chapter 15 Aug 7, 2025 Parker's office smells like disappointment and overpriced coffee. I'm expecting the axe-dating a rival driver isn't exactly in the employee handbook under "recommended extracurriculars." "Sit." He gestures to the chair of doom. "We need to discuss your… situation ." Here it comes. The lecture. The warning. The- "I can't deny grown adults the right to be happy." Wait, what? My brain short-circuits. Parker Warren, human embodiment of professional boundaries, is giving me relationship permission? "I'm not naive, Eva. You're brilliant at what you do. Your setup work this season has been exceptional." He leans back, studying me. "I'd hate to lose someone of your caliber over personal choices." "I… Um, thank you?" Words. How do they work again? "Just remember your NDA. No shop talk with Black. What happens in our garage stays in our garage." "Of course. Always." "Good. Now get back to work. Charles needs perfection this weekend." I float out of his office high on validation. Parker Warren thinks I'm brilliant. Exceptional. Of caliber. Fuck yes! Back in the garage, I channel this energy into my life's work. Tire pressures? Optimized. Suspension geometry? Perfected. Charles's preferences? Memorized down to the millimeter. Charles himself? Might as well be a ghost. He talks to me about downforce. I respond with data. He doesn't look at me anymore, not even those accidental glances that used to make my stomach flip. We're two magnets reversed, repelling with scientific precision. It's when enters Diana Weinberg, chaos in designer jeans. "I have a brilliant idea!" She bounces into the garage like sunshine personified. "A photo exhibition documenting the team's journey. Behind-the-scenes genius. The human side of racing." She's armed with professional cameras and weaponized enthusiasm. Resistance is futile. "Think about it-the untold story of what really happens. The late nights, the pressure, the bonds. I'll sell the collection eventually, but first, it's about capturing truth." Truth. Right. Because that's what my life's full of these days. Diana integrates into our ecosystem immediately. She and Adison bond over terrible reality TV. She makes even Nicholas tolerable. She's impossible to hate, which makes lying to her face extra special. "Shopping trip!" Adison declares Thursday afternoon. "We need looks that kill for these sponsor events." Diana lights up. "Yes! Girls' afternoon! Eva, you're coming." It's not a question. Diana doesn't do questions, only enthusiastic declarations. We hit boutiques like a tornado of estrogen and credit cards. More gossiping than buying-Adison dissecting Nicholas's latest dating disaster, Diana sharing Charles's teenage emo phase (complete with photos that I definitely don't want to have in my phone). Then: La Galerie du Soir. Where dresses cost more than engines and dreams go to max out credit limits. The dress finds me. Soft silk that flows like water, intricate beading catching light like stars. It's sophisticated and sexy without trying too hard. The mirror shows me someone I don't recognize-elegant, powerful, the kind of woman who belongs on Elio Black's arm. I take a dozen selfies. Different angles, different poses, documenting this version of Eva who wears silk instead of motor oil. My thumb hovers over Charles's contact. The urge to send them to him hits like a gut punch. Look what you're missing. Look what you refused to claim. Look what could've been yours if you weren't emotionally constipated. But we don't do that. We don't share selfies or feelings or anything beyond telemetry data. I scroll to Elio instead. Send three photos before I can overthink it. His reply hits in under sixty seconds. Elio: Stunning. There's a gala next week where I need that dress on my arm. Fair warning-I won't be able to take my eyes off you. Not sleazy. Not cheap. Just appreciative and promising. Elio knows how to play this game, how to make me feel desired without making me feel dirty. Standing there in silk and confusion, a thought ambushes me: maybe I don't miss Charles specifically. Maybe I just miss a good sex. Thirteen months of storage room encounters leaves a girl with expectations. Habits. Needs. Theoretically, Elio could- No. Stop. Right fucking there. But my brain's already there . His hands on my waist at the sponsor dinner. His cologne when he leans close. Those hazel eyes that see too much. What would he be like? Controlled and hunger like Charles or something different? Would he talk during, tell me exactly what he wants, or- "Eva! Let me see!" Diana's voice shatters my accidental sex fantasy. I spin, face probably crimson. "That dress is perfect," she gushes, circling me like I'm an art installation. If only she knew her brother had his chance. Multiple chances. In multiple locations. And chose professional distance over everything I was willing to give. "Thanks," I managed, escaping back to the fitting room. I buy the dress because fuck it, I deserve silk and beading and clothes that make me feel powerful. My credit card screams, but that's Future Eva's problem. Current Eva has bigger issues. Like the fact that she's imagining her fake boyfriend's hands on her body. Like the growing distance between her and the man she actually loves for a months. Like the web of lies getting tighter with every shared shopping trip and sisterly bonding moment. "Drinks?" Adison suggests as we leave. "Can't," I lie. "Early morning with the car." Truth: I need to be alone with my catastrophic thoughts and this dress that represents everything I'm pretending to be. Back at the hotel, I hang the silk carefully, running fingers over beading that catches light like promises. Next week, I'll wear this for Elio. Play the devoted girlfriend while Papa watches and Charles still pretends I don't exist. My phone buzzes. Charles: Suspension adjustments for tomorrow? All business. Of course. No acknowledgment that his sister spent the afternoon bonding with his ex-whatever. No hint that he cares about anything beyond lap times. I sent him data because that's what we do now. Exchange numbers instead of body heat. Precision instead of passion. Another text, and this one from my "boyfriend". Elio: Can't stop thinking about those photos. Sweet dreams, bella. Two men. Two completely different approaches. One makes me feel nothing professionally and everything personally. The other's starting to blur those lines in ways that terrify me. I stare at the dress, at my phone, at the ceiling. Somewhere in this mess of fake relationships and real feelings, I've lost track of what I actually want. Or maybe that's the problem-I know exactly what I want. I just can't have it.