chapter 16 Aug 7, 2025 Hearts on Track charity gala. Because nothing says "helping sick children" like watching millionaires peacock in designer suits while bidding stupid money on shit they don't need. I'm sewn into midnight blue silk, playing Elio Black's girlfriend like it's my fucking job. Which, technically, it is. The second week of this charade and I've mastered the algorithm: hand on his arm, laugh at his jokes, look adoringly at him when cameras point our way. Simple. Soul-crushing. Same difference. "You look incredible," Elio murmurs, and the compliment lands weird because he actually means it. That's the problem with fake dating your blackmailer-sometimes the lines blur in ways that make your brain short-circuit. The venue's dripping with Formula 1 excess. Crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, egos the size of small countries. Adison catches my eye from across the room, throws me a subtle thumbs up. She's on Eva-duty tonight-ready to extract me if shit goes sideways. Diana's working the room with her camera, turning hardass team principals into puddles with that megawatt smile. Even Christian Horner looks human when she points her lens at him. It's a superpower. Then Charles arrives. Of course he's forty-five minutes late. Of course he's got a Brazilian supermodel surgically attached to his arm. Of course she's wearing a dress that's 90% suggestion, 10% fabric. The model-Gabriela? Graziela? Who gives a fuck?-laughs like Charles just invented comedy. Touches him like she's checking for hidden weapons. The performance is so obvious it's painful. But Charles? His eyes keep finding mine across the room. Gray laser beams of unresolved bullshit burning holes in my composure. "Your ex seems to have moved on quickly," Elio observes, because subtlety isn't in his vocabulary tonight. "He's not my ex . We were never-" I stop. We were never what? Together? We were together in every way except the ones that counted. The charity auction starts, and apparently testosterone poisoning is contagious. Some track day experience comes up-drive a classic F1 car, blah blah-and Elio raises his paddle. So does Charles. What follows is the most expensive dick-measuring contest in European history. They bid back and forth like the fate of the world depends on who gets to drive a vintage McLaren. "Fifty thousand," Elio says. "Seventy-five," Charles counters. "One hundred." "One fifty." The room's watching now. Everyone pretends they're not filming this trainwreck on their phones. The Brazilian model looks confused. I want to disappear into my overpriced dress. "Two hundred thousand euros," Elio declares, and even the auctioneer looks shocked. Charles's jaw works like he's chewing glass, but he doesn't raise. Elio wins, pulls me close, kisses my temple with the kind of possessive victory that makes me want to shower in bleach. "Was that necessary?" I hissed. "Everything's necessary when it comes to you." The words hit weird. Too real for our fake arrangement. Too intense for what this is supposed to be. Papa takes the stage for his speech, and suddenly I can't breathe. My father, my actual father who I'm actively betraying, talks about family. Sacrifice. The importance of authentic connections. Every word feels personally crafted to destroy me. "Honesty," he says, finding me in the crowd like he's got GPS on my guilt, "is the foundation of everything worthwhile." Elio's hand tightens on mine. Warning? Support? Both? My palm's sweating and I want to run, but I'm trapped between my fake boyfriend and my father's disappointment. I escape to the terrace the second Papa's done. Need air. Need space. Need a time machine to unfuck my entire life. James Davidson's already there, whiskey in hand, looking philosophical as fuck. "He's different with you, you know," he says without preamble. "Who?" "Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you." He turns, studies me like I'm a particularly complex race strategy. "Elio. Six years I've known him. Seen him with every type of woman imaginable. This… is different." My laugh comes out bitter. "Yeah, well. Appearances can be deceiving." "Can they?" James's look says he knows more than he should. "He's happy, Eva. Genuinely happy. The question is-are you?" It hangs there like a noose. Am I happy? I'm fake-dating my team's rival's star driver while the man I love parades Brazilian models around like weapons. 'Happy' isn't even in my vocabulary anymore. Footsteps save me from answering. Of course it's Charles. Of course he's alone. Of course he looks like an emotional devastation in Armani. James evaporates with the kind of tactical awareness that makes him a great wingman. Or a terrible one, depending on your perspective. "Don't," I say before Charles can open his mouth. "We can't do this here. We can't do this at all." He moves closer anyway, because personal space is a concept he's never grasped. "How long are you going to pretend to be with him?" "I'm not-" "Until you actually fall for his act? Until it stops being fake?" His voice cracks on the last word, and fuck, that's not fair. He doesn't get to be vulnerable now. "You brought a supermodel," I point out. "Glass houses, stones, et cetera." "Because watching you with him is killing me." The admission falls between us like a grenade. "Every touch. Every smile. Every fucking-" Voices. Approaching. Thank Christ. Elio appears with Diana, both laughing at something on her camera. The four of us in this tiny space feels like atoms about to split. Nuclear disaster in formal wear. "Charles," Elio says smoothly, arm sliding around my waist like he owns me. Which, technically, he does. "Enjoying the event?" "Immensely." Charles's smile could cut diamonds. "Your generosity in the auction was… impressive." "Well, some things are worth any price." Elio's hand tightens on my hip. "Wouldn't you agree?" Diana's looking between all of us like she's trying to solve a particularly complex equation. Her eyes land on me, questioning, but I've got nothing. No answers. No explanations. Just three weeks of fake relationship and thirteen months of real heartbreak colliding in real time. "We should get back," I say, because someone needs to defuse this before it explodes. "The dessert auction's starting." "Of course." Charles's eyes hold mine for one more second. Promise, threat, plea-all rolled into a look that makes my chest cave in. "Enjoy your evening. Both of you." He leaves first. Then Diana, still confused. I'm left with Elio on a terrace that suddenly feels too small for both of us and all our lies. Elio's hand finds my cheek, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with something that feels dangerously close to tenderness. The irony's not lost on me. My fake boyfriend understands love better than the man who's had my heart for over a year. "We should go back," I say, stepping away from his touch before I do something stupid. Like cry. Or confess. Or wonder what would happen if I kissed him for real. "Eva-" "Please." The word comes out raw. "Just… let's go back to pretending. I'm better at that." He follows me inside without argument, hand returning to my waist, mask sliding back into place. We're perfect again. Poised. Professional. Fake as fuck. But James's question echoes in my head for the rest of the night: Are you happy?