Nora smiled at me as if she was proud of all this nonsense. I opened the folder, sifting through the pages as guilt started to eat at me. My screw-up with the media wasn’t just affecting me, it had now given Nora an extra job as my personal assistant and “relationship manager.”
“Alright, it’s decided,” Isabelle stated matter-of-factly. I stood too, grabbing my team sweatshirt from the back of the chair.
No need to say anything else. If I had to fake date Luca Rossi to save my career and my team?
Fine. But this time?
He was damn well going to show up.
Chapter Seven
Luca
When I left the conference room, I was fuming. This charade had my father’s stink all over it. After the yacht incident, he’d made it very clear that if I didn’t “get my act together” he would take matters into his own hands. And judging by today’s ambush, he’d decided to make good on that threat.
I stormed into Hermes’s hospitality suite, only to find both of my parents sitting calmly at a bistro table, sipping espresso like they hadn’t just orchestrated a coup over my life.
“A little heads-up would have been nice,” I grated out, pointedly glaring at my father.
“If I’d warned you then you wouldn’t have gone to the meeting,” he replied evenly, not even bothering to look up from his paper.
“Tell me, why Georgia Dubois?” I paced in front of their table, not waiting for a response. “I don’t think she’s even capable of having a conversation that isn’t centered around tire temperature or fuel loads.” My teammate’s sassy sister might be one of the most beautiful women in the paddock, but even that couldn’t redeem her dull personality. Or the fact she couldn’t open her mouth without talking about racing—or my father.
“Good, maybe she’ll teach you something, and then you’ll be better suited to answeractualquestions about the car,” my dad retorted. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I’d been a Formula 1 driver for much longer than Georgia, and I was well versed in the car’s setups.
My mother gestured for me to take a seat as she poured me an espresso. “Now, Flash, don’t be rude. She’s doing you a favor, and I think you’ll find that there’s a lot more to her than meets the eye.” I sneered at the insinuation that Georgia was doingmea favor. She needed this as desperately as I did, but my mother was the kind of person who couldn’t speak ill of the devil himself.
My father finally set the newspaper down, his jaw tight. “Georgia is an excellent racer. Her talent makes her brother look like a rookie, and her passion for the sport is that of a champion. I’m hoping some of that rubs off on you. She reminds me ofme, back when I was winning championships.”
“Great, exactly what I want, to date my father. Lucky me.” Judging by the slight twitch of my father’s jaw, he’d had just about enough of me.
“Luca, you’re doing this,” he said flatly.
“And what if I refuse?”
He didn’t even blink. “Then maybe I’ll let that paper print that horrific photo of you from a week ago.”
“Michael!” My mum gasped, and from my father’s wince, I knew she’d just kicked him under the table.
“No, I’ve had enough of this. You’ve got one shot to fix your reputation, and this—” he gestured broadly “—is it. Clean image. Steady girlfriend. Legit teammate. And maybe, maybe, a second chance with Helios Sunglasses.”
My father’s words hung in the air, heavy with disappointment and frustration. I couldn’t meet his gaze, instead focusing on the intricate patterns of the tablecloth, tracing the swirling leaves and vines with my eyes as a small ounce of shame crept in.
Shame I deserved.
He leaned forward, and I looked up at him, his eyes narrowing as they locked on to mine. “Honestly, Luca, if you didn’t want to be saddled with Georgia, then you shouldn’t have been photographed kissing her last weekend. What was going through your head? I can see the tabloid headlines now the first time Georgia has a bad race: ‘Playboy driver breaks the heart of F1’s first female race winner.’ You’ll be crucified in the papers if you don’t do this, son.”
There was no denying that my father was right. While the journalists had been nothing but cruel to Georgia, they still loved theideaof having a female driver on the grid. My father could only save me from so many clickbait stories, and I wasn’t sure if he would even bother trying to save me from this one.
My father took another sip, watching me over the rim of his espresso that had likely gone cold by now. “It’s time you learn what an honor it is to be a Formula 1 driver, something that you’ve clearly forgotten. Back in my day, we weren’t drivers because it meant we could date the latest TikTak model. We did it for the thrill of feeling the wind in our faces as we stood on the podium in victory.”
“That’s how low you think of me, hmm? That I just do it for the TikTokmodels?”
His accusation lingered in the air. Somewhere over the last year, that burning desire to get into the car every weekend had vanished. An inconvenient truth I knew I could never say out loud—not if I wanted to keep whatever fractured part of my relationship with my parents I had left alive.
I shoved up from the table, seething. “Fine. I’ll do your stupid stunt, but when this ludicrous plan backfires, just remember that it wasyouridea. Doesn’t bother me, I don’t give a fuck either way.” Snatching my espresso, I stormed off to the driver’s room, which now felt more like a padded cell than my sanctuary.
I slammed the cup down, flopped onto the leather couch, and ran both hands through my hair.
