"No."
He stops. My left hand reaches for the car keys. I pull them out.
"I'm leaving for Schladming in a beat anyway," I say, slowly, the lie sharp on my tongue. "So why bother?"
He turns in his seat, looks at me full on now, and I see it. The quiet understanding. The resignation. He knows I'm lying. He knows something is breaking. And he's choosing not to name it out loud because once he does, he'll have to pick a side.
"You know I will always be on your side," he says. Quiet. Steady. True.
The words crack something open in my chest. I grip the keys harder.
"Yeah," I say. "But my father pays your bills. Go home, Jacque."
For a second, he just looks at me. Then he nods once, slow and sad, and climbs out of the car.
I watch him walk toward his own vehicle parked near the garage, shoulders square, head up, still protecting me even as Ipush him away. Then I grab my purse, the one with the cash, and all the reckless hope I have left, and walk through the front door to face my father.
***
My father waits for me in the small salon off the main entrance, the one with the marble floor and the walnut paneling that makes every word echo like you're in a courtroom. No fire in the fireplace. No warmth anywhere. Just two armchairs facing each other across a low table set with a silver coffee service that no one will touch.
He's already seated when I walk in, legs crossed, tablet resting on his knee. Impeccably dressed as always, charcoal suit, white shirt open at the collar, the kind of studied casual that takes more effort than black tie. He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Sit down, Élise."
I sit. Back straight, hands folded in my lap, the posture drilled into me since childhood. The air between us feels thick, compressed, like the moments before a thunderstorm breaks.
He slides the tablet across the table.
A tabloid site fills the screen. The headline screams in garish font:Austria's Golden Boy Goes Public with Moreau Heiress. Below it, a carousel of photos. The red carpet at the Race Club. My hand on Nico's arm. His mouth on my cheek in the suite photo I posted. A screenshot of comments, hearts, and fire emojis, and speculation about engagement rings.
I laugh.
I don't mean to, but it bubbles up anyway, sharp and bright and utterly inappropriate. My father's jaw tightens.
"You find this amusing?"
"I find it predictable," I say, still smiling. "We went to a party. People took photos. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Papa."
He swipes the screen. Another article fills it:The Salzburg Scandal Finally Going Public. The main photo is us on the red carpet, polished and deliberate, but below it the images turn messier. Me in the Wengen pub, squeezed in at the team table, Nico's arm slung around my shoulders. Me kissing him at the Adelboden party, his hand tangled in my hair.
My father doesn't say anything. Just swipes again.
A different outlet. Same photos. Same breathless speculation. But this one also features the selfie I took at Reiteralm, the one I thought was playful and raw and mine. Now, looking at it through the lens of a tabloid headline, I see what they see. Nico's race suit unzipped to mid-chest, hair tousled like we just crawled out of the forest. Which we did.
Someone reposted it on Instagram with a comment underneath:Guess he's got scratches from her fingernails under that suit. Bitches like her bite. Why do men fall for such a scam?
The article doesn't spare us. It speculates how long we've been "carrying on," fills the text with insinuation and nastiness dressed up as concern for Austria's golden boy.
"There's more," my father says, pulling the tablet away. "But I find this sufficient."
Nausea rolls through me. I picture Nico right now, probably sitting in some team meeting or press conference that should be about racing, fielding questions about me instead. Katharina's tight, furious expression. The jokes in the locker room that aren't really jokes. My perfect plan, the polished soft-launch I choreographed so carefully, just became ammunition.
"Some of these articles are old," I say, voice flat. "Like, old news."
"Yes." His tone is unreadable. "Your affair has been very popular on the internet lately."
"You knew." It's not a question.
