I lean back against the bar, crossing my arms. "I didn’t embarrass them."
"You posed with licensed medals without permission."
"It’s not that big of a deal."
Though that’s a lie. They care, and it is a big deal if I want to keep my medals.
"And yet," she says sweetly, "here we are."
Her confidence is irritating. It's not loud or showy. Just… solid. Like she expects to be taken seriously and has no interest in convincing me why.
"You think you can waltz in here, insult me, scare off my date, and I’ll suddenly decide to play along?" I ask.
"I think," she says slowly, "that you don’t like being told what to do. And I think you’re used to people backing off when you push." She steps closer, invading my space the way she did in the tunnel. A fearless softness that I’ve never experienced or known existed before tonight. "I’m not those people."
For a moment, I considered telling her everything—to shut her down properly. The NDA that I signed, the way the magazine lied, and my lawyer’s advice to keep my mouth shut until the Olympic Committee makes a move.
But the thought dies as fast as it appears. Information is leverage. And I don’t give leverage to people who want something from me, like my father.
Trust isn’t given freely—it’s earned, and she hasn’t earned it.
"You should go home," I say instead. "Before you embarrass yourself."
Her smile is thin. "I don’t get embarrassed easily."
"Neither do I."
We stare at each other, neither willing to give ground. The tension between us is strong enough to taste. This isn’t flirting. This is combat, and I’m not sure which one I enjoy more.
I reach for my drink, draining it in one swallow. When I set the glass down, I don’t look at her again.
I turn and slip into the crowd, letting bodies close in around me, swallowing my shape until I’m just another guy in a bar.
I don’t check to see if she follows. I already know she will. And I already know how this ends.
They always give up the moment I disappear.
Cold air slaps me in the face the second I step outside Oakley’s.
I welcome it. The bite, the sting, the way it clears my head better than whiskey ever could. I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and start walking without any real destination in mind, boots crunching against the sidewalk as the noise of the bar fades behind me.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her.
That’s the rule. That’s always been the rule. Don’t linger. Don’t replay. Don’t give anyone space in your head they didn’t earn. And she didn’t earn it.
She showed up uninvited. Pushing and prodding for information that isn’t hers to know. She tried to corner me with clever insults and Olympic scare tactics, as if she’s the first person to try it.
She isn’t.
So why the hell does my mind keep circling back to the way she stood her ground?
Most people react when I dismiss them. Anger, offense, wounded pride. Natalia reacted by stepping closer. By stripping the situation down to exactly what it was and daring me to argue with her logic instead of my reputation.
I exhale sharply, watching my breath fog in the air. She’ll give up. They always do. The moment they realize I won’t bend, won’t explain, won’t play the role they need me to play—they retreat.
I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the time. Early flight tomorrow. Switzerland is already waiting, quiet anduntouched and blissfully indifferent to whatever mess my agent is spiraling about back home.
By the time I reach my car, I’ve made my decision.
