chapter 10 Aug 7, 2025 Something flickers in Diana's eyes-disappointment, maybe-but she covers it with another warm smile. "Of course. Racing schedule's brutal. But the offer stands." The second Charles gets pulled away by some sponsor with more money than personality, Diana pounces on me like she's been waiting in the wings. Which, knowing my luck lately, she probably has. "So how long have you been with Apex Nova?" She leans in, eyes sparkling with the kind of enthusiasm that makes me want to hide under furniture. "What's it like working with Charles-I mean, professionally? Is he as demanding as everyone says? What got you into Formula 1? Did you always want to be a mechanic? Where did you train?" The questions hit like rapid-fire ammunition, each one a potential landmine. How long with Apex Nova? Can't say 'since I ran away from my father's team.' Working with Charles? Can't say 'mostly involves storage rooms and good sex.' What got me into F1? Can't say 'literally born into racing royalty.' "I, uh-" My brain scrambles for lies that won't contradict other lies. The penthouse suddenly feels too small, too hot, too full of people who might recognize something in my face if they look too close. "Diana! So lovely to see you again." Adison materializes like a guardian angel in Prada, sliding smoothly between us. "Parker's been looking everywhere for you-something about coordinating the photography schedule for the next race weekend. He's by the bar, last I saw." Diana's professional instincts kick in immediately. "Oh! I should catch him before he disappears. Eva, we'll continue this later, yeah? I have so many questions!" Great. Can't wait. She bounces off with the energy of someone who's never had their entire identity held hostage, leaving me to sag against Adison like a deflated tire. "Thanks," I manage. "She's… intense." "She's Charles with social skills." Adison steers me toward a quieter corner, past clusters of team personnel getting progressively drunker on sponsor champagne. "You looked like you were about to bolt through a window." "Considered it. Probably would've survived the fall." We settle into a relatively peaceful spot where the music's just background noise instead of an assault. Adison's doing that thing where she pretends to watch the party while actually x-raying my soul. "Still haven't figured it out with him, huh?" She nods toward where Charles stands with a group of engineers, looking devastatingly professional and completely untouchable. "No." The word tastes like months of accumulated exhaustion. "It's… complicated. And it's not getting any easier." Understatement of the century. It's not getting easier because now I have a fake boyfriend and a real father who's about to watch me date his star driver in every gossip column from here to Abu Dhabi. Adison doesn't push, because she's a better friend than I deserve. Instead, she raises her champagne with determination. "You know what? Fuck it. Let's drink and dance like it's the last night of our lives. We're in a luxury penthouse, in designer dresses, with ridiculously expensive alcohol. Might as well enjoy the chaos." And honestly? Why not? My life's already a dumpster fire. Might as well add accelerant. Three champagnes later, I'm actually having fun. Adison and I commandeer a corner of the makeshift dance floor, laughing at Nicholas Brooklyn's attempts to hit on everything with a pulse, taking bets on which sponsor will pass out first. For a few hours, I forget about fake boyfriends and real secrets and the disaster waiting for me tomorrow. Charles stays on the opposite side of the room all night, and I catch him watching sometimes, but he never approaches. For once, we both respect the distance. It feels like growth. It feels like goodbye. It feels like my chest is caving in, but that might just be the spanx in this dress. Morning arrives like a personal attack. Sunlight stabs through my hotel curtains with murderous intent, and my head feels like someone's running a grand prix inside my skull. My phone's having a seizure on the nightstand-team group chat exploding with logistics about travel to Hungary, complaints about hangovers, Nicholas sending memes that aren't nearly as funny as he thinks they are. One message stands out from the chaos. Private. From a number I saved as "Elio" but might as well be "Future Ruin." Elio: Good morning, beautiful. Hope you're not too worse for wear after last night's celebrations. Looking forward to seeing you at the airport. I stare at the words, waiting to feel something. Butterflies. Anger. Anything. But there's just… nothing. Empty space where emotion should be. He calls me beautiful like it means something, like we're real, like he didn't threaten to destroy my life less than twenty-four hours ago. I type and delete approximately eight approximately eight responses before settling on. Me: . Me: See you there. But as I drag myself toward the shower, reality starts seeping through the hangover fog. Papa's going to see the pictures. The headlines. His daughter holding hands with his star driver, playing happy couple while the paddock dissects every glance. The implications hit like a bucket of ice water. How do I explain this to him? "Hey Papa, funny story, Elio found out I'm your daughter and blackmailed me into dating him. Pass the pasta?" And it's not just Papa. Parker will see his mechanic dating a rival driver and wonder about divided loyalties. The media will dig into "Eva Farnese's" background, looking for dirt, finding inconsistencies. Charles will watch me with Elio and think… what? That I moved on? That I chose someone who could claim me publicly? My colleagues will whisper. Sponsors will gossip. Diana will probably want to give me sisterly advice about dating in F1, not knowing I've already been with her brother in every way except the ones that count. I make it to the bathroom before the panic attack hits, gripping the sink as my breath comes in short gasps. The face in the mirror looks like a stranger. Eva Farnese, soon-to-be girlfriend of Elio Black, daughter of nobody, mechanic of questionable judgment. Then came another text. Elio: Wear something comfortable for travel. And maybe something that photographs well. Just in case. Just in case. Like paparazzi accidentally stumbling upon us is coincidence and not orchestrated. Like any of this is real. I shower until the water runs cold, trying to wash off the feeling of walls closing in. But it clings like engine oil. The knowledge that I'm about to step onto a bigger stage with a spotlight I never wanted, playing a part that will burn every bridge I've built. Then my phone pings again. I thought it might be another advice from Elio for another totally not orchestrated 'in case.' Well… Charles: Reminder - van leaves for airport at 11. Don't be late. Professional. Exactly what I wanted. Exactly what hurts. I pack my life into regulation team luggage, each folded shirt feeling like another bar in my self-made prison. In a few hours, I'll be at the airport where Elio will start the show. Casual touches. Meaningful looks. The beginning of a love story that's really just mutually assured destruction with better PR. Another text from Elio. Elio: Can't wait to start our adventure. Adventure. That's what we're calling blackmail now. I zip my bag with enough force to break the zipper, because anger's easier than fear. In three hours, Eva Farnese starts dating Elio Black. In three hours, the countdown to my exposure begins. In three hours, I learn what it costs to want independence so badly you'll pay any price.