chapter 25 Aug 7, 2025 The next morning, the conference room reeks of leather and litigation, that specific cocktail of expensive furniture and crushed dreams. I'm signing my life away in triplicate while Apex Nova's legal sharks circle, teeth gleaming with professional indifference. "Initial here, sign here, and here." The head lawyer-Pemberton? Paddington? Penis?-slides another forest worth of paper across the table. "This acknowledges your understanding of the confidentiality obligations that survive your… departure." Departure. Like I'm catching a flight instead of being excommunicated from my entire existence. "Any breach of these terms will result in immediate legal action," he continues, managing to sound bored while threatening to ruin what's left of my life. "The financial penalties alone would be substantial." Papa's lawyer, a woman who probably bills more per hour than I've made per month, pats my hand like I'm a toddler who scraped her knee. "We understand the terms. My client has no intention of breaching any agreements." My client. I've been reduced to a legal pronoun. Peak achievement. "Furthermore," Penis, definitely Penis, continues, "any technical information, setup data, or strategic insights gained during your employment remain property of Apex Nova. This includes but is not limited to-" "I get it," I interrupt, because if I hear one more subsection I'll sign my name in blood just to escape. "Everything I learned belongs to you. My brain is basically on lease. Can we speed this up?" The lawyers exchange looks that suggest humor isn't billable. Another forty minutes of signing away my soul, and finally I'm released back into the wild. Last night, I stared at the notification of Elio's message for hours, unsure if I could handle one more complicated man with nice hair and strong opinions. But in the end, I replied. So now, after legal purgatory, I find him exactly where he said he'd be-waiting at the hotel café, slouched in a corner booth like exhaustion is the latest fashion trend. Stress has carved new lines around his eyes, making him look older, less like the playboy who got me into this mess. "You look like shit," I observe, sliding in across from him. "Charming as always." He's nursing an espresso that's probably cold, judging by the film on top. "The media's been… aggressive." "Welcome to my world." I flag down a waiter because if we're doing this, I need caffeine armor. "I need you to lie." His eyebrows achieve a new altitude. "More than usual?" "Tell the press you didn't know. Say dating your boss's daughter is taboo, that you were deceived too, that you're shocked and appalled and whatever other thesaurus words sell betrayal." The coffee arrives, bitter as my future. "Make me the villain. You're already halfway there with the blackmail thing." Elio stares at me for so long I wonder if he's buffering. "I'll do it. But despite everything, the blackmail, the lies, the absolute disaster we've created… What we had meant something to me." His voice goes soft in that dangerous way that makes me remember the night in his hotel room. "Fake or not, you mattered. Still matters." "Elio." "I know. I know what I did, how we started. But somewhere between that first flight and last night, things changed." He reaches across the table, stops just short of my hand. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. For all of it." The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight. I want to hate him, need to hate him, but instead I just feel tired. "Yeah, well. Apologies don't fix reputations, but sure-let's pretend they're worth more than the burnt espresso downstairs." He almost smiles. "There's the Eva I know." "Daniella," I correct. "Eva's dead. You're attending her funeral." By the time I leave the café, the name feels heavier on my shoulders than the lawyer's folder in my bag. The Apex Nova hospitality area feels like walking into my own wake. Mechanics mill around, some offering awkward half-waves, others studying their shoes like they contain the meaning of life. The energy screams 'uncomfortable work goodbye party minus the party.' Adison attacks me with a hug that threatens my ribs. "You brilliant, stupid, complicated disaster of a woman," she whispers fiercely. "Don't you dare let them make you forget how fucking good you are at this job." "Kind of hard to remember when I'm banned from the building," I manage, but I'm holding her just as tight. She pulls back, mascara slightly smudged. "Eva, Daniella, Princess Consuela Bananahammock-I don't care what your name is. You're the best damn mechanic this team had." "Had . Past tense. Love that for me." Other colleagues approach in waves-some offering genuine regret, others clearly here for the gossip. Even the mechanics who cold-shouldered me after the Elio news express something like sympathy. "Shit situation," one mutters, which might be the most eloquent summary yet. "You did good work, though. Real good." From him, it's practically a sonnet. Parker Warren watches from his office doorway like a disappointed father at a recital. When the crowd thins, he approaches with a small package that looks suspiciously like feelings wrapped in brown paper. "Your personal tools," he says quietly, voice carrying none of the professional ice from this morning. "You earned these through your work, not your name." I opened it right there because apparently I'm a masochist. Inside, my precision instruments gleamed like old friends-the torque wrench I used for Charles's perfect setups, the calipers that measured our championship dreams. Each tool was a reminder of the respect I'd actually earned before truth napalmed everything. "Parker, I-" "Don't. Just… take them. Remember that for a while there, you belonged here because you deserved to." He turns away before I can see if that's actual emotion on his face. "Good luck, Daniella ." My real name from his mouth hits like a verdict. I'm almost to the exit, almost free, when Diana materializes like an emotional ambush. No camera, just Charles's eyes in a softer face. "I'm sorry," she says simply, then pulls me into a hug of sisterly concern. "For what it's worth, I know you really cared about him. About the team. About all of it." The lump in my throat has annexed my voice box. I manage a nod that probably looks like a seizure. "He's an idiot," she continues against my shoulder. "Always has been about emotions. But he loved you. Loves you. Present tense, despite everything." I pull away because crying in the paddock is reserved for championship wins, not career deaths. Diana squeezes my hands once more, then lets me go. The walk away from Apex Nova stretches like a funeral march. Behind me, life continues-the familiar symphony of Formula 1 that no longer includes me. The sport moves on, indifferent to personal apocalypses, caring only about lap times and points. Each step takes me further from the identity I bled for. Eva Farnese, rising star mechanic, is officially dead. What's left is Daniella De Marco, unemployed scandal, carrying her career in a box of precision tools. The parking lot stretches ahead, vast and full of cars I'll never work on again. Somewhere, there's probably a lesson about hubris and honesty and the price of wanting to be someone else. But right now? Right now I'm just a woman with excellent tools and nowhere to use them, walking away from the only world that ever felt like home. Identity: officially deceased. Time of death: Tuesday afternoon. Cause: Terminal honesty.