"Everybody knew."
"So why now?"
"Because you made a move," he says simply. "You went public. That changes things."
"Isn’t that what you wanted?"
"Not entirely." He pauses, eyes still on me. "But I'd say your behavior in Kitzbühel was an improvement over your…"
"…happiness," I hear myself say.
He looks at me for a long second, but doesn't comment.
"The question is, Élise," he says, setting the tablet down on the table between us like evidence, "what now?"
I look up, my face carefully blank, because I have no idea where this conversation is going.
"What do you mean?"
His eyes narrow. "How serious is it?"
The question lands like a trap. I can feel the weight of the answer he wants, the careful calibration required. If I sayI love him, he'll laugh in my face. If I sayhe's the perfect choice, he'll be deliriously happy and start planning our future like a corporate merger.
So, I choose the third option. The one designed to make him furious.
"He's just a random fuck."
The slap comes so fast, I don't see it. Just the crack of his palm against my cheek, sharp and cold, and then the sting spreading across my face like fire.
"Liar."
My hand flies to my cheek. My eyes water, but I don't blink.
"Everybody knows you're smitten with the boy," he says, voice flat and calm, as if he didn't just hit me. "What, you think I didn't have you followed?"
My stomach drops. "You what?"
"Reiteralm," he says. "The gondola. The hotel in Pichl. I know all of it."
Jacque. It has to be Jacque. The only person who knew, the only person who could have—
"Not Jacque," my father says, reading my face. "He's too loyal. I had to hire someone else."
"Then why not replace Jacque?" My voice comes out hoarse, shaking. "If you can't trust him, why keep him?"
"Becauseyoutrust him." He leans back in his chair, studying me like I'm a balance sheet. "Which means he can keep you safe. You trust him with your stupid ideas. I can sleep when I know he's around you."
The words should sound like care. They don't. They sound like inventory management.
Silence stretches between us. My cheek throbs. I feel the weight of the cash in my purse on the floor beside me, the secret account, the plan I don't even have yet.
"So what now?" I ask quietly. "You want me to drop him?"
He almost smiles. "Why would I want you to drop him? He's pure gold. A champion. A perfect match for my daughter."
The wordmatchlands like a stone in my chest. It sounds cold, he used the word on purpose.
"I thought," he continues, "that I'd just have a chat with you. Praise you for finally becoming a Moreau. Let you go to Schladming and handle it the way you did in Kitzbühel." He picks up his espresso cup, takes a sip, sets it down with deliberate precision. "But your words just now reveal that you are not an adult. You're still an immature, spoiled brat who risks turning into the embarrassment and scandal that ruins our reputation."
