"Natalia," Randolph says immediately. No greeting, just straight to business. "Tell me you’re with him."
I lean back against the wall, steadying myself. "I’m with him."
"Good. Because I’ve got three different outlets emailing about whether he’s going to issue a statement."
When journalists smell blood, they circle. Sponsors are ‘monitoring the situation.’ That’s corporate speak for ‘we’re nervous.’
I close my eyes briefly.
"He doesn’t want to issue a rushed apology," I say carefully. "If we move too quickly, it looks reactive."
"And if we don’t move at all, it looks arrogant," Randolph counters. "You know how this works."
Yes. I do.
"I need to know where his head is at," Randolph continues. "Is he willing to negotiate with the Olympic Committee? Is he willing to consider a controlled media appearance? Because if we don’t get ahead of this, it’ll get ahead of us."
My gaze drifts back to the door.
"He’s… resistant," I admit. "But he’s not impossible."
"That’s not reassuring," Randolph mutters.
"I’m working on it," I say firmly. "Give me a little time."
"Time is something we don’t have a lot of if he wants to avoid legal action and having his medals taken away."
"I know."
I told him to send Molly anything that our legal team can help with and to forward me all correspondence or news he gets.
Two hours pass and Luka doesn’t return. I head to bed, the snow falling, and I can’t help but wonder whether I’m here to save his reputation…
Or to ruin my own.
Chapter Ten
NATALIA
It’s day three in the last place I ever thought I’d find myself. I’m now down one full week from Gabriella’s deadline.
I wake up before the alarm. Not because I’m well-rested, or because I’m refreshed or centered or any other lie wellness influencers sell to people who sleep alone in king-sized beds.
I wake up because I can hear Luka in the kitchen.
The sound is faint but unmistakable. The sound of cupboard doors opening and closing, the low whir of a blender muffled by distance, the soft clink of glass against stone. Everything about it is like he’s moving through the space with military precision, even half-awake.
I lie there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling beams of the chalet, listening to him exist three rooms away like it’s nothing.Like sharing a bed with a woman he barely tolerates hasn’t scrambled the air between us.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
6:04 a.m.
I groan quietly and roll onto my side.
I have a ski lesson with Zack at eight-thirty. I need to be showered, dressed, and caffeinated before then, preferably without getting into another verbal sparring match with the man who’s renting this chalet and apparently believes mornings are a sacred, uninterruptible ritual.
I glance toward Luka’s side of the bed.
