I don’t make a conscious choice to move; my body simply rebels. I find myself at the closet, pulling out a suitcase before my brain can scream at me to stop. My heart hammers against my ribs, a wild, rhythmic thumping that drowns out the quiet ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.
I’m going to regret this. I can feel the regret already, like a bitter aftertaste. But if I don’t leave right now, I think I might actually stop breathing. I’ve done something like this before: in Italy, during the Games, when I slipped out of the glittering hotel where I belonged, paid a journalist for her badge, put on herplain clothes, and walked into an Olympic village I had no right to be in.
I walk down the grand staircase. My mother is in the library, reading by the window, looking like a ghost in her own home.
“I want to go skiing, Maman,” I say from the doorway. “I want to see the training center in Reiteralm. It’s time I took this Eiswerk role seriously.”
A flicker of genuine joy crosses her face, quick and fragile. “Oh, Élise. Your father will be absolutely thrilled. He’s always said you had a head for business.”
The wordthrilledmakes my stomach twist.
“I’ll have the hotel in Pichl reserved immediately,” she continues, already reaching for her phone. “And I’ll call Jacque. He’ll have the car ready. You should have a proper suite.”
I don’t wait for her to finish arranging my cage with mountain views. I retreat to my room and start shoving clothes into a suitcase: heavy knits, thermals, practical layers I’ve never had to choose for myself.
By the time my father realizes his princess is gone, I will be in the mountains, hunting the only thing that makes me feel like I’m still alive.
***
The A10 is a tunnel of white chaos. It’s 8:00 PM, and the blizzard is so thick the high beams of my Audi bounce off the flakes, blinding me with my own light. I don’t slow down. I push the car to 140, my knuckles so white they look like carved ivory against the leather steering wheel.
Every time the tires catch a patch of slush, the car twitches. I like it. I like the feeling that at any second, the physics of the world could reclaim me.
“The snow doesn’t care who your father is, Élise.”
Jacque’s voice is a low, steady rumble, barely audible over the hum of the heater and the frantic slapping of the windshield wipers. He hasn’t moved a muscle since we left Salzburg. He sits in the passenger seat like a stone monument, his eyes fixed on the whiteout.
“I’m fine, Jacque,” I snap, my foot pressing harder on the gas.
“You’re driving like you want to hit something,” he says calmly. “Considering where I sit, I’d rather you didn’t.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him I’m in a hurry to reach a man I’m not even sure wants to see me. But the Obi-Wan tone in his voice is the only thing that has ever been able to pierce my armor. I pick out the nearest exit, flick the indicator, and pull into a rest area.
The Audi settles into a halt, the engine ticking as it cools. Outside, the wind howls, throwing sheets of snow against the glass, isolating us in a small, leather-scented bubble. I lean my head against the steering wheel and just breathe. My heart is still doing 140, even if the car isn’t.
Jacque sits patiently, waiting for me to come to my senses.
“Perhaps you should drive,” I say finally, not looking at him.
Surrender feels like failure, but splattering us both on the guardrail would be worse PR than anything my father could orchestrate.
“All right,” he says with a nod.
I step out into the blizzard. The cold is a physical blow, stripping the warmth from my skin in seconds. I stare at the dark, jagged silhouette of the Alps. They look monstrous, indifferent to the girl shivering at their feet. I’m not sure why I hurried so much. The mountain isn’t going anywhere.
***
The lobby of the hotel in Pichl smells of expensive cedar and wood smoke. It is a curated mountain atmosphere that feels like a stage set. I stand by the front desk while my boots leave small, melting pools of slush on the polished floor. The heat of the roaring fireplace prickles against my skin, but it does not reach the cold knot in my chest.
The clerk beams at me. His eyes take in my cashmere wrap and the way I stand. He clearly recognizes the posture of someone who expects the world to move for her.
“Welcome, Mademoiselle Moreau. It is an honor. Your mother called ahead to ensure everything was perfect. We have you in the Panorama Suite. Your Ski Wellness package includes a private instructor and spa access.”
Ski Wellness. The words taste like ash. My mother thinks I am here for a facial and some gentle turns on a blue slope.
“Excellent,” I say. I keep my voice a cool, practiced mask.
“And your equipment, Mademoiselle?” he asks, his pen hovering.
