chapter 2 Aug 7, 2025 Monaco. Where billionaires cosplay as regular people and regular people pretend they belong. The whole principality reeks of money and desperation, which makes it the perfect backdrop for Formula 1's most prestigious shitshow. I'm elbow-deep in suspension geometry when my phone buzzes with another tabloid alert. "Nexus Racing First Driver, Elio Black, Spotted with Mystery Blonde at Jimmy'z." Original. The man goes through women like I go through brake pads-frequently and without much thought about long-term durability. He's Nexus Racing's star driver, which only makes the headlines sting more. Opposite side of the pit lane, same mess of distraction. "That's the third one this week," Adison, our Apex Nova's head of strategy, comments, peering over my shoulder. "Man's got stamina." "Man's got issues," I correct, adjusting the rear camber with more force than necessary. The movement makes my shoulder twinge, a souvenir from last week's storage room athletics with Charles. Speaking of the devil, Charles emerges from his driver's room looking like he stepped out of a Monaco tourism ad. Pressed team polo, perfectly styled blonde hair, expression that could freeze hellfire. We perfected the art of professional indifference a long time ago-no lingering looks, no accidental touches. No acknowledgment that four days ago he had me pressed against a wall whispering my name like a prayer. "Front wing adjustment for FP2?" His tone is clinical, like I'm Siri with a wrench. "Already done. Two degrees positive on the flap angle." What I don't say-though I want to-is that this means more downforce on the front of the car. More grip. Which he'll need through Turn 3 and Turn 11, where he's been sliding in just a little too hot and losing time. I've already run the numbers. Watched the data. Thought it through before he even parked the damn car. But I keep it short. Simple. Like always. I don't look up from my laptop. Two can play the ice queen game. He hovers for a beat too long, and I feel rather than see his internal debate. Then: "Good. The balance felt off through Turn 11 at Mirabeau." And just like that he's gone, leaving behind my stupid accelerated heart rate. Practice goes smooth as silk-P3 in FP1, P2 in FP2. God, I love those little codes. FP1 and FP2-first and second free practice sessions. P3, P2-third place, second place. Clean. Efficient. Like the data I breathe. Charles's feedback is precise, technical, and completely devoid of the heat that usually burns between us. No teasing. No sideways glances. Just lap times, tire wear, corner entry speeds. It's exactly what I wanted. It's also driving me insane. I'm comparing telemetry data when a shadow falls across my screen. My first thought is Charles came back to actually communicate like a human being. My second thought is that I need therapy for how quickly hope blooms in my chest. Neither thought prepares me for reality. "Excuse me, are you Eva Farnese?" I look up into the face that launched a thousand thirst tweets and probably inspired just as many daydreams. Elio Black, standing in front of me in worn jeans and a fitted charcoal t-shirt that clings just right to a body sculpted by adrenaline and arrogance. His dark hair is tousled in that effortless, I-just-stepped-off-a-yacht way, and his smile is a weapon of mass distraction. It's the kind of grin that's been scientifically engineered to melt inhibitions and separate women from their underwear with frightening efficiency. And the worst part? He's absolutely fucking aware of it. "You shouldn't be here. This is a restricted area." My voice comes out flatter than Charles's personality, which is an achievement. His smile actually gets wider. The audacity! "I got lost looking for the media center. But I'm glad I did. I've been hearing impressive things about Apex Nova's setup work." "I'm sure you have." The sarcasm is thick enough to spread on toast. This is the same guy who told Autosport Magazine that he dates models because "they understand the lifestyle." Bitch, please. "Your aerodynamic package is brilliant. The way you've integrated the flow-vis paint data from Barcelona? Genius." Okay, so the pretty boy actually pays attention to technical details. I'm approximately 2% impressed. "You've been analyzing our car?" He steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne-something that probably has a pretentious French name and comes in a crystal bottle. "I analyze everything beautiful and dangerous. Cars, racing lines…" His hazel eyes lock onto mine with practiced intensity. "Talented mechanics who turn impossible dreams into reality." I actually snort. Out loud. Like a farm animal. "Does that actually work on people?" For a split second, his mask slips. Genuine surprise flickers across his features before he laughs-not the practiced chuckle from press conferences, but something fuller, more real. "You're not impressed by the Elio Black charm offensive. Refreshing." "Listen, I've already seen your work. Sunday: mysterious brunette at the yacht party. Tuesday: that Netflix actress at the casino. Wednesday: someone's Swiss cousin at the sponsor dinner. You've got a tighter schedule than our pit stop strategies." His eyes light up with what looks suspiciously like delight. "You've been keeping track?" "The gossip sites' notifications assault my phone. It's like being subscribed to a reality show I never asked for." "Maybe I'm just looking for someone who sees through the bullshit," he says, and for a moment, there's something almost honest in his voice. "Try a therapist. They're paid to deal with that kind of introspection." Before he can respond, the temperature drops ten degrees. I don't need to look to know Charles is back, probably radiating possessive energy like a territorial cat. "Nexus Racing drivers seem to get lost frequently," he said with a voice that could cut glass. Elio's smile snaps back into place, but there's calculation behind it now. "Just appreciating the craftsmanship. Your mechanic has impressive skills. And immunity to cheap flattery, apparently." The testosterone levels are approaching critical mass. I half expect them to start circling each other like sharks. "Don't you have your own garage to contaminate, Black?" Charles asks, stepping slightly between us. Subtle as a neon sign. "I do. Thanks for the reminder." Elio's eyes find mine again, and this time there's a challenge there. "See you around, Eva. Maybe somewhere with better coffee and less… territorial behavior." He saunters off like he owns the paddock, which, given his father's net worth, might be partially true. Charles rounds on me before Elio's even out of sight. "What did he want?" "To run his playboy routine on someone new, I assume. Does he think I haven't read the tabloids?" I turn back to my data, dismissing both the interruption and Charles's weird energy. "Black doesn't waste time on people who don't interest him." His jaw is doing that thing where he's grinding his teeth. It's simultaneously concerning and attractive, which sums up my entire problem. "Be careful around him." "Careful? The man's a walking red flag factory. I'm more likely to catch something from standing downwind of his cologne than fall for his act." Charles stares at me for a long moment, and there's something unreadable in his expression. "You really aren't interested in him." "Why would I be? I prefer my mistakes homegrown and emotionally unavailable, apparently." The words slip out before I can stop them, sharp and honest and entirely too revealing. His face does something complicated-part wince, part want, part wall-building in real-time. "Eva-" "Data for FP3?" I cut him off, pulling up fresh telemetry. "Or are we done with the protective teammate routine?" He hesitates, and for a second I think he might actually say something real. Something about us, about this thing we're doing. About why he cares who flirts with me when he's made it crystal clear I'm just a convenient outlet. "Focus on the setup. We need every tenth tomorrow." He walks away, leaving me with my laptop and the growing certainty that I'm playing a game where everyone knows the rules but me.