"And what does he know about discipline?" I asked. My voice was cool iron, cutting through the forced pleasantry of the room. "His claim to fame was throwing away a championship in the final turn because he couldn't keep his head on straight."
Something unreadable flickered across Landon’s face. The "nice guy" act slipped for a fraction of a second, but he didn't defend himself.
Interesting. Most would have snapped.
Father’s voice lost what little warmth it had left. "You don’t get to insult the people I hire. Not when their purpose is to save your season from your own arrogance."
I almost told him the truth. That I could still feel the tingling in my fingertips. But vulnerability is a luxury reserved for men who aren't already bleeding.
"Save me?" I scoffed, leaning against the doorframe with a casualness I didn't feel. "My worst day on the track would still be a highlight reel for his entire career."
Father stepped closer, his own temper flickering. "You think you’re untouchable. But sponsors are not sentimental. They want results, not excuses and club photos. Landon is here because it is my decision, and you will respect it."
I held his stare, every instinct in me straining against the silence. Respect was a word he liked to throw around, usually to fill the space where his integrity should have been. I looked at him and felt nothing but the familiar sour twist of distaste—the same way I felt when I looked at a blown engine. I hated that he still held the leash, and I hated even more that today, with myown body trying to slip its collar, I couldn't just snap the chain and walk away.
Landon finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. "I’m not here to replace your team, Dominic. Only to sharpen what’s already there. We both know you can’t afford another reckless error. Not now."
A compliment wrapped in a critique. Smart. He was playing the long game.
I pushed off the doorframe, a slow, practiced smile spreading across my face. It was the smile I gave the press right before I lied to them.
"Well. If we are all so committed to teamwork, perhaps we should celebrate the new partnership."
Father’s gaze narrowed. He knew that look. It usually meant I was about to set something on fire.
"There’s a university charity gala this weekend," I continued lightly. "The TwoFold Foundation. Recognition, networking, press. Landon and his daughter should attend. It’ll show the sponsors we’re united. Stable. Forward-thinking."
Father folded his arms, skeptical. "You hate those events. You usually spend the whole night trying to find the exit."
"Yes," I agreed easily. "Which means my presence will actually mean something. It shows I'm...disciplined."
I saw the flicker of interest in Landon’s eyes. He wanted in. He wanted to belong in the Valerio circle.
"That’s generous," Father said slowly, searching for the trap.
"It’s strategic," I corrected. "And I want Hayes to see exactly what I’m capable of when the whole world is watching."
Landon nodded. "Then I’d be honored to attend."
Of course he would. He thought he was getting a seat at the table.
But I wasn't thinking about him. I was thinking about the girl with the too smug expression and the green eyes that refused toblink. I wanted her under the chandeliers, standing inmyarena, surrounded bymyworld. I wanted her to see the empire she’d so casually flipped off from the window of a junker.
I wanted to see if she still had that sharp tongue when she realized she was drowning in my deep end.
"Great," I said, my voice smooth as victory champagne. "Then we have a plan."
Father watched me like he was waiting for the catch. There was one, of course. He just didn't know it yet.
Originally, I was just going to make Landon's life miserable until he quit. He was the insult. But then his daughter showed up. She’d bruised the one thing I had left to protect. My ego.
Carter Hayes wanted a challenge? She was about to get one.
I pulled out my phone as I stepped into the hall, my thumb scrolling past names without faces until I hit a familiar contact.
Current Distraction.
The photo in the contact bubble was a blur of red lipstick and too much skin—a pose struck in a mirror somewhere, designed to catch an eye that was already looking for the door. The last message beneath it was just as curated:When are you coming over?
