chapter 24 Aug 7, 2025 The Mercedes might as well be a hearse for how silent this drive back is. Charles grips the wheel like he's strangling it, jaw doing that thing where I can count his teeth through skin. Budapest's streets compress around us and what felt like freedom an hour ago now feels like a coffin on wheels. "I wasn't spying," I tried for the seventh time, words tumbling out like scattered car parts. "Never shared secrets. Never used information. I just wanted to be good enough without my last name being a free pass." Silence. Dead fucking silence. The kind that makes you understand why they use it for torture. "Charles, please. Say something… Yell at me. Call me a lying bitch. Anything's better than this-" "Why?" His voice cracks like bad carbon fiber. "Why not just tell me, Eva? Or Daniella. Or whoever the fuck you are." "Because you wouldn't have looked at me the same. I'd have been Lorenzo's daughter playing mechanic, not someone who earned their spot." The truth tastes bitter as burnt rubber. "I wanted to be judged on my work, not my DNA." "Bullshit." He takes a turn too sharp, tires protesting. "You wanted to play games. Poor little rich girl slumming it with the working class." That stings more than it should. "That's not-" "Everything was a lie." He's looking at me like I personally murdered his family. "Every conversation. Every moment. Did you and daddy laugh about it? His daughter fucking with the rival team?" "Charles-" But he's already gone, door slam echoing through the parking space. I sit there like an idiot, tears doing their thing while my life falls apart in real-time. The leather seat was still warm from him, pistachio gelato probably melting somewhere on Budapest's streets. * * * The hotel lobby is TMZ's wet dream. Journalists swarm like antibiotics-resistant bacteria, shoving mics and phones at my face. "Miss De Marco! How long have you been spying?" "Did your father orchestrate this?" "Was Charles Weinberg part of the plan?" Security forms a human shield, but damage is done. Every accusation follows me into the elevator-spy, honey trap, corporate espionage wrapped in a push-up bra. My phone's having a seizure. Seventeen missed calls from Parker and one text that makes my stomach relocate. Parker: My office. 7 AM sharp. Can't even get properly drunk first. The universe's timing remains undefeated. Sleep? Hilarious concept. I spend the night watching my life explode on social media. Memes already circulating. My face photoshopped onto James Bond posters. "Fast and Fraudulent" trends worldwide. Peak internet creativity. Parker's office at 7 AM feels like execution at dawn. He doesn't even look angry, just disappointed, which is infinitely worse. Like when your dad finds your report card hidden behind the Xbox. "I trusted you." Simple words, precision targeted for maximum damage. "The team trusted you." "I never betrayed that trust," I try, but we both know trust is more than just keeping secrets. It's about truth, and I've been allergic to that since day one. "Effective immediately, you're suspended pending investigation." He slides papers across his desk like he's dealing cards at my funeral. "Legal will contact you about NDA implications. Security will escort you to clear your workspace." "Parker-" "We're done here." And we are. Eighteen months of blood, sweat, and transmission fluid, reduced to a cardboard box and a security escort. The walk of shame past my former colleagues is a silent verdict. Each step past my team feels like walking through the fallout of my own lie. My hotel room looks like a life poorly lived. I pack mechanically-clothes that smell like failure, for example, that green dress from my first fake date with Elio. Each item a reminder of the elaborate lie I've been living. My phone rings. Papa, of course. "Come to my suite, stellina." His voice sounds older, tired like he's aged years in hours. "We need to discuss damage control." Damage control. Like this is a PR hiccup instead of complete identity annihilation. The walk to his suite stretches forever before the door opens the second I knock. Lorenzo De Marco, usually immaculate, looks like someone put him through a blender set to 'emotional devastation.' "Daniella." My real name sounds foreign after years of Eva. "Come in." The suite smells like expensive disappointment and Italian coffee. I sink into a chair, feeling like exactly what I tried so hard not to be-daddy's little princess who couldn't hack it on her own. "The media response has been… aggressive," he begins, because stating the obvious is apparently genetic. "We need a statement. A strategy." "How about 'I fucked up spectacularly and will now disappear forever'? Short, sweet, accurate." "This isn't helpful." "Neither was living a double life, yet here we are." He pinches the bridge of his nose, his tell for 'my daughter is testing my patience.' "What were you thinking?" The million-euro question. What was I thinking? That I could be someone else? That talent mattered more than last names? That I could build something real on a foundation of lies? "I was thinking I wanted to matter." The words come out smaller than intended. "Wanted to be more than legendary racer Lorenzo De Marco's daughter playing with cars." "And instead?" "Instead I'm the scandal that'll define careers. Charles will never trust anyone again. Parker's reputation is damaged. The team thinks I'm a spy." I laugh, but it's all sharp edges. "Congratulations, Papa. I'm finally making headlines." He looks at me then, really looks, and I see my own pain reflected back. We're mirrors of spectacular failure-him for letting me live this lie, me for believing it could end any other way. "What do you want to do?" he asks finally. Want? I want time machines. Memory erasers. A universe where Charles's face didn't shatter when he learned my name. Where my career isn't roadkill on the circuit of public opinion. "I want to disappear," I admit. "Take my real name and fuck off somewhere they've never heard of Formula 1." "Running won't solve-" "Nothing solves this." I stand, suddenly exhausted beyond measure. "I played myself, Papa. Literally. And everyone else got caught in the explosion." The walk back to my room feels like crossing a desert. Tomorrow there'll be statements, lawyers, and official responses. Tonight I'm just Daniella De Marco, the woman who lost everything trying not to be herself. My phone buzzes with Elio's message. Elio: We need to talk. I don't respond. Just stare at the ceiling and wonder if it's possible to die from irony poisoning.