"Jesus Christ, Élise."
"He also saw the tabloids. The photos from Kitzbühel, Wengen, Adelboden. There are articles. Bad ones." I can't finish. The Instagram comment burns in my head.Bitches like her bite.
Nico's jaw tightens. "I know. Katharina showed me this morning. Right before the press conference, where half the questions were about you instead of my race."
Guilt twists sharply in my chest. "I'm sorry."
"Are you?" His voice is flat. "This was your plan. Go public, control the narrative, make it polished. How's that working out?"
"Nico—"
"What did your father say?"
I take a breath. "He wants to meet you. At the Tauernblick chalet. Wants us to behave like a grown-up couple. Let him manage us."
"Manage us."
"Like assets."
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.
"So we do it," Nico says finally. "We meet him. We play nice."
I stare at him. "You think it's that simple?"
"Yeah." He pushes off the door. "You said he knows. Fine. Now we don't have to hide. We do the dinner, show him we're serious. Maybe he backs off."
"He won't."
"Or maybe this is just how it works." His voice rises. "You introduce the guy, you sit through the dinner, and then you get to live your life."
"That's not how it works with him."
"You don't know that."
"I do." My hands are shaking. "He'll smile, he'll congratulate us, and then he'll spend the rest of our lives reminding us we owe him. Your contract, your skis, your career, your woman. All of it tied to him."
"So what?" Nico's eyes flash. "You think I can't handle one dinner? You think I'm not good enough for your father?"
"That's not what I said."
"It's what you meant." He's right in front of me now, a flush creeping up his neck. "I survived Kitzbühel. I survived the cameras and the Race Club. I can survive this."
"It's not about surviving—"
"Then what is it?" His voice cracks. "Because it looks like you're ashamed of me. Like the second he wants to meet me properly, you panic."
"I'm not ashamed of you."
"Then why won't you let me try?" There's something raw in his voice now. "Maybe I'll use the wrong fork. Maybe I'll say something stupid. But maybe he'll see I'm serious. That I can be—" He stops, jaw tight.
"Be what?"
"Someone who belongs in your world," he finishes quietly.
The words sting sharp and immediate. I've always known this was part of it. The way he tried so hard at the Race Club, eyes darting to the right people, laughing a beat too loud, like a kid pressing his face against a bakery window. The way he fucks me sometimes, that edge in his voice when he calls meprincess, when he makes me beg, like he's claiming something he won just by getting me under him.
Maybe that's all I've ever been. A trophy with a last name.
