chapter 21 Aug 7, 2025 Wake up wrapped in Italian designer sheets and instant regret. Elio's arm across my waist like a Prada-scented shackle. His breathing stays steady against my shoulder blade, and I calculate extraction angles like I'm planning a pit stop strategy. My body's filing formal complaints about the enthusiastic end to my dry spell. Weeks of nothing after months of Charles's particular brand of compartmentalized passion, and apparently my muscles decided to stage a protest. The ache is specific, targeted, reminding me exactly how thoroughly I'd thrown myself into bad decision-making. The escape happens in stages-shift weight, pause, slide out, freeze when he stirs. By the time I'm free, I'm sweating like I've run qualifying laps. His bathroom is a marble monument to wealth I'll never understand, with all heated floors and rainfall showers. "You're leaving," Elio says when I emerge, looks like he's been awake and watching me hunt for my dress like it's a crime scene. "That's predictable and disappointing in equal measure." "Places to be, regrets to catalog," I mutter, finally spotting the traitor dress behind an armchair. He sits up, sheet sliding strategically low, looking like a Renaissance painting that learned how to smirk. "Eva, about last night… I think we need to acknowledge what's happening here." "What's happening is I'm trying to get dressed while you're making this weird." The zipper fights me, because of course it does. "Last night was fun. Five stars. Would recommend to a friend." "So can we call this real now?" The question lands between us like a grenade with the pin pulled. "Because it feels real to me. Has for weeks." I stop fighting the zipper to stare at him. "You've blackmailed me, remember? That's not a foundation for romance, it's a premise for a true crime podcast. Episode title: 'The Playboy, the Mechanic, and the Secret That Started It All.'" His face does something complicated-part guilt, part frustration, part something softer I don't want to name. "What about Charles? What happened between you two that makes you run from anything real?" "What about minding your own fucking business?" I jam my foot into a shoe with unnecessary force. "I'm a grown woman who makes catastrophically bad decisions. You're just the latest in a long line. Don't make it more than it is." "But it is more," he insists. Elio's now out of bed, approaching me with that intent look that probably works on women who haven't been emotionally destroyed by racing drivers before. "You feel it too. I know you do ." "What I feel is hungover on feelings and desperate for coffee." I finally win the zipper war. "We continue as agreed. You keep your mouth shut about who I really am, and I keep playing your devoted girlfriend in public. Nothing changes. " His nod carries the weight of unspoken arguments, but I'm already at the door, fleeing like the building's personally offended me. After slipping out of Elio's suite, I make it back to my room without being seen. It feels surreal, like the night never happened, except my body aches in ways that say otherwise. By the time I'm dressed, casual, clean, and pretending to be composed, I'm already late to meet Adison. I grab my bag, swipe my pass, and head out. Adison's already staked out a corner table at some random restaurant she probably picked on instinct, halfway through her coffee and looking like she's ready to either hug me or stage an intervention. "You look like you've been hit by a very specific type of truck," she observes. "The kind with Italian plates and questionable intentions." "Slept with Elio." I slide into the booth with the grace of someone whose thighs are remembering last night's enthusiasm. "Possibly broke some laws of physics." Coffee goes airborne in a spectacular display. I pass napkins while she coughs through her shock. "Plot twist I didn't see coming. How did that happen? Performance review?" "Five stars, no notes. Man's got skills that should be studied by science." I ordered the most substantial salad on the menu because apparently sexual athletics require nutritional recovery. "But here's the thing, and brace yourself because it's a doozy, he's been blackmailing me." Adison sets down her coffee with the careful precision of someone processing world-altering information. "I'm sorry, but my ears must be malfunctioning. Did you just say blackmailing?" "British Grand Prix. He overheard me and Papa talking in Italian. Family stuff, you know? Connected all the dots, figured out Eva Farnese is actually Daniella De Marco, and decided that information was worth a fake relationship." The words tumble out like confession at a particularly judgmental church. "Threatened to expose me unless I played his perfect girlfriend. Image rehabilitation for F1's favorite fuckboy, complete with staged photos and public appearances." Adison's face journeys through every possible emotion. Shock, rage, protective fury, disbelief cycling back to shock. "He's been blackmailing you? This whole time? And you just… what? Decided this was normal? Not worth mentioning during our multiple conversations about your dating life?" "I was handling it," I insist, though even I can hear how weak that sounds. "It was supposed to be simple. Fake dating, clear his media image, save my identity. Everybody wins." "By fucking him? That's your handling strategy? Because from where I'm sitting, that looks less like handling and more like combusting." She steals my water, drinks it like it personally offended her. "Walk me through the mental gymnastics that led to last night." "Papa essentially called me a career destroyer at the wine event. " My salad arrives, judgment in leafy form. "I was upset, Elio was there with his stupid comforting arms and his stupid understanding face, and my stupid body made stupid decisions. Then he asked if we could be real." "After the sex? Like his dick performance somehow negated the criminal foundation of your relationship?" "The male brain is genuinely fascinating in its ability to compartmentalize," I agree, attacking innocent lettuce with unnecessary violence. "Told him to kick rocks. Professionally. With more swearing." My phone buzzes. Charles's name on the screen triggers instant fight-or-flight response, heavy on the flight. Charles: When you are back in your room, we need to talk. "Fuck." I show her the text, watch her expression shift to concern. "This can't be good." "What's he want? Confess undying love? Reveal he knows everything about your fake relationship and real identity?" She grabs my hands across the table. "You need an extraction plan." "I need a time machine and better decision-making skills," I correct, but squeeze back. "If I text 'pineapple,' come running with a fake emergency." "Why pineapple?" "Because nothing about my life makes sense anymore. Why should the code word?" Charles wanting to talk ranks somewhere between root canals and tax audits on the enjoyment scale. Our last hotel room confrontation ended with me naked against a mirror and him walking away. This time I'm keeping all my clothes firmly attached to my body. Deep breath. Time to face whatever fresh hell he's prepared. At least this time I'm wearing underwear. That counts as progress in my current disaster of a life.