The fur coats are out in full force now. So are the diamonds. The drunk fans from the finish area have either passed out or moved to cheaper bars, and what's left is the other Kitzbühel—the one that smells like expensive cologne and old money and champagne that costs more than my first car.
Up there, the hill tries to kill you if you slip. Down here, they just sell you.
I step out onto the red carpet in a tux that fits too well to be comfortable. The bow tie is already annoying me. My shoulders ache under the jacket, my quads are still tight from two days of racing, and I feel like I'm wearing a costume.
Lukas climbs out behind me, adjusting his cuffs. "Smile, golden boy. This is the part where they decide if you're worth sponsoring or just worth watching crash."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
Thomas and Katharina are already inside—I saw them go in ten minutes ago when our car was stuck behind some oligarch's motorcade. Thomas in a perfect tux, Katharina in something simple and elegant that makes her look radiant. She isn't dressed for the room. She's dressed for him, and it shows.
I tug at my bow tie and head toward the entrance.
That's when I see Jacque.
He's standing just off the red carpet, hands clasped in front of him, wearing a dark suit that somehow makes him look both invisible and unmissable. Next to him is Élise.
She looks like she was born in this room. Her hair is swept back in a way that shows off the line of her neck, and the dress, silk, maybe, something that catches the light when she moves, skims her body like water. Dark green, the color of deep lakes in winter. It's cut just low enough to make my mouth go dry and high enough on the leg that when she shifts her weight, I catch a flash of thigh that shouldn't be legal in public.
Every other woman here looks like they're trying too hard. Élise looks like she's not trying at all, and that's what makes it devastating.
When she sees me, her mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile. More like a dare.
Jacque steps forward before I can move, his voice low and polite. "Monsieur Reiner. A moment, please."
He gestures toward the official photo area: backdrop, logos, a photographer with an FIS vest already waving us over.
I glance at Élise. She's already walking toward the carpet, and I realize this wasn't an accident. This was choreographed.
Jacque gives me the faintest nod, then steps back, dissolving into the background like he was never there.
I follow her.
The photographer greets us like we're exactly who he was waiting for. "Eiswerk's golden boy and Mademoiselle Moreau, perfect. Right here, please."
Élise slides her hand onto my arm before I can think, turns us both toward the camera, and smiles like this was always the plan.
She leans in, close enough that I can smell her perfume, and murmurs into my ear. "Smile. If we pose for them, it's not a scandal. It's a strategy."
The flashbulbs pop.
I smile. I don't know what else to do.
When the photographer waves us through, I look down at her. "You could've asked first."
"You're welcome," she says lightly. “That photo is worth more than your prize money.”
Before I can answer, she's already moving, hand still on my arm, steering me toward the entrance like I'm a show horse and she's taking me to the paddock.
Élise doesn't hesitate. She walks straight past the VIP section, the tables with the minister's staff and the Red Bull execs and the old-money families who've been coming here since the Fifties, and heads for the back corner where the Austrian team is tucked away.
Thomas and Katharina are already seated, talking quietly. Lukas has his jacket off, tie loosened, a glass of champagne in hand. A couple of junior guys sit stiffly in their tuxes like they're waiting for permission to breathe.
When Élise sits down next to me, the whole table shifts.
It's subtle. The way everyone straightens a little. The way Stefan; one of the tech guys from Innsbruck; goes red and fumbles his fork. The way even Lukas pauses mid-sip, like he's recalibrating.
She doesn't notice. Or she does, and she's used to it.
