Humiliation burned up her neck. She crossed her arms instinctively, but it only pushed her breasts higher, the outline clearer.
“Watch where you’re going,” a voice snapped
She looked up.
Lucas Moreau.
Of course.
“I was standing still,” she said, thinner than intended. The clinging fabric chafed against her sensitive peaks with every breath, sending unwanted sparks low in her belly. She hated how aware she was of her own body right now—hated that he’d seen it too.
He scoffed. “Right.”
Something in her chest tightened. The dismissal. The certainty.
She dabbed uselessly at her blouse with a tissue, humiliation burning hot and immediate. “You walked into me.”
“Sure I did,” he said, rolling his eyes.
The money worries. The scholarship guilt. The pressure to be perfect, grateful, invisible. It all snapped.
She straightened, anger cutting clean through the panic. “You know,” she said evenly, “sometimes the reality really does match what you see on TV.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“An ass,” she said clearly. “Is an ass.”
For a moment, he looked genuinely stunned. Then his jaw tightened, something defensive flashing across his face.
He didn’t respond — just turned and stalked toward the lifts.
“Well,” a dry voice said behind her, “that was unfortunate.”
Mia turned to see a woman in her forties, immaculate, tablet tucked under one arm. “I see you’ve met our new star. Lucas Moreau.”
Her stomach dropped. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see—”
“Claire Whitman,” the woman said calmly. “Head of Communications and Media. Amelia Brookes?”
“Yes, and it’s Mia,” Mia managed.
Inside the room, she sat rigid, coffee-stained blouse and all, certain she’d just tanked her future.
“So,” Claire said, folding her hands. “Thoughts on Lucas?”
Mia hesitated. Then she chose the thing she’d learned to trust.
Honesty.
“He’s talented,” she said. “Confident. But right now, he comes across as arrogant. That’s a risk.”
Claire nodded once. “Fair. And don’t take what happened out there personally. He’s prickly when he’s cornered. Comes with the territory when your last name is Moreau.”
Mia frowned, still dabbing at her blouse. “Territory?”
“His grandfather—Alain Moreau. Four-time world champion in the seventies. Fastest man alive until Silverstone took him. Testing accident, wet track, mechanical failure. He was thirty-two. Lucas has been living in that shadow since he could walk.”
Mia paused. “So everyone expects him to…”
