Page 116 of Break My Heart

I remember everything he told me after Bahrain. Being the family spare, the decade of silence. Then, every moment of regret since he read Albert’s letter. I press my hand against my stomach instead of screaming to the world that his father doesn’t deserve the title.

My father places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

The reporter pushes. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“It’s a statement of fact.”

“Against your father?”

Leo’s mouth flattens. “My father is free to make his own statements.”

“And if he disputes yours?”

“Then he’ll have said more about me—as a person—than he has for the last ten years.”

“I think Heythrop is going to stroke out,” my father leans over to whisper.

I counter, “Over the same remarks Dario’s enjoying far too much.”

He squeezes my shoulder again as the room recalibrates when they realize this isn’t intended to be a spectacle. It’s Leo declaring, in front of every camera pointed at him, that the old version of himself did more than survive at his father’s expense.

Another journalist, older, quieter, asks, “What do you want to be called now?”

Amusement flickers across Leo’s face. “The same name I’ve been known as for years: Leo Hawthorne.”

A small laugh moves through the room. At that, Bentley wraps it up. “We have time for two more questions.”

A woman near the aisle raises her hand. “Leo, what would you say to your brother if he could witness this?”

The question hits me like a blow since Leo asked me to read his brother’s letter. At the table, Leo stills. For several seconds, he doesn’t answer. When he does, his voice is quieter. “I’d tell him I’m sorry. Not because of the title, but because I wish we’d had the chance to know each other without all of this between us.”

He swallows. “Then, I’d tell him I understand now.”

The woman’s voice softens. “Understand what?”

Leo’s eyes shine under the lights. He blinks it back. “That’s between me and my brother.”

My vision blurs even as pride surges through me.

The final question comes from a motorsport journalist. “Leo, after everything that happened today, how do you get in the car again?”

It’s a softball question. It’s also a perfect one to end on.

Leo sits back slightly. “I get in because that’s where my heart is. Every time I place my hands on the steering wheel, I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I’ll get in because I trust the people who built what’s beneath me.” His gaze flicks to Dario, then—briefly, so briefly no one else would catch it—to me. “And if you’re lucky, you trust yourself.”

Then he adds, “Just because I walked away from a title today doesn’t mean I’m walking away from the life I built.”

As Bentley steps in to conclude the press conference, I let the tears I’ve been holding back fall. Leo stands, followed by Heythrop and Dario. For a second, he looks impossibly tired.

Then Dario is beside him, one hand at his shoulder, guiding him away from the table. As they make their way across the stage, reporters rise—shouting follow-up questions.

“Leo, how do you think your father will respond?”

“Are you worried about legal challenges?”

“Is the title passing to another heir?”

“Leo!”