chapter 28 Aug 7, 2025 "I have to go. Team flight." Charles is already moving, already leaving, always leaving. "Take care of yourself, Daniella." My real name from his lips still hits wrong. I watch him walk away, this complicated disaster of a man who'll defend me to others but can't forgive me himself. Security checkpoint looms ahead like the gates of emotional hell, and Charles is almost through when my mouth decides to commit career suicide. Again. "Charles!" He freezes mid-step. Doesn't turn. Just stops, shoulders doing that thing where they telegraph 'I'm considering running but my PR training won't let me.' The security line parts around him like he's Moses with a racing license. When he finally turns, his face is a masterclass in emotional constipation. Gray eyes fortified with walls that make Berlin look like a picket fence. This isn't Budapest Charles. This is Post-Betrayal Charles, now with 50% more trust issues. "I need you to know something," I blurt, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter got lost with my fake identity. "I'll be at every race for the rest of the season. Not in the garage, obviously, since I'm persona non grata. But in the stands. Wearing terrible tourist merch. Cheering for you." His eyebrow twitches. Progress. "Only you," I continue, momentum building like a runaway train. "Because regardless of the spectacular shitshow I've created, I believe in your talent. I believe in you." Deep breath. Time for the kill shot. "And I love you, Charles." The words tumble out like they've been held hostage for thirteen months. "I've loved you through storage rooms and secrets and my own catastrophic stupidity. That was never a lie." The confession hangs between us like a live grenade. Airport sounds fade-announcements, crying babies, aggressive wheeled luggage-all muted by the weight of words I can't take back. His face does things. Micro-expressions cycling faster than DRS activation. Surprise (fair). Pain (expected). Something that might be longing if I squint and engage in wishful thinking (probably gas). The internal battle plays out in real-time across his features. I can see words forming, dying, reforming. Charles Weinberg, man of approximately seventeen emotions, all of them complicated. Finally: "See you." Two words. Delivered with the emotional range of a GPS announcement. Could mean 'see you at races where I'll profess my undying love.' Could mean 'see you in hell, lying witch.' Could mean absolutely fucking nothing. He turns and walks through security like he didn't just leave me standing here with my heart in my hands and my dignity in the departure lounge. No backward glance. No clarification. Just gone. I collapse on the nearest bench because my legs have filed for divorce from my body. Everything hurts in that specific way that means you've just been emotionally sparta-kicked by someone wearing Prada. "See you." I replay it seventeen times. Different inflections. Different meanings. Still nothing. "That was either very brave or very stupid." I don't jump, but it's close. Elio materializes beside me like an expensive ghost with excellent timing. "Possibly both," I admit, scooting over as he sits without invitation. "You stalking me now? Bit rich considering our history." "I knew you'd be here." He looks uncharacteristically subdued, like someone turned his charisma down to energy-saving mode. "You wouldn't leave without trying to fix things with him. It's very… you." We sit in surprisingly comfortable silence. Around us, the airport continues its organized chaos-people rushing toward futures that don't involve identity crises or blackmail relationships. "You broke my heart, you know." His voice is quiet, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest tight. "Which is hilarious, considering I engineered this whole thing. But somewhere between the threats and the public appearances, I forgot it was fake." "Elio-" "For the first time in my life, I understood what all those terrible songs are about." His laugh is self-deprecating, honest. "The notorious playboy, finally brought down by the one woman who was never really mine. There's probably a lesson there about karma." I turn to study him properly. Gone is the calculated charm, the performance. This is just Elio, looking remarkably human in his designer vulnerability. "I'm sorry," I offer, meaning it. "You deserved better than being collateral damage in my identity crisis." "Don't apologize." He shakes his head, rueful smile playing at his lips. "You gave me something I'd never had-the experience of actually caring about someone beyond their measurements and media appeal. And you needed someone who wasn't afraid to be seen with you in daylight. We both got something from our mutual destruction." "I'll be cheering for Charles," I admit, because honesty seems to be today's theme. "At every race. Like a particularly devoted stalker." His smile turns competitive, real Elio peeking through. "I know. And I'll do everything in my power to beat him on track. Make you question your loyalties. That's how this works-we fight for what we want." "Even if what I want doesn't want me back?" "Especially then." He stands, straightening his jacket with practiced ease. "Those are the best fights." Before I can respond, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. It's soft, final, nothing like the possessive displays of our fake relationship. "Take care of yourself, Daniella De Marco." My real name sounds like a goodbye. "You're stronger than you know. Terrible at honesty, but strong." He walks away with the confidence of someone who knows his worth, even with a broken heart. I watch him go, this beautiful disaster who blackmailed me into growth. The irony isn't lost on me. Elio, who started as the villain in my story, gave me something Charles never could-the experience of being wanted publicly, claimed in daylight, even if the foundation was rotten. I sit there, processing the last hour. Told Charles I love him. Got a "see you" that could mean anything. Had closure with my blackmailer that felt healthier than most of my actual relationships. The airport announcements continue their multilingual assault. Flights to places where nobody knows about false identities or storage room encounters or the specific pain of loving someone who speaks in emotional riddles. But I'm not going anywhere. Because in two weeks, I'll be in Belgium. In terrible tourist gear. Cheering for a man who might never forgive me but who I'll love anyway. The poetry of it is exhausting. Standing up requires negotiation with my body, but eventually I manage. Time to go back to Papa's hotel, to my life in limbo, to preparing for a future of loving someone from the stands instead of the garage. "See you," I mutter to the universe, testing how it feels. Still means nothing. Still means everything. Typical Charles. Even his rejections require interpretation.