Page 54 of Downforce

Those questions only become that much more paramount when it comes to guiding the professional career of a woman in motorsports.

“Annalise, you would make a phenomenal agent for Bree,” Jen says, sounding as if she’s answering a question I hadn’t meant to ask out loud.

The questions grow louder as she tries to answer them and I know it’ll only get worse. I glance up at the track, hearing the engines in the nearby garage as the drivers start to pull out to line up for their race.

The distraction I need.

“The races are starting soon,” I tell her. “I should go.”

I don’t have to see her to know that she’s frowning at my cop out.

“You’re lucky I’m still dealing with jet lag,” she contends. It’s only been a week since she returned home to Chicago from her Asia trip.

“I’ll take that as a win. Get some sleep.”

After I hang up with Jen, I make my way to the bar to order a margarita before finding a space in the standing section with a clear view of the track, but my phone buzzes.

It’s an email from Norm.

I quickly read his request for me to look up an email between one of Travis’ sponsors to send over some information. Deciding it’s better to pull out my laptop in a private spot to do this bit of work, I duck out of the room and search for a quieter area to give Norm a call.

His flight got delayed, which means he won’t land in Bahrain until tonight.

One door I pass, I knock lightly, and when I don’t hear anything I attempt to turn the knob to enter. It’s locked.

A few feet ahead, I don’t even knock since that door’s slightly ajar.

However, as soon as I take a step inside, I hear a shrill female voice.

“You’re absolutely worthless.”

The words are said with a casual venom that has my back going straight.

“I can’t believe I invested so much time and money into you. If your father were alive, he would absolutely be ashamed over what you’ve become.”

It’s about halfway through that last comment that I realize this voice is familiar—I know the owner of those harsh words.

“You simply aren’t worth the effort and time I’ve put into you.”

My stomach plummets at the same time I raise my eyes to meet long, platinum blonde hair streaming down a slender back facing me.

I don’t want to, but I can’t stop my eyes from moving over the woman’s shoulder … to the man she’s talking to.

It can’t be.

My breath catches at the sight of Max, standing before his mother, expressionless. I’m so used to seeing those hazel eyes full of some sort of emotion—mirth, anger, passion—but right now they’re just blank.

There’s nothing behind that stare as he looks at his mother while she berates him. A beat later, Max turns his gaze on me. Mrs. Ferreira must sense my presence as well.

When she turns to face me, her face is flushed red with anger, and the rancor that’d laced her voice moments ago is displayed all over her normally beautiful face. Currently, her high cheekbones, reddened cheeks, and perfectly arched but narrowed eyebrows remind me of a beast.

Or one of those wicked witches in the fairytales my mom used to read to me as a little girl. The evil queen who was beautiful but had a soul black as midnight. My mind simply cannot process seeing such ugliness in real time.

Not because I don’t understand the words but because of the man who stands on the other end of her verbal daggers. Her own son.

“You simply aren’t worth the effort and time I’ve put into you.”

Max’s schooled expression. His blank stare. He’s used to it. Trained himself against such verbal hatred.