“Oh, I see you finally got some flowers better than those grocery-store ones.”She moved closer to the arrangement, one perfectly manicured finger reaching out to touch a petal with the kind of delicate care she usually reserved for expensive things.
I opened my mouth then closed it, looking down at the crumpled note still clenched in my hand.
“Who are they from?”
The words stuck in my throat.I’d kept quiet for weeks, convinced it would go away, that it was just noise.But now I couldn’t deny that this wasn’t going away.
I held out the wrinkled note.
She crossed the room in three strides, plucking it from my fingers and smoothing it out against her palm.Her expression didn’t change as she read it.
“How many?”she asked.
“Three letters,” I said quietly, my own voice sounding small and uncertain even to my ears.“Maybe four.There was a text too.I’m not sure if that counts or if it’s someone different—”
She looked up, eyes hard.“Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”
“No.”A lie, but I didn’t think telling her that Henri knew would help anything.
“Just leave it with me.”She exhaled slowly, folding the note with precise, deliberate movements.“I’ll bring it up when the time is right.We don’t want to look hysterical over a few notes.Keep smiling,” she said, sliding the note into her purse like it was a receipt.“You’ve had a good day.Second place, solid points.Don’t let this ruin it.”
“Okay…”
“You know that better than anyone, darling.We must be twice as composed, twice as professional, twice as unflappable as the men.That’s just the reality of our position.”She reached for the crystal vase, lifting it with both hands, flowers and all, and walked toward the door with the kind of graceful efficiency that made it clear the conversation was over.
“Mother…” I started, not quite sure of what I was going to say.
She smoothed her jacket.“Go fix your makeup.You have media obligations in twenty minutes, and I won’t have you looking rattled.”
I stared at her, waiting for something more.For concern to crack through that composed exterior, or anger on my behalf, or even just some acknowledgment, but she just looked at me for one more long moment, her expression carefully neutral, before stepping through the doorway.
Chapter Nineteen
Henri
The bar Georgia had picked was the opposite of the paddock chaos I’d been drowning in all weekend.Low ceilings, warm amber light pooling in corners, wood beams overhead.A track played softly through hidden speakers, the kind of classics that belonged in piano bars, not the aggressive club music that usually followed race weekends.
I stood at the far end of the polished mahogany counter nursing a whiskey I couldn’t really taste.Today had been perfect and everything I’d worked for.
So why does it all feel so fucking hollow?
Éliott planted himself beside me like a loyal guard dog.After the race, I’d finally called him and apologized for being so cold, and in typical Éliott fashion, he was incredibly forgiving and understanding.He always had been.Éliott was talking with his hands, gesturing wildly, expressions cycling thought at least six different emotions per sentence.
I nodded at what I hoped were the appropriate beats, making the right sounds of acknowledgment, but my mind was somewhere else entirely.My eyes felt heavy, gritty, like I’d been awake for days instead of just one long, exhausting weekend.
The door opened with a soft chime.
I felt her before I saw her.That inexplicable awareness I’d developed over years of racing alongside Lily Blackwood, of knowing exactly where she was on track without even looking in my mirrors.Some sixth sense that existed independent of logic or reason.
Lily stepped through the doorway first, hesitating just inside the threshold like she was already regretting coming.She wore dark jeans and a simple top, her hair down around her shoulders instead of pulled back like it usually was for racing.She looked softer somehow, less armored than she did in team gear.
Beautiful.She looked absolutely beautiful.
The light caught the gold in her hair, turning it warm honey.Without makeup, freckles dusted across her nose—the same ones I counted that night in Las Vegas.
Her eyes found mine almost immediately, like she’d been looking for me.For a suspended moment, we just stared at each other across the crowded bar.Then a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.She lifted her hand in a small wave, almost shy, and my chest tightened so hard I forgot how to breathe.
I managed a nod, unable to trust my voice—unable to do anything but hold her gaze, an unspoken congratulations floating between us.Was she thinking about our kiss in Montreal?Or Monaco?
