“Nicola!” I heard a woman’s voice, turning to find Carlos and his mother, who was beaming at me. I smiled back, pausing my stride to talk with them.
“Oh, how are you?” I reached out, a hand going to her arm, and kissed both her cheeks.
“Oh, you know dear, good as always. You look beautiful! Carlos, darling, tell her how beautiful she looks!” She fussed over me. I glanced over to Carlos who was trying not to laugh.
“You look beautiful, as always, Nicola.” He said warmly, his accent seeping through each word, looking rather dapper tonight in a tailored suit. I did my best not to roll my eyes at him and how he was the biggest mama’s boy around. I’d poke fun at him later.
“You look very handsome, Carlos.” I smirked back at him. He hated these events, but like me, he grew up around them. Galas and charity events, plastered-on fake smiles and our family’s friendly feuding with who can win charity auctions. We were used to it. When we were teenagers, we would sneak away into the hallways and pay off the servers for a smoke. We were too old for that now though. Plus, for once, I was rather excited to be at a gala. Being a part of the planning had shed new light on it. The charity tonight was for local animal shelters, one I’d offered up at one of the board meetings. The cause was dear to me. My dad had rescued a golden retriever mix about a year ago after much convincing from myself and my mother. I loved him with my whole heart—at this point I had shared custody of Monty since I loved having him with me.
After saying goodbye to Carlos and his mother, I only made it a few steps before another voice called out over the low hum of conversation.
“Nicola, dear!” I turned, already straightening my posture out of instinct. Henrietta. She was the chairwoman of the Moretti Foundation, industry legend, and the closest thing Formula One had to female royalty. Henrietta glided toward me with effortless confidence. I’d met her a handful of times over the years, always in passing, always thinking the same thing:This is the kind of woman I want to become.
She commanded every space she entered, not with volume but with presence—the kind that made men twice her size step aside and listen. For decades, she’d been a fierce advocate for women in motorsport, pushing doors open and holding them there for the next generation.
“Henrietta, it’s so good to see you,” I said, closing the distance between us. We exchanged a kiss on each cheek in greeting. She wore a deep navy gown, the high neckline sweeping into draped sleeves that trailed behind her like a cape. Tiny glass beads shimmered as she moved, catching the soft light of the room.
“Likewise, my dear.” Her eyes sparkled as she took in the event space—the auction tables, the overhead installations, and carefully curated room. “I heard you had a hand in this fantastic event. When I found out, I must say, I was very eager to see what you would do with it.” She paused with a look around again and added, “I am rather impressed.”
The words hit me so hard my lungs forgot how to work. Praise from the chairwoman of the Foundation was not something people earned easily. She had run the Foundation for decades; her approval was deeply coveted.
“Thank you so much,” I managed. “I really enjoyed helping out.” I’d poured weeks into this event between the branding mockups on flights, charity coordination between races, late-night calls with organizers, and layout and decorations for the ballrooms. It was the most passionate I had ever felt about any type of work.
“Are you interested in this side of the company long-term?” she asked casually.
My eyes widened before I could stop them. Was I interested? The Moretti Foundation was quite literally the top of my mental list of where I wanted to work within the company—the dreamspot I’d always convinced myself was too ambitious to voice out loud.
I swallowed hard, trying not to sound like an overeager intern. “Very much so,” I said smoothly. Or as smoothly as possible when my entire bloodstream was fizzing. “Working with the Foundation has been the highlight of my season.”
Her smile deepened warmly, like she’d expected that answer. “That’s wonderful to hear. Your idea of partnering with local charities along the race route? It’s brilliant. Truly. I think you might be onto something quite special.”
My cheeks actually hurt from how hard I was smiling. I wasn’t normally this smiley—not in public, not around people who weren’t my family—but Henrietta’s praise was like sunlight straight to the soul.
“I’ll be in touch,” she said, tapping my arm with a soft pat. “I’d like to hear more of your grand ideas.” She started to move toward another cluster of donors, and I—God help me—waved.
Why did I wave? Who waves at the chairwoman of a philanthropic organization? Mortified, I lowered my hand and exhaled a breath. I knew how to present myself, how to be professional. I was raised by a motor racing family. I knew how to do this. But at the prospect of working more seriously with the Foundation, my true excitement burned away the normal firm and stoic mask I had in place at these types of events.
Reorienting myself, I headed back toward the bar, offering polite nods and smiles to guests who stopped me with compliments or questions about the event. But my mind wasn’t on them.
It was still replaying Henrietta’s words, over and over.I’ll be in touch.
By the time I reached the bar, my jaw ached from the effort. I caught the bartender’s eye and leaned an elbow against thepolished oak, tilting my head the way I knew got immediate attention.
“You’re about to be my best friend,” I said, voice syrupy with relief as I flashed him a smile.
His brow arched, mouth twitching like he had a clever response ready.
“Fancy seeing you here.”
That voice. That maddening, familiar voice that grated on me like sandpaper on glass.
I snapped my head left, startled that I hadn’t clocked him the moment I walked up. Matteo leaned against the bar like he owned it, dark curls falling onto his smug face, looking altogether too comfortable in a tux. He pushed a crystal glass toward me across the bartop, the deep red catching the low amber lighting.
“Here,” he said, like he was doing me some sort of favor.
The bartender, sensing his services were no longer required, gave me a knowing grin and slid away. Traitor.
I narrowed my eyes at Matteo, rolling them for good measure as I dragged the wine toward me. My burgundy nails glinted under the chandelier light. An unintentional match to the liquid inside that made me smile. “Jealous, much?”
