“Oh, so we’re just saying anything now?” I began. “Just making up fake stories? You’ll are really bold whispering, but not bold enough to say it to my face. Let’s go down the list, shall we?”
I turned my attentions to the girl who’d first floated the comment about my having an STD. She was in her twenties and wearing Givenchy. Her eyes had been nipped and tucked one too many times, so she looked like a cartoon alien.
“You—yes, I’m looking at you. You must be talking from experience, huh? Because the way you jumped to that conclusion tells me something between your legs has been burning.”
Someone at the back of the gathering giggled at that, and the bitch turned beet red. She looked like she wanted to crawl underone of the tables that were laden with delicacies, and I wished she would.
The man who’d called me shameless was next on my shit list. “I’d rather be shameless than shaped like a damn rotisserie chicken, but go off.”
I wasn’t lying. The looked like a Bantam rooster—chest puffed out, booty like a shelf, and all perched atop two spaghetti sticks. Talk about skipping leg day at the gym!
Snickers ran around the room at my remark, and slowly he backed away, not catching my eye.
I wasn’t nearly done yet. I turned my attention to sour-faced Kat. “Let’s be real. The only reason you’re mad is because Santo took one look at me and hasn’t been able to take his eyes or hands off me since.” I let my hand slowly skim my hip. “Couldn’t keep his eyes off this ass, and I don’t blame him. Besides having a flat ass your soul’s even flatter, boo.”
I was on a roll, fueled by sheer rage, fed up with staying meek and mild, while indignities were heaped upon my head. There wasn’t a single pair of eyes in that weren’t fixed upon me.
I let my gaze move from face to stunned face, as I intoned: “You people sit here, dressed like you have money, but acting like you ain’t have home training. Talking about me like I’m the problemwhen half of you’ll wouldn’t survive a day without your trust fund.”
A young woman flinched, and I knew I’d hit home. “It’s giving broke behavior. Not in your wallet, but in your spirit. I know who I am. And I don’t need your approval to breathe, to love, or to win. Now, sip your champagne like your life ain’t miserable, and let me watch my man’s damn race in peace.”
Kayla erupted in applause, beaming with pride. “That’s my girl!” she exclaimed.
The Christakis men had fallen silent, watching me with newfound respect. Even Aristides’s stern expression had softened into what seemed like amusement.
Dimitrios’s smile was broad. When he passed by me, he extended his hand for a low five, which I returned with trembling fingers.
“Impressive,” he whispered, leaning close. “Mental note. Never, ever cross Tia Massey.”
I retook my seat, crossing my legs and taking a sip of my now-flat champagne to disguise my trembling hands. My vision blurred as I tried to refocus on the track.
I felt good … great, even. I’d stood up for myself and finally put Kat in her place.
18
“Santo, are you listening to me?” Nikos demanded, his voice cutting through the cacophony of the Spa-Francorchamps paddock.
The pre-race energy was palpable. The scent of high-octane fuel mingling with hot rubber and metal, mechanics’ tools clanging against carbon fiber, and the distant roar of engines warming up for earlier heats. The legendary Belgian circuit hummed with anticipation.
I adjusted my racing gloves, the custom-fitted leather squeaking against my palms. “Of course,” I answered irritably, eyes fixed onthe telemetry data scrolling across the monitor. “I’ve heard every word you said.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem like it,” Nikos shot back, his clipboard slapping against his thigh. “Seems like you’ve got your head up your ass these last couple of weeks.”
It was true. Tia’s return date to the U.S. loomed, and despite countless conversations, we’d reached no resolution about whether she would relocate to Greece.
As desperately as I longed to follow her to America, the ironclad contract I’d signed to secure her the architectural contract explicitly prohibited it. I now regretted that clause with every fiber of my being.
She wasn’t even gone yet, but I already felt the separation like a physical wound, deepening with each sunset we watched together, knowing we had one fewer ahead of us.
The thought of existing through phone calls and video chats felt like accepting breadcrumbs after feasting at a banquet. How could digital approximations possibly replace the warmth of her skin beneath my fingertips? The vibration of her laughter against my chest when I held her close? The complex, intoxicating scent of her hair when I buried my face in it?
I was a man watching his oxygen supply dwindle, counting down the remaining breaths, having discovered what it truly meant to breathe only after two and a half months in her presence.
Through the bustling crowd of mechanics and officials, I spotted Juan fucking Vasquez. My nemesis on and off the track, his crimson racing suit a splash of blood against the white of his team’s garage area.
He must have sensed my glare because he looked up, dark eyes finding mine across the crowded space. His lips curved into the same smirk plastered across motorsport magazines worldwide. He lifted his hand in a lazy, mocking wave.
My fingers curled into a fist and I flipped him the bird. I turned away, the carbon fiber floor vibrating beneath my racing boots as I stalked toward my car.
