It’s the sound of a gate slamming shut. It’s the realization that I’ve spent years boxed into a future designed by everyone but me. If my father wants to own me, if Sienna wants to anchor me, and if the world wants to watch me burn out—then I’m taking the sanctuary with me.
My jaw sets as the first glass pane shatters in the distance. The sound is beautiful.
If everything’s already decided—if my life is already over before I’ve even had a chance to live it—why should I be the only one who loses something tonight?
Chapter twenty-five
Carter
The rain hasn’t let up once.
It hasn’t softened or shifted; it’s just steady, punishing sheets of gray that blur the pit lane into a wash of slate and turn every surface into a liability. It drums against the hospitality units, rattles the corrugated metal of the garages, and runs in thin, oily rivers along the concrete like it’s looking for something to ruin.
Marco stands a few feet from me, arms crossed, eyes glued to his watch. He’s checked it three times in the last minute. He exhales a plume of mist into the damp air and looks up at the sky like it might actually offer an apology.
“We’re pushing hour four,” he mutters.
I glance past him toward the track. The Safety Car is tucked away now, finally pulled in after two reconnaissance laps thatdid nothing but confirm the obvious: too much standing water, too much spray. You couldn’t see five feet ahead once the tires kicked it up. Controlled chaos only works when the 'control' part is physically possible.
“Drivers’ meeting,” a voice crackles over Marco's comms. “Emergency briefing in the FIA unit.”
Dominic is already moving before the sentence finishes. He peels away from the corner of the garage opposite to mine, his posture locked in a way I’ve learned means he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.
Up close, he looks like utter shit. His skin has a gray, washed-out quality that the harsh overhead lights only make worse, and his eyes are bloodshot enough to tell the real story. He’d told me once, that he only ever has one drink at the parties he throws. Looking at him now I deduce he didn’t stop at one last night. Not even close.
I shouldn't care. I tell myself it’s just another variable in a season full of them—a driver who doesn’t respect his own recovery time isn't my problem.
My father follows a beat later, his expression of professional neutrality...
“Lucky you made it in early,” Marco says, his tone clipped but conversational. “Flights were grounded an hour after your wheels touched down.”
Dominic huffs a breath that might have been a laugh if it weren't so hollow. “Threaded a pocket,” he says, his voice flat. “Storm chased us the whole way from Italy.”
I stay back, my eyes fixed too hard on the monitor, though the screen is just a blur of scrolling data I’m not actually reading. He doesn't look at me. Not properly. But I swear in my peripherals I feel the weight of his gaze drift over my shoulder—a heavy, momentary second of a look that makes the hair on my arms stand up. I tell myself I’m imagining it, that it’s just the humidityor the static from the storm, because the alternative is too dangerous to sit with.
Before I can look up to confirm it, he turns and disappears into the gloom, swallowed by a cluster of umbrellas and officials.
I don’t watch him go. I don't give myself the luxury of wondering what that look meant. Instead, I find work to do.
With the delay dragging on and the rain showing no signs of stopping, the call comes down to start relocating the sensitive racks away from the outer garage bays. The water is creeping in—slow, persistent, and lethal to high-end electronics. When another mechanic asks for someone to handle the back-line inventory, I volunteer before he can even finish the sentence.
It’s a perfect excuse to be alone. I need the isolation of the back shelving, the metal, and the mindless, repetitive rhythm of sorting equipment. If I’m moving, I’m not thinking. If my hands are full of fiber-optic cables and ruggedized cases, I don’t have room to wonder why Dominic looks like he’s dying on his feet or why the air in the garage feels so much thinner when he’s not standing in it.
Time stretches. Thirty minutes turn into an hour. My shoulders are beginning to ache, a dull throb I’ve learned to push into the background of my mind, right next to the image of his bloodshot eyes. I focus on the cables. The sensors. The boxes.
I’m shoving a heavy crate on the top shelf near the back wall—a rack of spare sensor looms—when I feel the shift. The crate is taller than I am, packed tight, and as I push it toward the edge, the weight doesn't catch where it should. It tilts at a sickening angle, gravity winning before I can adjust.
“Shit,” I hiss, bracing my shoulder against the plastic as the world suddenly gets very heavy.
The weight hits me harder than I expected. My feet slide a fraction on the damp concrete, and I grit my teeth, my muscles straining to push the dead weight onto the shelf. But I’m out-leveraged, and the metal shelving groans in a way that says it’s about to give up on me.
Sometime earlier I’d put headphones on, an attempt to further keep the world out. I didn't hear him come back. I didn't hear the heavy thud of his boots or the shift in the air.
I’m bracing for the impact of the crate when the air behind me suddenly changes. It’s a pressure, a sudden wall of warmth that cuts through the damp chill of the garage.
The weight doesn’t vanish, but it redirects. A pair of arms—strong, steady, and radiating a jarring familiarity—reach up on either side of me. Broad shoulders brush mine, and I register too quickly who they belong to. I don't need to see his face; I know the specific, heavy anchor of his presence.
Dominic doesn't say a word. He just braces his hands flat against the crate and shoves it back into place with a firm, practiced force. It slides home with a solid sound that vibrates through my own bones.
