She closes her eyes for a heartbeat. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.” I let my thumb graze her wrist.
“I’m running from a life I didn’t choose.” Her voice is steady; her fingers aren’t. “From a father who wants to polish me into atrophy.” She glances up, and her eyes could freeze water. “From myself, mostly.”
I squeeze her hand, surprised by how much that lands. “You ever just… stop running?”
“Never.” Her smile twists. “It’s genetic.”
We both laugh. It hurts a little.
At the next table, a guy clears his throat. “Entschuldigung… Herr Reiner? Could I get a quick autograph?” He’s holding out a crumpled napkin and a pen.
I grin automatically. “Sure.” I sign, pass it back, add a quick “Have a good run” because that’s what you do.
The man thanks me and backs away, grinning. In the same second, Élise goes still. Not the soft, melty still from the woods—a different one. Her spine lengthens, her shoulders notch back a degree. Princess mode. Her fingers slide out from under mine like nothing ever touched them.
She’s watching the room, not me now—the phones, the glances, the way attention spreads like spilled beer. Her pulse jumps in her throat.
“Does it ever get old?” she asks, tone light, eyes not.
“The attention?” I think about it. “No. The expectations, yeah. I’m supposed to be the next legend. I was never great at being anyone’s hope.”
She looks at me like she might understand. For once, I think she actually does.
Another table whispers my name. A woman lifts her phone halfway, then pretends to be filming the view. The air shifts; we’ve tipped from cozy to watched.
“Too late?” I murmur.
Her jaw tightens. Then she inhales, smooths her hair, and in the space of a blink, the raw girl from the woods is gone. In her place: Élise Moreau, diplomatic weapon.
She angles her body toward me, just enough for the room to see, and pitches her voice so it carries. “Herr Reiner, I cannot believe I finally got to meet you in person,” she says, all polished warmth. “My father will be so jealous.”
I almost choke on my beer. “You—what?”
“For the photos,” she says under her breath, lips barely moving.
She slides her phone out, turns it on us. Her smile is flawless, professional, the kind that never touches the eyes but photographs beautifully. I feel myself grinning like an idiot next to her, and she snaps one quick shot: two people at a hut table, nothing more.
She taps, types. The caption is pure PR: “Unexpected lunch company on the mountain. Grateful for passionate athletes who trust #Eiswerk gear. #giantslalom #raceweekend.” One more photo—just the remains of my Germknödel drowning in vanilla sauce, tagged with the hut and a neat little “Genuine Austrian fuel, highly recommended.” No giggles, no filters, no cutesy hearts. Just a perfect, plausible brand moment that explains why the heiress and the star racer are at the same table.
Around us, the energy softens. People still look, but the story is now exactly what she says it is: sponsor’s daughter, team’s golden boy, sharing lunch in public. Nothing secret. Nothing dirty.
My phone buzzes. Katharina: “Tell Moreau she can have my job. Also, zip your suit, you look like you just rolled out of her bed.”
I snort, pocket the phone, and look at Élise. Up close, the smile is already fading from her eyes, even if it’s still printed on her mouth.
“You just made some gossip intern’s month,” I say.
She lifts one shoulder. “They were going to talk, anyway. This way, they talk about the right story.”
“Not worried about your father?”
The faintest crack shows at the corner of her mouth. “He’ll hate it,” she says calmly. “He’ll survive.”
We finish the beers, but neither of us is really drinking anymore. She’s watching the room like she’s holding a shield.
When we step back into the cold, the sun is already dropping, shadows stretching blue across the valley. At the hut door, a kid in an oversized helmet trots up, clutching it and a marker.
