Dominic didn’t flinch. Instead, his upper lip curled—a slow, visible ripple of genuine revulsion. He looked down at the pocket where I’d shoved the cash, then back at me, as if I’d just wiped grease on a masterpiece.
“You think I have your number?” he murmured. The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a guillotine. He didn't just sound annoyed; he sounded offended that the thought had even crossed my mind.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Shortcut,” he said, his voice dropping to a level that made the small room feel like a freezer. “I don't keep track of the help.”
“Right. You don't keep track of us,” I said, my voice low and dangerously steady. “You just back us into corners and offer to pay for the privilege of our company. Makes you wonder who’s actually desperate, doesn't it?”
I didn't wait for the ice to shatter. I shoved the door open and stepped out, the click of the latch behind me sounding like a final sentence.
My heartbeat was thundering so loud it drowned out the muffled noise of everything else.
My footsteps carried me back into the main room—a chaos of lights, cables, and polished steel. The coordinator spotted me instantly, her clipboard held like a shield.
“There you are,” she said, her eyes already scanning the room for the next fire to put out. “Did you get that merch sorted? We’re behind schedule.”
She meant the box. My pulse, still out of control, interpreted it as something else entirely.
I swallowed, my throat dry and tight from the lingering spike of adrenaline, and forced my voice into something professional.
“Yeah,” I said, looking toward the exit where the cool air was waiting. “I handled it.”
Chapter six
Dominic
“Iwant them gone.”
The words struck the office walls before I could leash them. They reverberated, too loud, too honest. I didn’t bother correcting myself for my father. I should have saidhim. Landon—the new coach with the audacity of a man who thought he could teach me anything.
But I hadn’t saidhim. I’d saidthem.
Because the truth was a bone lodged in my throat. It wasn’t only Landon circling my temper like a vulture. It was Carter Hayes with her sharp mouth, standing beside him like she had been carved for the exact purpose of getting under my skin. She didn’t even try. Her existence alone felt like grit worked into a fresh cut.
My father didn’t look up from his desk. He was buffing a silver signet ring, his focus entirely on the gleam of the metal. “No.”
“No?”
“Not happening,” he said, sliding the ring onto his finger and turning his hand to catch the light. He wasn't looking at me; he was looking at the image of a son who wasn't performing. “Landon is staying.”
He assumed I meant the coach. Why would he imagine Carter was the one clawing through my focus?
“He’s undermining me,” I said, my shoes heavy on the rug as I paced. “He’s—”
“He’s a professional,” my father interrupted, finally meeting my eyes with a look that was more clinical than parental. “Which is more than I can say for you lately. Your times are slipping. The Valerio name isn’t a decoration; it’s a standard. One you’re currently failing to meet.”
The hit landed clean.
I looked away, my mind flashing back to the track earlier that afternoon. The sun had been shimmering off the asphalt in waves, the scent of hot brake dust and scorched rubber thick enough to taste. I’d been mid-stint when Landon’s voice crackled over the radio, ordering me into the box. I’d ignored the call twice, pushing the power unit until the shift lights went frantic, but he hadn't budged from the pit wall.
When I finally pulled into the stall and killed the engine, the silence was a physical weight. I hauled myself out of the cockpit, sweat stinging my eyes and dripping into the collar of my firesuit. Landon didn't even look rattled. He just tapped the screen of his tablet.
“You’re missing the apex on Turn 3,” he’d said, his voice maddeningly calm. “You’re trying to muscle the car through it, over-rotating the rear. Trust the aero, Dominic. Stop fighting the wheel.”
“I know how to find the limit,” I’d snapped, my hands still alive with the vibration of the steering rack. I looked past him, expecting the usual line of mechanics, but the air in my lungs suddenly felt half-spent.
Carter was there, leaning against the equipment lockers near the back of the garage. She was holding a cardboard coffee carrier, two cups tucked inside, looking like she wanted to be anywhere else and yet perfectly at home in the chaos. She didn't say a word. She didn’t have to. She just watched me with that tilted, observant expression, her gaze raking over how tightly I was gripping my helmet and the frantic rhythm of my chest.
Then, she looked at the delta times on the monitor behind Landon.
