She didn't scoff. She didn't even blink. She just let out a slow, quiet exhale and turned her back to me, holding a cup out to Luka as he walked up. The easy way she smiled at my brother—the way they stood there sharing a coffee like I wasn’t even a factor—hit harder than any insult. I’d told her yesterday, pinned between the narrow walls of that closet, to stay the hell away from him. I’d felt the brush of her breath and the defiant pulse in her neck, a moment that had played on a loop in my head until I wanted to tear the memory out.
And here she was, dismissing my warning and my lap times in a single breath. To her, I wasn't a Valerio. I was just a boy throwing a tantrum in a very expensive machine.
“Dominic?” Landon prompted, holding out my fresh gloves.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. I dropped back into the cockpit and signaled the crew for a release without a word. I hadn't listened. I’d gone back out and pushed even harder, the car snapping into oversteer as I took the turn with a violence that nearly sent me into the barriers, my ego screaming louder than the engine.
I wanted her gone. I wanted her erased. Because as long as she was watching, it was starting to feel like I wasn't the one in control.
“Finish getting ready,” my father said, snapping me back to the present. He adjusted his tie in the mirror, smoothing a stray hair. He wasn't preparing for a gala; he was preparing for a photo op. “We have the event at the university tonight.”
“I’m not interested in smiling for donors.”
“You will smile,” he said mildly, his reflection watching me with clinical coldness. “And you will look unified with your new coach. I didn’t bring Landon on board for you to treat him like dead air. Make sure the optics don't suggest a lack of discipline. I won't have my decisions questioned by the board because you can't play well with others.”
“Your decisions?” I stepped toward the desk, the lingering tremor of the steering wheel still humming in my palms. “You hired him without a word to me. You brought a stranger into my garage to tell me how to drive a car I’ve been winning in for years. Why? Is this some calculated move to make me look like I can't handle the seat? Because people are talking, Dad. They’re laughing. They see a Valerio being babysat on his own track.”
My father’s hands stilled on his cufflinks. The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that preceded a storm. When he turned, his expression hadn't softened; it had turned to stone.
“They aren't laughing at the coach. They’re laughing at the fact that you need one.” His voice was a low, dangerous velvet. “I didn't hire Landon to sabotage you. I hired him to save the brand from your recent... inconsistencies. Don’t you ever imply that I would waste company resources just to bruise your pride. You aren't important enough for a plot that expensive.”
He turned back to the mirror, fastidiously checking the alignment of his lapels. “I’m well aware of Landon’s history. I know all about the ‘issues’ that ended his time behind thewheel—the accident, the reckless streaks, the debris he left on the tarmac. But at his peak, he was a surgeon on the track. If I am willing to overlook a tarnished reputation for the sake of the finish line, then you will certainly overlook your pride. My tolerance for his past is greater than my patience for your present.”
He stepped closer, leaning into my space until I could smell the expensive woodsmoke of his cologne. It was suffocating.
“You’re back-talking me to cover for the fact that you’re losing your edge,” he whispered. “It’s pathetic. You didn't want him? Fine. Prove you don't need him. But tonight, you will stand next to him, you will thank him for his expertise, and you will look like the professional I’m beginning to doubt you are. You invited him, after all.”
He clasped his watch, the polished snap sounding like a gavel. He was already dismissing me. “And Dominic? Try not to start your evening with a tantrum. Save the drama for the press.”
I left before the rage in my chest could turn into something I couldn't retract. Every step down the hallway felt like a tally—one for my father, one for Landon, and a hundred for Landon’s irritating ass daughter.
They were all waiting for me to crack. I just had to make sure they weren't standing nearby when the glass finally shattered.
By the time I reached the university’s grand foyer, the sunset was bleeding out, the stained-glass windows catching the last streaks of light like they were hoarding the warmth I didn't feel. I stood at the heavy oak doors for a heartbeat, adjusting my cuffs and dragging myself back under control. My father wanted a professional; I would give him a statue.
I pushed inside.
The room was already a sea of glittering fabric and sharp suits. Laughter spilled through the hall, mingled with the clink of crystal and the kind of rehearsed chatter that usually made mesneer. It was a room full of people pretending to be something they weren't, and tonight, I was the lead actor.
I was late. Intentionally.
A late entrance served two purposes: it reminded the donors that a Valerio didn't run on anyone else’s clock, and it gave me a moment to scan the battlefield before I had to engage.
But the moment I stepped through the doorway, a quiet irritation curled low in my stomach, threatening to strip away the mask I’d just spent twenty minutes perfecting.
Someone else had arrived even later.
A shift rippled through the crowd—a magnetic tilt of attention toward the grand staircase that swept into the hall. Students, donors, and faculty turned almost in unison, and against my better judgment, I followed their gaze.
Landon appeared at first, looking disgustingly comfortable in a blazer that surprisingly fit him.
And then, her.
If there were twisted architect for my misfortune, Carter was his personal joke. She wore a red dress that made her look sharper for how deceptively unbothered she appeared. She moved with an ease that irritated me—a person who didn't belong in this world of polished silver and quiet power, yet acted like she owned the very air she breathed.
Awareness crawled low beneath my ribs. It wasn't just the dress. It was the way she didn't look for anyone in particular. It was the way the track scene earlier that afternoon seemed to have left no mark on her at all, while I was still vibrating from the impact of her silence.
She descended the staircase, but at the last steps, Luka stepped forward. My brother, offered an easy, familiar hand. She smiled at him—a real one, small but dangerous—and placed her hand on his arm.
