Behind my father, the projector screen was flickering with a violent, rhythmic strobe. It wasn't showing the team highlights. It was a high-resolution scan of a crash report—an old, black-and-white graph from the night of the accident that ended his life as he knew it. Words likejudgment erroranddrivernegligencewere blown up in massive, blurry text that seemed to pulse against the back of his head.
My heart stopped. That file shouldn't have been anywhere near this presentation. It was a private shame he locked away, now serving as a twenty-foot backdrop.
Dad stood center-stage, clutching a microphone that was letting out a shrill, dying whine of feedback. He looked small. He looked like he was back in the cockpit of a burning car, trapped in the harness and waiting for the end while the world watched from the sidelines.
“There’s been… a mistake,” my father stammered into the mic. His voice was thin, robbed of its usual authority. His face was a shade of grey that made my stomach turn. He looked toward the wings for help, for a technician, foranyone, but the stagehands were just as lost. They were fumbling with cables and tablets, trying to kill a feed that seemed to have a life of its own.
I stood there, paralyzed. How had this happened? He was supposed to be the new face of the team. Now, he was standing in the middle of a technical disaster that made him look like a total amateur.
The pity in the room was louder than the feedback.
Movement at the opposite entrance pulled my attention.
Dominic walked in—jacket straight, every button fastened, not a single hair out of place. His expression was a flawless face of concerned surprise, his brow furrowed just enough to suggest he was witnessing a tragedy. He looked like the only calm person in a room full of hysterics.
I stared at him, my breath catching on a silent, gagging laugh. It was inhuman. Seconds ago, his hair had been messy, his clothes rumpled. He had been unraveling. Now, he stood there looking like he’d been pressed and steamed in a closet while I ran downstairs. There was no sweat on his brow, no flush on his neck.
He was entirely too composed for someone who’d just finished taking what he wanted.
Our eyes met, and the look of predatory intensity from that hallway was gone, replaced by a cool, unreadable gaze.
It hit me with the force of a wrecking ball. The volunteer who had sent me on a wild goose chase. I hadn't been "lost"—I had beenremoved. He’d cleared the path, ensuring the stage was set for a disaster I wouldn't be present to stop.
He hadn’t forced me to stay upstairs. He didn't have to. He’d simply pinned me to that wall with the intensity of his focus, offering up a spectacle so jarring he knew I wouldn't be able to look away. He had used my own shock—my own curiosity—to keep me as a captive audience upstairs while he ran a cold-blooded execution downstairs.
I’d been busy dissecting the way he looked at me, while he was busy making my father his victim. He’d turned my own pulse into a distraction, a rhythmic hum that drowned out the sound of our lives hitting the floor until it was too late to catch the pieces.
Dominic didn't move. He stood at the edge of the room, posture relaxed, watching the mortification roll off my father in waves. He didn’t need to say a word; he just had to exist as the calm center of the storm he’d created. To everyone else, I knew it looked like my father was a careless, incompetent relic.
Movement at the edge of my vision pulled my gaze. Dominic’s father was already in motion. Red-faced and radiating a lethal kind of silence, he charged toward the stage like an executioner. He didn’t look left or right; he was focused entirely on salvaging this execution. Sienna didn't follow; she stayed exactly where she’d been, rooted beside Dominic’s father, her face of practiced concern as she watched the fallout from a safe distance.
The atmosphere of that upstairs room felt like a scar on my flesh—a reminder of exactly how I’d let myself be occupied while Dominic set fire to our lives.
He hadn't just played a game. He’d cleared the board.
Just as Dominic’s father reached the steps, Luka appeared out of the wings. He moved with a practiced, easy grace, sliding in front of my father and gently taking the microphone from his trembling hand.
“I told them the vintage footage were for the after-party,” Luka said, his voice smooth and projecting just enough charm to ripple through the tension. He threw a wink toward the front row. “Landon here is just so dedicated to the history of the sport, he couldn't wait to show you the 'before' so you'd really appreciate the 'after' we’ve got planned.”
A few ripples of laughter broke through the crowd. The suffocating pressure in the room lifted just enough to let people breathe again. It was a perfect save—quick, witty, and entirely dismissive of the disaster.
I looked toward Dominic one last time, desperate for some flicker of guilt, some sign that he realized the weight of what he’d done. But his focus was fixed on the stage, watching his father pull my Dad into the wings.
He didn't move a muscle, but I swore I could see it—the hint of a smirk in his expression, a quiet, satisfied glint that said everything was exactly where he wanted it. My father’s dignity was just collateral damage in a game Dominic had won before I even knew we were playing.
I hated this sport. I’d hated the noise, the spectacle, and the hollow, expensive worship of men who went fast just to prove they could. But as I watched Dominic Valerio stand there in his pristine suit, savoring the wreckage of the only person I had left, my hatred finally found its pulse.
He hadn't just cleared the board. He’d made me a permanent enemy.
The drive home was silent. Not the kind filled with the hum of tires, but the kind that pressed against my ears until breathing felt too loud. My father didn't speak, and I couldn't find the words to bridge the gap he’d built between us in his mind.
I pushed my bedroom door shut and let my heels fall to the rug with a dull thud. Every part of me throbbed. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my head in my hands, trying to erase the image of Dominic’s face from my mind in the aftermath.
My phone lit up on the nightstand.
Unknown Number:You saw what happens when you wander into the wrong rooms. Be more careful next time.
The ice prickled across my skin. It was him. Turning the knife.
