chapter 22 Aug 7, 2025 The text back to Charles takes me five attempts because apparently my fingers have developed performance anxiety. Me: I'm here. Simple. Direct. No indication that I'm internally combusting. His response arrives instantly. Charles: Be there in an hour. The knock on my door forty-two minutes later because Charles Weinberg has never met a timeline he couldn't beat. Overachiever even in emotional confrontations. This time I'm dressed like a functional human. No towel disasters, no vulnerability served on a terry cloth platter. My brain still conjures unhelpful scenarios of him backing me against various surfaces, but at least this time I'm wearing actual clothes as armor. Charles enters with the kind of calm that makes me suspicious. No storm clouds, no barely contained fury. He settles at the small table like we're about to discuss tire strategies instead of whatever emotional crime scene he's here to create. "Diana talked to me," he says without preamble, and those three words rearrange my entire understanding of the universe. "She pointed out, with surgical precision, every way I've been failing the team. Failing you ." My brain short-circuits. Charles Weinberg experiencing shame? Diana deserves a Nobel Prize. Maybe two. "She made me realize I've been treating you like you're simultaneously the most important and least important person in my life," he continues. His voice carries a weight I've never heard before. "Pulling you close when it suited me, pushing you away when it didn't… Acting like you belonged to me in private while pretending you didn't exist in public." The words land like perfectly executed pit stops-efficient, necessary and changing everything. I want to speak but my throat's closed for business. "I'm sorry, Eva. For all of it. The mixed signals, the storage room ambushes, the jealousy I had no right to feel." He meets my eyes properly for the first time in weeks. "If you genuinely like Elio, if he makes you happy… I'll handle it. With grace. With understanding. Without making your life harder than I already have." "Charles…" I manage, but he's not done. "I'm going to prove myself on track. Show everyone, show you , that I deserve to be here. Because Formula 1 is all I have left now that I've systematically destroyed my chances with the one person who actually mattered." His hands clench on the table, the only sign that this calm costs him. "I lost you through my own cowardice, and I have to live with that. But I can still be the best at what I do. That has to be enough." Diana could negotiate world peace with these skills. My chest feels too tight, like my emotions are staging a coup against my ribcage. All I can whisper is, "I appreciate that. Thank you." But inside? Inside I'm screaming. I want to launch across this table and shake him until actual feelings fall out. Want to kiss him until he understands that Elio is blackmail dressed in Armani, not a choice made freely. Want Charles to want me back the way I've wanted him for a lot of catastrophic months. He stands, and I think that's it, conversation over, back to professional distance. But then: "I have a request." "What is it?" My voice sounds steadier than my pulse. "Will you spend an evening with me before the Hungarian Grand Prix? I want to rent a car, drive around the city. No speed, no pressure, no expectations." He rushes to add, "If you say no, that's completely fine, I understand-" "Of course," I interrupt, because watching Charles stumble over words is beautiful and terrible in equal measure. "Let's go for that drive." The smile that breaks across his face could power the entire grid. It's genuine joy, unfiltered and devastating. "See you at work, Eva." And then he's gone, leaving me alone with my complete emotional collapse. The tears arrive before the door fully closes. Hot, confused, exhausted tears that can't decide if they're relief or grief or hope or all three. I cry for the apology I never thought I'd get, for the invitation that feels too late, for the man who finally learned to use his words after I've tangled myself up with someone else. I cry because Charles Weinberg just offered me everything I wanted, delivered with mature accountability and genuine remorse. And I'm contractually obligated to date his rival. The irony tastes like salt and regret. But there's no time to wallow, not in this world. Not when the next race looms and the paddock waits for no one. Work becomes a different universe after that conversation. Charles stops treating me like I'm radioactive. We discuss setups and strategies like actual colleagues. He looks me in the eye without flinching, cracks jokes that make me laugh despite everything. The garage gossip dies down, replaced by cautious optimism about our championship chances. "Is it just me, or is Charles actually pleasant now?" Adison observes during a lunch break. "Like, human pleasant, not robot-pretending-to-have-emotions pleasant." "Diana happened," I explain, stealing her fries. "Apparently she delivered a come-to-Jesus talk that actually stuck." "Remind me to send her a fruit basket. Or a small country. Whatever says 'thanks for fixing your emotionally constipated brother.'" The joke lands wrong because nothing about this feels funny. My heart's doing advanced gymnastics, splitting itself between what is and what could be. For the first time in months, I let myself feel hope-dangerous, stupid and beautiful hope-that Charles might finally see me as someone worth choosing in daylight. And this hope, gift-wrapped in emotional maturity, appears when I'm least able to accept it.