chapter 14 Aug 7, 2025 Thursday arrives like a root canal appointment-inevitable and painful. The sponsor dinner's at some converted castle because apparently regular restaurants aren't pretentious enough for Formula 1 money. Columns, chandeliers, and enough marble to pave over my self-respect. I'm staring at the emerald green dress Elio sent, complete with a note that makes me want to scream: "Thought this might suit you." Controlling? Thoughtful? Both? It's hard to tell with Elio-he weaponizes charm and strategy like he was born with both in his blood. The fabric's stunning, expensive silk that glides over my skin like it belongs there. It fits perfectly. Too perfectly. Either he somehow got my exact measurements, or he's guessed with unnerving accuracy. Which is either wildly romantic… or stalker-level creepy, depending on how cynical I'm feeling today. But the worst part? I look good in it. Like, movie-star good. Powerful, elegant, unattainable. Everything I'm supposed to project at this dinner. Everything I'm not sure I still am. I should choose something else. Make a statement. Resist the narrative. But instead, I zip it up. Because if I have to play a role tonight, I might as well wear the costume that makes people stare and wonder if they ever really knew me at all. When Elio shows up at my hotel, he looks like every bad decision I've ever wanted to make. Charcoal suit tailored within an inch of its life, hair styled but not overdone, cologne that whispers instead of shouts. But it's his eyes that catch me-nervous, like maybe he's not as comfortable with this performance as he pretends. "You look-" He stops, swallows, tries again. "Green suits you." "You literally picked it." "Still true." The ride to Castle Pretentious is Elio in full strategic mode. He briefs me like we're planning a military operation: avoid journalists from Autosport, charm the Rolex executives, deflect relationship timeline questions with vague romanticism. It's exhausting and impressive in equal measure. "You've done this before," I observe. "Never with someone who mattered." The words land weird. Too honest for what we are, not honest enough for what he seems to want us to be. We don't talk about it again. There's no time, and maybe no courage either. Instead, we slip into the roles we've rehearsed to perfection. The castle's lit up like a fairytale, which is ironic since we're living a nightmare. The second we enter, we're on. Elio's hand finds my lower back, warm through silk, guiding without pushing. He leans in, whispers jokes about sponsor speeches that actually make me laugh. We probably look convincing-the playboy finally reformed, the mechanic who tamed him. Between mandatory small talk and champagne I'm not drinking, I catch glimpses of Real Elio. The way his jaw tightens when photographers swarm. How his smile goes plastic when someone mentions our "whirlwind romance." The careful distance he maintains even while touching me-close enough to sell it, far enough to respect boundaries he's already crossed by blackmailing me in the first place. "Interesting career move, Farnese." Nicholas Brooklyn materializes like a designer-suited demon, smirk locked and loaded. "Dating the competition. No conflict of interest there." "Jealous much, Brooklyn?" Elio's voice stays light but his hand tightens on my waist. "Just because your love life's as successful as your qualifying." Nicholas's face does something complicated before he slinks away. Across the room, Parker watches with concern that makes my stomach churn. James Davidson raises his glass to Elio in what looks like approval-finally, his teammate's settling down. Then Diana appears with her camera, and my heart stops. She's working the event as an official photographer, catching every staged moment of intimacy. Each click of her camera feels like betrayal-I'm lying to Charles's sister with my body language, my fake smiles, my hand in Elio's. "You two look perfect together," she says warmly, adjusting her lens. "Natural." Natural. Right. Nothing says natural like fake relationships and emotional hostage situations. The universe saves its best gut-punch for last: Nexus Racing's owner arriving fashionably late, presence filling the room like smoke. I watch Papa scan the crowd, see the exact moment he spots me. His face cycles through emotions faster than DRS activation. Surprise, hurt, confusion. Right before settling into his media mask. He approaches our table with the measured stride of someone controlling every muscle. "Miss Farnese ." My fake name sounds wrong in his voice, accent thicker like it gets when he's upset. "Elio. I hear congratulations are in order." The subtext screams louder than any engine: What are you doing? Why didn't you tell me? How could you? "Mr. De Marco." I can't call him Papa, can't break character even as it kills me. "Thank you." Elio handles the interaction with surprising grace, all respect and deference to his team principal. But Papa's eyes never leave mine, questions burning that I can't answer. When he finally walks away, I excuse myself to the bathroom and barely make it before the tears come. Hot, angry, guilty tears that ruin makeup I spent forty minutes perfecting. Later, Elio finds me on the terrace. The valley spreads below like a circuit board, lights twinkling with promise I can't feel. "You did wonderfully tonight." His thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away concealer-hidden tear tracks. "I know this isn't easy for you." I search his face for the playboy, the manipulator, the player. Instead, I find something worse. Genuine regret mixed with what might be actual feelings. Like maybe he hates this as much as I do. Like maybe forcing someone to date you isn't the victory he thought it'd be. "Elio-" Movement through the glass doors kills whatever confession was building. Charles stands at the bar, watching us with eyes that hold every emotion he won't voice. Not just jealousy, but deeper hurt. The kind that comes from watching something you refused to claim get claimed by someone else. Our eyes meet through glass and shadow. One heartbeat. Two. Then he turns and vanishes into the crowd, taking whatever's left of my heart with him.