"I heard you met him in Reiteralm," he says quietly.
My throat is too tight, as I answer pushing my usual sarcasm into my voice: “You already said that today.”
Few long seconds of silence.
"Careful, Élise." His voice is soft. Almost kind. That's how I know it's dangerous. "I would know why such a guy could be attractive to a young woman. I'm not stupid."
Heat crawls up my neck.
"But be careful," he continues, still watching me. "I trust you won't do anything stupid."
On the screen, movement.
Nico gets to his feet. One ski on, one ski gone. He looks up the hill, then down, and before anyone can stop him he pushes off.
Skiing. On one ski. Through the finish on one leg while the crowd roars.
My father's attention snaps back to the TV, and his face lights up.
"That one is a PR gem, Élise. You hear the crowd? Theylovehim."
Relief floods through me so fast I feel dizzy. He's okay. He's standing. He's skiing.
On screen, Nico crosses the finish line, snow all over him, one ski, grinning like an idiot at the camera. The announcers are going wild.
"See?" Father says, almost laughing. "Downhillers. Tougher than nails and dumb as bricks."
He takes another sip of wine, eyes still on the screen. Then, almost to himself, as if the thought just occurred to him:
"Someone in Beaver Creek will be very happy to tend to his bruises tonight."
My stomach drops.
He swirls his glass, casual. "That's what famous athletes are, Élise. Walking scandals."
Then he looks at me. Directly.
"Part of your job is making sure they don't splash onto the front page."
I swallow. Force my face to stay neutral. "Of course."
He smiles. Satisfied.
And goes back to watching the television.
***
I'm alone in my room now, door closed, the house quiet around me.
On my laptop, the race replay loops. Nico's crash in slow motion. The netting. The one-ski finish. The commentators laughing about his "fan club" and his "Hollywood ending."
My father's voice echoes:"Someone in Beaver Creek will be very happy to tend to his bruises tonight."
I pick up my phone.
I should leave it. Should let the distance do its job. Should be the controlled, strategic princess who doesn't text reckless ski racers at 10 PM.
Instead, I type.
