“This… is you?” I raise my eyebrows, showing her the photo on the badge. It shows a dark-haired harpy with a nose like Severus Snape.
“Old photo,” she snaps, snatching it back.
I take a sip of my beer, watching her over the rim.
She’s jittery.
Not scared, rather restless.
Like she’s been holding her breath for days and hasn’t realized she could inhale again.
“We’ve met,” I say flatly.
She exhales through her nose. Quiet. Controlled.
A perfect aristocratic non-reaction. Yeah, that’s the girl I remember.
“You are mistaken,” she says, her smile pleasant, her eyes shooting knives.
“Oh, common, my lady, drop the act.”
“What act?”
“That I didn’t meet you in Val d’Isère. That you didn’t glare at me like I insulted your entire bloodline. I guess it must’ve been some other woman wearing that exact expression while her boyfriend tried to break my legs.”
“You’re drunk,” she says finally. “And just because I’m French, you mistake me for some woman you met in France.”
“I am tipsy,” I correct. “And what says you’re French?”
“My accent.”
Her eyes are cold and deadly. Still, there’s something that stirs my blood, the spark I glimpsed at the party—a glint of curiosity. She inspects me like a child eyeing mysterious candy. The fact that I’m the candy nearly undoes me.
Then she blinks, and the moment is gone.
“I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”
There it is: the lie.
Neat, precise, delivered like she’s trained for it. And maybe she was. Whatever she is doing here now, she is not a journalist; she does not belong here. She belonged at that posh party with glittery French people sipping champagne and talking diplomatic bullshit with people they despise.
“Okay,” I say. “Must’ve been some other French woman with your exact face and your exact voice and your exact—”
I stop myself, but my eyes linger on her chest. She quickly buttons her shirt, fingers fumbling a bit, as if aware of my gaze. The fabric clings softly, unable to conceal the treasure beneath.
She arches a brow. I have stepped into dangerous territory. Good.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” she says.
“I’m a ski racer. We’re built on delusion.”
Her mouth twitches, and with that, the facade cracks.
She turns away like she needs a second to compose her molecules, then glances toward the glass doors leading to the snowy balcony — the only place in the room where nobody’s paying attention.
“Should I leave?” she asks, voice low. Not timid. Careful.
I shrug. “Depends. Are you actually lost?”
