"He hasn’t agreed to an apology," I say, because I’m not going to pretend. "But he’s agreed not to get in my way while I deal with the media mob. He’s—he’s letting me create space."
"Space," Carey repeats, unimpressed. "Natalia, we don’t sell space. We sell results."
"I know," I snap, and then lower my voice again because the barista two tables over is definitely listening. "I am working on the results. I’m trying to reach out to the Olympic Committee to see if they are open to mediation."
"Just remember that you are an extension of Legacy PR. This isn’t just your ass on the line. Gabriella is worried that if you screw up this account, it looks bad on the brand too, not just you. You’re operating like this is your personal redemption arc instead of a contract."
My jaw clenches. "That’s not what this is."
"Then act like it," she says. "Because Gabriella is already asking me if we made a mistake giving you a second chance."
The words hit exactly where she wants them to.
I sit up straighter, even though she can’t see me. "I can do this."
"Is there any other reason you’re not locking this down?" Carey asks. "Are you sleeping with him? Because I know he has a reputation, but need I remind you he’s a client—"
"God, no," I cut in, too fast. "I’m not sleeping with him, Carey. Jesus. I know he’s a client. I know the rules."
"You’d better," she says, and her voice goes cold. "Because this isn’t just your career on the line."
The call ends.
The room feels too quiet afterward, like even the snow outside paused to listen.
I sit there for a second, staring at nothing, my pulse still buzzing in my throat.
He’s just a client. That’s all he can ever be.
I repeat it in my head like a policy manual. Like the right words will make it true, will turn the last few days into something simple and professional, and easy to file away.
But Carey’s assumption sticks under my skin anyway, because it isn’t completely wrong. Not in the way she means. In the way that I’m already walking around with Luka Popovich in my head like he’s taken up residence there.
With Carey watching, with Gabriella’s evaluation clock ticking, I have to be careful.
I grab my coat and head out before I can sit here long enough to admit what careful would actually mean.
On the way, I fired off a text to Luka. Not because he keeps me in the loop—he doesn’t—but because it feels like common courtesy to tell him I won’t be back until later.
I’ll be out late. The café has an open mic night.
I don’t wait to see if the bubbles appear. I just shove my phone into my pocket and keep moving.
The café is warm and crowded in a way that feels intentional—fairy lights strung along the windows, a chalkboard sign advertising open mic night, someone tuning a guitar near the back.
Zack waves the moment he sees me.
"You made it," he says, standing quickly. "How’s the ankle?"
"Still attached," I say. "Which feels like a win."
He grins. "I’m glad. I was worried about you."
I believe him.
We ordered drinks—tea for me, something darker for him—and settled into the last two-person table furthest back fromthe stage, against the window that looks out at the cobblestone village. We people-watch and chat while waiting for the show to start. Zack talks about the mountain, the tourists, the weird things people do when they’re cold and overconfident. I laugh more than I have in days.
It feels… uncomplicated.
