chapter 23 Aug 7, 2025 The rented Mercedes purrs through Budapest like a well-fed cat, and for once I'm not calculating brake balance or tire degradation. Charles drives with one hand, the other claiming mine like it's the most natural thing in the world. No hesitation, no checking for cameras. Just fingers intertwining while the city blurs past in streaks of light and possibility. "This is nice," I say, immediately cringing at my groundbreaking observational skills. "The not hiding part, I mean." "I know, I know, a revolutionary concept. Two people, in public, not pretending they don't know each other." His thumb traces circles on my palm, and my heart does stupid gymnastics. "Only took me more than one year to figure it out." We wind through districts I can't pronounce, past buildings older than most countries, until Charles pulls up at a restaurant that looks like someone's grandmother's kitchen got lost and decided to charge for goulash. "No Michelin stars, no sponsor obligations, no photographers," he announces, killing the engine. "Just extremely questionable decor and reportedly excellent food." Inside, it's exactly as promised-tablecloths that assault the retinas, carved wooden everything, and not a single person who gives a shit about Formula 1. We're seated by a woman who pinches Charles's cheek and unleashes a stream of Hungarian while gesturing at his body with grandmotherly concern. "Translation?" I ask once we're alone with menus that might as well be encrypted. "No fucking clue, but based on the cheek-pinching and body scanning, I'm guessing either I'm too skinny or she's planning to fatten me up for winter." He squints at the incomprehensible options. "Think she'd be offended if we just pointed at pictures and prayed?" We end up with goulash that could resurrect the dead and wine that tastes like liquidized Budapest sunsets. Charles leans back slightly, his fingers working methodically at a torn piece of bread. "I didn't grow up with legacy money or connections. Just grit. My dad worked doubles at the plant to pay for my first kart. Every win felt like survival." "That's a lot to carry," I say quietly, spoon pausing mid-air. He nods, eyes distant. "People always assumed I'd burn out or fall short. Never expected me to make it. So I pushed harder. Trained harder. Failed quietly and got back up louder." I watch him, something in my chest tightening. "Took me years to admit I want more than just trophies," he says finally. "Like this. A dinner where I'm not performing. Where I'm just… a guy." His gaze settles on mine, steady and unguarded. "With someone who sees through the bravado. And doesn't let me hide behind it." I want to tell him everything. About Lorenzo being my actual father, about the fake name, about how I've been lying since day one. Instead, I share carefully edited stories about Italian summers, switching names and locations like I'm witness protection adjacent. "My grandmother made pasta from scratch every Sunday. Said store-bought was for tourists and failures." I smile at the memory, even as guilt gnaws at my edges. "I'd help, get flour everywhere, drive her crazy with questions." "Did you always want to be an engineer?" "Always wanted to understand how things work. Cars were just the natural progression from taking apart everything in the house." True, even if the house in question was a villa that cost more than most race teams. After dinner, we walk along the Danube because apparently we're in a romantic movie now. The Chain Bridge glows like a promise I'm not sure I can keep, and Budapest spreads out around us, indifferent to our drama. Charles stops at a quiet overlook, city lights reflected in water below. "Eva," he says, and my fake name sounds real in his mouth. "I need to tell you something." My heart stops. Restarts. Considers early retirement. But instead of words, after a long puppy-eyes searching for mine, he kisses me. Not the desperate garage grabs or storage room storms. This is soft, deliberate, a conversation in tongue and breath. His hands frame my face like I'm something precious instead of a walking deception. "I should have done this properly from the beginning," he murmurs against my lips, forehead resting on mine. "Should have taken you to dinner, held your hand in daylight, introduced you as mine to anyone who'd listen." "Charles…" "I know. I know I'm late, know you're with Elio now. But I had to say it. Had to kiss you once like you deserve instead of like a secret." The irony could choke me. He's finally offering everything while I'm drowning in lies deeper than ever. "Gelato," I blurt, because emotional deflection is my Olympic sport. "Budapest must have gelato." He laughs, soft and surprised. "Of course that's your response to my heartfelt confession." We find a stand that shouldn't be open but is, run by a man who clearly doesn't believe in regular hours or limited flavors. Charles turns into a five-year-old, demanding tastes of everything. "How can you not have a favorite?" I watch him deliberate between amaretto and stracciatella like it's a qualifying strategy. "You've had gelato before." "Not with you," he said when finally settled on pistachio. My chest goes tight because that's Elio's flavor. Elio's move, and suddenly everything's tangled again. We claim a bench with prime river views, passing the cup between us while Charles paints futures in the air. "After Abu Dhabi, we could go somewhere. Anywhere. No teams, no schedules." "That sounds…" Perfect. Impossible. Like everything I want wrapped in everything I can't have. "That sounds nice." "Nice? I pour my heart out and you give me 'nice'?" But he's smiling, real and unguarded. "Your communication skills need work, Farnese." The fake name hits like cold water. I'm about to respond when our phones erupt simultaneously-chiming, buzzing, vibrating with the urgency of something no one's ready for. I glance at Charles, his brow furrowed, already reaching for his. Mine lights up too. Too many alerts at once. That's never good. That's always news. My gut twists as I unlock the screen, already bracing for whatever storm just hit. "SCANDAL ROCKS F1: Apex Nova's Mechanic Eva Farnese Unmasked as Daniella De Marco-Daughter of Rival Team's Owner Lorenzo De Marco " The headline alone would be enough, but there's a photo. That damn wine tasting here, Papa and me mid-conversation, faces turned just enough for the camera to capture every matching feature I've spent months concealing. The article's thorough-false identity and Apex Nova position. Speculation about corporate espionage that makes me sound like a bargain bin Bond villain. Charles reads the same page Nicholas shared a link to in the group chat and I feel the exact moment he understands. His body goes rigid, hand pulling away like I'm radioactive. "Daniella De Marco…" He says my real name like it's a foreign language. "Lorenzo's daughter." "Charles, I can explain." "You're his daughter." Each word comes out carefully measured, like he's calculating their weight. "This whole time… you've been lying about who you are." "I had reasons." "Reasons?" He's on his feet now, gelato forgotten, the perfect evening shattered like carbon fiber on impact. "You've been working for your father's rival team under a false name. You've been- We've been-" He stops, runs hands through his hair. "I'm still me ," I try, but it sounds pathetic even to my ears. "The name doesn't change-" "Everything. It changes everything ." He looks at me like I'm a stranger. Which I guess I am. "I just spent dinner telling you about trust, about wanting something real, while you sat there knowing you've been lying since day one." The worst part? He's not yelling. Charles Weinberg in a rage I could handle. This quiet devastation is infinitely worse. Finally got the romantic evening I wanted, complete with hand-holding and future plans. Just in time for my past to detonate like a perfectly timed bomb. My fake life just got very, very real. And Charles? Charles just became another casualty of my spectacular self-destruction.