I wrap my hands around the mug again and let the warmth seep into my fingers. Nothing in my body feels like last week’s panic. My heart beats at a normal pace. My breathing stays shallow, not sharp.
The screen lights up again almost immediately.
Nico:Thanks, princess. Nothing important broken. Yet.
I can see it, without seeing it: him slumped in a bus seat, headphones around his neck, phone lighting up his palm. That stupid grin he thinks no one notices tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reads my message. One of his teammates throwing something at him from the aisle.Who’s got you smiling like that, Reiner?
My lips curve before I can stop them.
This, I think, must be how normal people do it. They watch names on a screen, send small, stupid texts, imagine smiles two countries away, and do not choke on the fact that they care.
The phone goes dark again. I set it down, the glow of the little chat bubble still imprinted behind my eyes.
It is not a declaration. It is not a promise.
But it sits there between us like a thin, bright thread, stretching from Bormio to a snow-covered vineyard in France.
***
Vienna, New Year’s Eve Party, December 31
ÉLISE
The ballroom looks like money tried too hard.
Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, throwing light over champagne towers and shining smiles. A live band plays jazz in the corner, and everywhere I look, there are sequins, cufflinks, and people who know exactly how much everyone in the room is worth.
I know exactly where I fit in this ecosystem. I step into it as if slipping into a glove.
“Élise, darling, you look radiant.”
“I adore your dress, Madame.”
“Yes, Austria has been… an adjustment. We manage.”
Polite smiles, practiced compliments, perfect posture. I let men in black tie kiss my hand, let women air-kiss my cheeks, tilt my head just so when I laugh. My glass is never empty. I make sure of it.
The champagne goes down too fast. My laugh gets a fraction too loud. I flirt with important men because I can, lean in a little closer, touch their arm a second too long, watch their eyes drop to where my dress does all the work. It costs me nothing, but it makes my father mad.
I can feel his gaze from across the room, sharp as a wire. Laurent Moreau, rebuilt king of exile, stands in his perfect tuxedo, holding a flute of champagne like a scepter. His mask does not slip, but his fingers are white on the stem.
He does not say a word.
Good. Let him watch.
I am talking to a minor disgraced Italian aristocrat whose name I have already forgotten when the journalist appears at my elbow, a woman in a sparkly dress with a press badge tucked cleverly under her hair.
“Miss Moreau?” she asks in a sugar-sweet voice. “I write a column for a lifestyle magazine. Could I steal thirty seconds?”
Father hates the tabloids. Which is why I smile.
“Of course,” I say. “I have at least thirty seconds.”
She asks the usual questions. How do you find life in Salzburg? Do you miss Paris? What are your plans for the new year?
I could give the usual answers. Safe, polished, dead.
“Life in Salzburg?” I tip my head, smile. “We adapt. The settings do not change. Charming façades, careful manners. Old money is just rot that learned to wear pearls, whether the address is Paris or the Alps.”
