“Don’t say that about—”
“Our family has invested millions in this film, all to bring the excitement and passion for Formula 1 to the U.S., for Ignition, for the new American circuit. I took this risk to help you. But we need to sell this story. There is a fortune at stake, an opportunity to become true legends in our sport, and I will not let you ruin another opportunity for our family.”
“You did that!” Arthur snaps, and it’s like watching a spool of thread get kicked down a staircase, how the anger he’s been repressing unwinds until there isn’t a single sharp smile that could hide it. “Don’t act like I don’t know what this is. You don’t care about a movie or American fans. You both want to control me. And—and I don’t need to put up with it. I can drive somewhere else.”
I run my thumb over his knuckles, silently urging him to relax. He’s going too fast, and I need to catch him before he startles himself into running away. “Arthur—”
“Who will take you?” Holmes says, exasperated. “Leone? They’d only do it to infuriate me. Cavalli? As if you could handle that.”
“Fuck you.”
“Language.” Pantomiming a better patriarch, Holmes frowns. “Arthur, the fact of the matter is that she washired. She is not like us, and she will never be like us, and if you choose her, you will be vilified by her world and cast out of ours. Choosing a public partner is a matter of family business, and you cannot choose one that jeopardizes our business’s future.”
My muscles tense. Not like us.How many times have I dreamed about meeting my future partner’s happy, loving, perfect family? I know it isn’t super healthy to want to marry into a family more stable than your own, or have kids so that you get another shot. But I want it. I want Christmas mornings with the same place at the table every year, I want to be a mom and a wife who creates a better world for the people she loves. I want to fight for my family, not fight with them.
“Listen to him,” his dad pleads. “This is your moment. You’re almost back to Monza. When winter comes, Holmes can pull Faust, blame his headaches, give you the seat. You need to keep putting driving before all else.”
“I wonder why I need to do that,” Arthur mumbles beneath his breath.
Holmes’s eyes snap over, patriarchal sympathy gone. “What was that?”
“You heard me,” Arthur replies, glowering. “Neither of you are ready to admit whathedid.”
No. He isn’t—is he implying…? “You needed to be taught a lesson,” Holmes scoffs. “I’m sorry for what I did that day. I had to. You know how it is when you drive—you get competitive. But I love you, Arthur. I’ve mentored you since you were a child. I discovered your talent. And I pulled the strings I had to so that you could race Monza again and redeem yourself from that embarrassment I’ve covered up for as long as I can.”
What he did that day. Holmes did it. On purpose. His uncle crashed into Arthur on purpose, and he just admitted it out loud, when—when I wasn’t filming. My pulse wooshes, loud in my ears, and then Arthur is spitting back. “Please. Your movie was never an apology. You drove into me because you knew I’d get another championship, and you couldn’t stand me having one more than you. You are a sad old man who has nothing left in your life except controlling mine. Andyou”—he turns to his father—“have never been brave enough to stand up to your younger brother.”
“Enough,” Holmes snaps. It’s too loud, far too real, and he quiets himself down instantly, shifting in his chair. “You haven’t lived one day of your life without me. You stepped into my legacy. You’d throw that away for her?”
I don’t know why I flinch at the hatred in his voice. They don’t like me—they’ll never want me for Arthur. They agree with the online comments. I’m wrong, I’m not enough, again, always.
But when Arthur speaks, he doesn’t just sound hurt. He’s furious. “I already have, Benedetto.”
Holmes blinks from the use of his real name, then gives Arthur a withering stare, resting back in his seat. “Fine. Then I’ll give you what you want. After the Italian Grand Prix, I’ll terminate your contract.”
My eyes swivel to Arthur as his cut to me, then away, his cheek rippling with pent-up energy. Motorsports are dangerous. There’salways risk. But I don’t understand why Arthur is just sitting here after Holmes admitted to what feels like a criminal offense, why he’d even want to drive the Grand Prix with Holmes as his team principal, knowing what he knows now. Redemption in Monza is what he wanted—what we wanted—but doesn’t Holmes’s admission change everything? Won’t Arthur pick his safety and sanity over climbing back into the cockpit?
Arthur’s brows draw in. He’s thinking. Then he says, “Okay. Thank you,” and I feel like I’ve lost him again, the Arthur I thought I knew, whisked into the air.
But maybe that version of him—who pushed and argued and stood up for himself, who asked me what I thought he should do, who made me feel like I was part of the plot instead of just watching—doesn’t exist at all.
Maybe that version was just formycamera.
“Wonderful,” Holmes says, back to his warmer self. “Why don’t we celebrate with a game? For old times’ sake.”
Time slows down as Holmes pulls a deck of cards from the leather bag at his feet. It might stop entirely when he cracks it open. I’d know those cards anywhere, by sound, by smell. Bicycle playing cards, made in Erlanger, Kentucky. Once made by my birth mom.
Probably still made by her.
Holmes peels the plastic wrap off the deck. “Lilah, do you know how to play Texas Hold’em?” The plastic crinkles. “Maybe you’re a better player than my nephew.” He crumples it in his fist. “With how smart you’ve been this summer, I wonder if you can beat me.”
“Apologies.” Arthur exhales. “But we have to go. I have a meeting with Leone.”
That’s when he stands. On his feet, and up for himself. Driving for Leone. That’s it. That’s what he cares about the most. Not reallyMonza, and definitely not me. My fingers wrap around Arthur’s wrist helplessly as this undeniable truth sinks in, floating on the surface of my brain, then crashing down, through the waves.The house always wins, my birth mom told me on my fifteenth birthday, written in a cheap card I’d watched her steal from Walgreens. The electric out, blankets on our laps, shuffling through the cards; King of Hearts, the suicide king. Queen of Hearts, the beheader.That’s why real winners keep playing!
I’m standing, and Arthur must take my hand—but his grip slips as I get to my feet. “I’m sorry. This is… I have to…”
Arthur tries to touch me again. “Lilah?”
