After, when we were finally alone, his hands were everywhere, and my head was nowhere. He fucked me like we were still in that broom closet in Italy, all teeth and bruises and control, and for the first time I could feel every centimeter of the distance between us. He was loud where I needed quiet, rough where I needed someone to notice I was shaking, kissing a version of me that only exists when the music is too loud and the lights are too soft.
I came, eventually, because my body always obeys him, because my body likes this. But the moment it was over, I was already back in my head, staring at the silk ceiling and wondering when we’d forgotten how to touch without performing.
Jacque keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady at ten and two, the way he always drives when he's pretending not to notice something. The A10 unrolls ahead of us, Monday morning traffic sparse, alpine sun too bright on snow that looks fake in its perfection.
I should feel safe after what I put Nico through at the party, my perfect plan executed with precision. Instead, I feel like I'm counting down to detonation.
Jacque's silence is different this morning. Not the comfortable kind we've built over five years, the kind where he knows I needquiet and gives it to me without question. This one hums with awareness. He saw the photos. Everyone saw the photos. The red carpet, the Race Club, my hand on Nico's arm like I owned him, his mouth on my cheek in that selfie I posted from the suite.
My phone buzzes in my lap. I don't look.
Halfway to Salzburg, I break.
"I need to stop at a bank," I say.
His gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, finds mine for half a second. "Which one?"
"Sparkasse. It should be in Altstadt."
He nods once. That's it. No questions, no raised eyebrow, no casual comment about whether this can wait until we get home. Jacque always argues when something smells wrong. The fact that he's staying silent means he already knows this isn't a normal situation.
He takes the exit toward the city center, navigates the morning traffic with the ease of someone who's driven these streets a thousand times. We pass the Mirabell Gardens, the fortress looming above us on the hill, tourists already clustered near the Dom despite the cold. He parks near Getreidegasse, engine still running.
“I’ll wait here,” he says.
I grab my purse and step out into the air that bites at my face.
The bank is tucked between a chocolate shop and a boutique selling dirndls to people who will never wear them twice, all old--world façade and discreet gold lettering. Inside, it smells like leather and old money. The woman at the desk greets me with the kind of smile that says she knows exactly who I am and is professionally committed to not caring. Good.
I hand her my ID.
“I need to set up a new account under my name. My name only. No secondary access,” I say.
She types. Nods. “Of course, Fräulein Moreau. Anything else?”
“I want to withdraw twenty thousand euros in cash and transfer the rest into a new personal account.”
Her fingers pause over the keyboard, but then she nods.
I see the frown and know this is not going to work.
“I’m sorry, Madame,” she says, voice apologetic but firm. “I can set up your account, but there is no way you can access the savings account.”
“Okay, my personal account then,” I say again. “Transfer the money to the new account.”
She looks at the screen, frowns again.
“Is there a problem?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
She looks up. “This particular savings account has a five-thousand-euro daily cap for transfers and card payments.”
“And what about cash?”
“Our daily cash withdrawal limit without prior arrangement is two thousand euros.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Of course there are limits. As if I would ever be allowed to access my money. It’s not mine. It has never been.
“Fine,” I say. “Do it.”
