"Just tell him to wait for me, okay?"
"Who?"
"Teresa, do as I say and make him wait."
"Who's Teresa? Élise, what—"
I end the call and look at my father, lifting an eyebrow in exasperation.
"The idiots at the Thomahawk partnership almost blew the entire sponsorship deal. We've had that branded cooperation for years. I need to go sort it out before they sink it completely."
He studies me for a moment, jaw tight. I can see the calculation behind his eyes, weighing whether this is real or theater.
"We have a deal, Élise," he says finally, voice low and measured. "Coffee with him. Then dinner here. This week."
"Of course." I stand, smoothing my coat. "I'll return after I've handled this mess. We can have lunch. You'll want to hear about the races, anyway. And how the Eiswerk positioning is holding up after…" I gesture vaguely toward the tablet still sitting on the table. "All of that."
His expression softens just a fraction. Racing. Business. The language he understands.
"Lunch, then," he says. "Don't make me wait."
"I won't, Papa."
I walk out, heels clicking on the marble, spine straight, every step measured and controlled until I'm through the door and out of his sight.
Then I run.
The second I'm in the car, engine roaring to life under my hands, I point it toward the A10 and drive.
Not to the office.
To Schladming.
***
I've been pacing this conference room for twenty minutes.
Long table. Too many chairs. Whiteboard covered in someone else's abandoned diagrams. A window overlooking the parking lot where I can see Nico's team van pulling in, headlights cutting through the dark. It's late. The night race is over.
He's still wearing his team jacket when he arrives, race suit zipped up, hair damp from the shower. Fourth place. He told me over text that he was happy with it, that the course was technical and brutal, and he skied clean. But when he sees me standing by the window, arms wrapped around myself, his smile dies.
"What's wrong?"
I turn to face him. "We need to talk."
"Yeah, I figured that out when you asked me to meet you in a conference room." He closes the door behind him and leans against it. "You couldn't come to the finish? Or meet me at the hotel bar like a normal person?"
"I needed somewhere private."
"This is private?" He gestures at the soulless beige walls. "This is a place people go to get fired."
The comparison stings more than it should.
"My father knows," I say. "About us. All of it."
Nico goes very still. "How much is all of it?"
"Reiteralm. The gondola. Gardena. Everything." I watch his face shift from confusion to anger to something colder. "He had me followed."
