chapter 11 Aug 7, 2025 Heathrow's departure lounge: where Formula 1 teams pretend they don't hate each other while sharing overpriced coffee and personal space. I'm nursing my third bottle of water when I spot Charles and Diana by the windows, deep in conversation. The German flows between them like water-fast, fluid, impenetrable to my ears. There's something painfully intimate about watching them speak their mother tongue, sharing whatever secret language siblings develop when one of them is clearly falling apart. Charles gestures sharply, Diana touches his arm, and I look away because this feels like witnessing something I'm not meant to see. "Affogato." I don't jump, but it's close. Elio materializes beside me like he's been practicing his entrance, holding two small cups that smell like heaven. "Espresso over vanilla gelato," he explains, offering me one with a smile that could sell ice to Eskimos. "The Italians invented it for moments when you can't decide between dessert and caffeine." I take it because my hands need something to do besides shake. The first spoonful is perfection-bitter coffee melting into sweet cream, hot and cold colliding on my tongue. It's exactly what I need, and I hate that he knows that. "Thanks." The word comes out softer than intended. I keep my gaze on the cup, not ready to meet his hazel eyes just yet, but the silence stretches, expectant and loaded. Then he clears his throat. "I was hoping you might meet James properly." His voice carries that familiar warmth now. "We celebrated the win last night, my first this season. He was over the moon, probably happier than I was." He smiles to himself, then adds, "My teammate's been curious about the woman who's supposedly taming me." The wink he adds makes me want to throw the affogato at his perfectly styled head. But he's right-this is what we signed up for. Public performance, starting now, I guess. "Besides," he continues, voice dropping conspiratorially, "if we're seen chatting openly with him, it reinforces our budding relationship. And Charles won't be able to cause a scene with James there." I have to admire the strategy. Elio's playing three-dimensional chess while the rest of us are still learning checkers. When he waves James over, I paste on my best 'meeting the boyfriend's friends' smile. James Davidson approaches with the easy confidence of someone who's never been blackmailed in his life. "So you're the famous Eva. Elio hasn't shut up about you since Silverstone." "All lies, I'm sure." I shake his hand, noting the genuine warmth in his grip. "Actually, all compliments. Which from Elio is basically a marriage proposal." Elio rolls his eyes. "Don't scare her off before we've even-" "James." Charles's voice cuts through like a blade. He appears beside us like a thundercloud in designer jeans, gray eyes arctic. "Didn't expect to see you mingling with the competition." The temperature drops twenty degrees. James's smile doesn't waver, but his stance shifts subtly-protective, ready. "Just being friendly, mate. You know how it is." "Do I?" Charles's gaze lands on me like a physical weight. "Some of us maintain professional boundaries." The hypocrisy is so thick I could spread it on toast. Mr. Professional Boundaries who made me come several times against a storage room wall wants to lecture about appropriate behavior? "Charles." Diana appears like divine intervention, Adison right beside her. "I need your opinion on which photo set best captures the team's dynamic for the Austria feature." "Can it wait?" He doesn't look away from Elio, who's standing closer to me now, almost possessive. "No, it really can't." Diana's voice carries that younger sister authority that transcends birth order. "Now, Charley." Adison, meanwhile, engages James in rapid-fire questions about tire degradation, effectively splitting the group. It's so smoothly done I almost applaud. "Be honest," she says, tilting her head with that signature grin. "You think the soft compounds will hold up past lap 20 in Austria?" James laughs, clearly caught off guard but amused. "Not a chance. If track temps hit what they're predicting, they'll blister by lap 15." "Exactly what I told our team," Adison shoots back, mock-smug. "Nice to have someone who actually knows what they're talking about." "Careful," James grins. "Flattery like that might make me start sharing team secrets." Once we're relatively alone again, Elio turns to me. "I booked you a seat next to mine on the flight." My stomach drops. "What?" "No pressure," he adds quickly. "Your original seat is still there if you prefer. But I thought you might enjoy escaping the fishbowl for a few hours." The offer hangs between us like a challenge. Sit with my team and endure three hours of Nicholas's commentary and Charles's wounded silence? Or publicly align myself with the enemy and deal with those consequences? "Yes." The word escapes before I can overthink it. "Yes, I'll sit with you." His face lights up like I've given him a gift instead of just agreed to proximity. It does something weird to my chest, a flutter that has nothing to do with the affogato's caffeine content. Boarding is a special kind of hell. Every head turns as Elio and I walk together. Phones appear like mushrooms after rain. I hear the whispers, feel the stares, and suddenly the airport corridor feels too narrow, too bright, too full of eyes. My breathing goes shallow. The edges of my vision blur. No. Not now. Not here. Not in front of everyone with their cameras and their judgment and their- Elio's hand finds mine. Firm. Steady. Real. "I'm right here," he says quietly, his hazel eyes steady on mine. "With you." These words. That's all. But something in the way he says them, the way his thumb brushes my knuckles, the way he positions himself slightly between me and the worst of the stares… It grounds me. The panic recedes, replaced by something worse. Trust. I'm starting to trust him. This man who's blackmailed me, who's using me for image rehabilitation, who holds my secrets like weapons-I'm starting to lean on him. Need him, even.