a swimming pool, then tilt it upright. It’s a five-story fall. I swallow hard, the Shiraz suddenly tasting like copper on my tongue.
Me:and the speed? how fast is it?
AI:At the point of takeoff, professional downhillers are usually traveling between 80 and 85 miles per hour. This requires immense core strength to maintain stability.
"To hell with miles?" I hiss at the screen.
I’m French; my brain doesn’t process miles when I’m panicking. I do the math—it’s nearly 140 kilometers per hour. My car feels fast at that speed on the highway; he is doing it on two strips of waxed wood and a prayer.
Me:how probable is it that someone will get hurt or die in ski racing? what’s the actual risk?
The cursor blinks, steady and indifferent. Then, the AI begins to generate its sanitized, corporate drivel:
AI:Skiing is a highly regulated sport with advanced safety standards. The International Ski Federation (FIS) implements rigorous protocols, including B-nets and air bags, to minimize risk. While high-speed incidents occur, fatal accidents are statistically rare. Most injuries involve the lower extremities, such as…
The “statistically rare” phrasing makes my blood boil. I don’t want a lecture on B-nets and airbags. I want someone to acknowledge the sheer, terrifying insanity of what he does. I type the next line with a shaking hand, the punctuation a scream of its own.
Me:Tell me how many bones he’s going to break at that speed!!!!!
The cursor blinks. For a long, agonizing second, the AI sits there, calculating. Then, it begins to scroll out its dry, scientific verdict:
AI:The number of fractures sustained in a high-velocity impact is dependent on a variety of kinetic variables, including the angle of deceleration, the effectiveness of the athlete's protective gear, and the density of the impact surface. It is impossible to provide a precise count of potential injuries, as the human skeletal structure reacts differently to multi-axial forces...
"You're a piece of useless shit!" I snap, the words echoing in the silence of my bedroom.
I slam the laptop shut. So much for technology solving humanity’s problems. The blue glow vanishes, leaving me in the dark, and I am suddenly very aware that I am breathing hard.
I look out the window. Artificial lighting illuminates the Salzburg fortress, giving me the most expensive view in the city, but it offers no comfort. I lean back, reach for my wine, and swirlthe blood-red liquid. I watch it climb the crystal walls and pour down reluctantly. I take a sip and try to think.
My phone vibrates on the silk duvet. My heart does a traitorous somersault before I even see the screen. It’s a photo from Nico.
He’s shirtless in a locker room, his hair a sweaty, tousled mess. But it’s his shoulders that make the air leave my lungs. They are a map of violence—deep purple and angry red welts.
NICO:The gates bite more than you do, princess. Thinking of you. ??
It’s the third text he’s sent since our encounter. He’s trying to be charming, the “beautiful disaster” the media loves.
Just seeing his body is like someone releasing a flock of butterflies that had been waiting for weeks to fly free. It’s not just his muscles; it’s the bruises, the physical evidence of the danger. And the fact that he grins about it—as if pain were part of the game, a treat on top.
I stare at the “Read” receipt. I want to reply. I want to tell him how sexy he looks. But I don’t. I lock the phone.
The silence that follows is heavy, the kind of silence that has weight and edges. The surrounding scent, Diptyque candles and floor wax, mixes with the expensive, suffocating aroma of a life lived in a bell jar, smothering me.
I look down at my hands. They are perfectly manicured, pale, and trembling. For twenty-four years, these hands have done exactly what they were told. They’ve held crystal flutes at galas and signed documents I didn’t care about. I went through life like a cat on a leash. I detested the leash but never actually dared to cut it.
When did this happen? When did the tasteful luxury around me start feeling like a gilded cage?
Who am I kidding? I know when.
My gaze flickers back to the phone. The image of Nico’s shoulder is burned into the back of my eyelids. Those purple welts aren’t just injuries; they’re a map of a world where things actually matter. Where a mistake costs you skin and bone, not just a decimal point on a spreadsheet.
Suddenly, the silk of my pajamas feels like a shroud. This room, with its hand-stitched curtains and the view of a fortress that has stood for centuries, isn’t a sanctuary. It is a beautifully appointed cell. Every object in here, the antique vanity, the heavy silver brush, the Shiraz, is a reminder of the Moreau way. Calm. Calculated. Untouchable.
I feel bruised by a man who is barely an hour’s drive away.
The caring I felt earlier, the sharp, jagged dread in my throat, twists into something more demanding. It is a hunger. If I stay here, I will continue to be a ghost in a house of relics. If I go, I will be stepping into the path of a man who travels at deadly speeds and grins about it. I will be an idiot and risk becoming a headline. I will be exactly the kind of mess my father loathes.
A cold shiver of terror races down my spine, but for the first time in my life it is not fear of Laurent. It is the fear of missing out on the wreckage. I need to feel the bite of the wind. I need to know if those bruises feel as hot as they look. I need to know if I am still capable of breaking.
