chapter 29 Aug 7, 2025 *A FEW MONTHS LATER* Dubai morning hits different when you're professionally unemployed and emotionally flatlined. The private beach stretches out with all golden sand and turquoise water pretending life doesn't suck. Two days before the race, and I'm maintaining my stalker schedule-arrive early, stay far from team hotels, perfect my Anonymous Fan cosplay. The solitude tastes like expensive meditation retreat mixed with existential crisis. "EVA FARNESE, YOU ABSOLUTE HERMIT!" I nearly achieve flight. Adison stands twenty feet away, hands on hips, looking like disapproval dressed in resort wear. Diana Weinberg flanks her, camera absent but judgment fully present. "How the fuck-" "Instagram detective work." Adison marches over like she's conducting an intervention. Which, knowing her, she probably is. "You posted a sunrise photo. Diana recognized the hotel architecture. We triangulated your sadness." "That's genuinely disturbing." "What's disturbing is you moping on beaches instead of facing reality." She starts spreading towels with military precision. "Though I'll admit, you've got excellent taste in melancholy locations." Diana settles beside us, sundress billowing in the breeze like a meditation on wealth. "Nicholas has become professionally radioactive." My interest perks against my will. "Oh?" "Complete pariah status. After Charles nearly rearranged his face, the team dynamics shifted entirely." Her smile suggests she's enjoying this immensely. "He's isolated, can't find his brake points, crashes in practice. Parker treats him like furniture. Aggressive, ugly furniture." "Karma's a beautiful bitch," Adison adds, applying sunscreen with violence. "He tried starting rumors about Charles having anger issues. Backfired spectacularly when the entire garage testified that Nicholas deserved worse." "How's…" I can't finish. Can't ask about Charles without sounding pathetic. "Miserable," Diana supplies anyway. "Throws himself into data analysis like it's a religion. Trains until his trainer begs for mercy. Pretends he's fine while looking like someone stole his favorite toy." "I'm not his toy." "No, you're his entire toy store, and he burned it down himself." The metaphor shouldn't make sense but does. Adison gestures at the water. "Go swim. You look like you need baptism by salt water." "I look fine." "You look like depression's LinkedIn photo. Swim." I roll my eyes, but I peel off my shoes anyway. Maybe she's right. Maybe I do need something elemental. The water welcomes me like an old friend who doesn't ask questions. Warm, salty, uncomplicated. I dive deep, pretending I can wash off months of exile, terrible disguises, and the specific ache of watching someone you love succeed without you. When I surface, Adison has vanished with the subtlety of a freight train. I wade back toward shore, where Diana stands waiting. Still. Quiet. Like she's been carved out of patience and sharp intuition. She looks at me with Weinberg eyes that see too much. "He misses you desperately." No preamble. Just emotional violence delivered beachside. "Charles pretends otherwise, but I know my brother's tells. He's functioning at 30% emotional capacity." "That's 25% higher than usual." "Eva." Her voice goes soft in that dangerous way. "Text him." "Absolutely not." "Just something simple. You promised to be at every race. Let him know you're keeping that promise." She's already grabbed my phone from my bag because boundaries are apparently optional. "Here. I'll help." "Diana, I can't-" "You can and you will." She shoves the phone at me with eldest sibling energy. "Type." My fingers hover over the keyboard like it might electrocute me. What do you say to someone whose last words were cryptic at best? Someone you love who might love you back but can't forgive you? Finally: I'll be there. Simple. Factual. Pathetic. "Send it." "Diana-" "SEND IT." I hit send like launching a missile. Immediately want to throw my phone into the Gulf. Diana catches my wrist before I can. "Now we wait." "I hate waiting." "You've been waiting for months. What's five more minutes?" The phone buzzes. My heart relocates to my throat. Charles: I know. "That's something," Diana says, but even she sounds uncertain. Then, another buzz: See you. Same two words from the airport. Still meaningless. Still everything. "Progress," Diana declares, but I'm already catastrophizing about seventeen different interpretations. * * * Race day in Dubai is like expensive punishment. The grandstand seats cost more than my dignity, but at least I can see turn 12 perfectly-the corner where races are won or lost. Charles starts P2, because of course he does. Elio on pole, because the universe has a sense of humor darker than my job prospects. On pole means starting first-top of the grid, clean air, every driver's dream. And, apparently, my recurring nightmare. The lights go out, and twenty cars launch into controlled chaos. He drives like poetry written in carbon fiber and determination. Every apex perfect, every overtake calculated but brave. By lap 15, he's stalking Elio like a predator with championship dreams. "Come on," I whisper, then remember I'm supposed to be Anonymous Fan #387. The Japanese family from Hungary is here too. We exchange nods of recognition. Repeat offenders in the grandstand of broken dreams. The battle between Charles and Elio transcends racing. It's personal wrapped in professional, every corner a statement. They trade positions through sectors that make my heart forget rhythm, using every millimeter of track like they're painting grudges in racing lines. Charles takes the lead into turn 12, late braking that would make physics cry. Elio counters immediately, but Charles has the line, the momentum, the sheer bloody-minded determination. "YES!" I'm on my feet with the crowd, screaming for a man who may or may not want me in his life. "FUCKING YES!" The final laps blur into anxiety soup. Elio pushes, Charles defends, and I age seventeen years watching them dance on the edge of disaster. When Charles crosses the line first, Elio 1.7 seconds behind, I'm crying before I process the emotion. Joy. Pride. Devastating loneliness. The cocktail of watching someone you love succeed while you're exiled to civilian status. The podium ceremony unfolds below like a fever dream. Charles on the top step, champagne sparkling around, smile bright but somehow… incomplete. I know that expression-the same one after our best garage sessions, when we'd nail the setup but couldn't celebrate properly because we were nothing in daylight. He's won, but something's missing from the victory. "That your boyfriend?" the Japanese kid asks, noticing my emotional breakdown. "No," I manage through tears. "Just someone I used to know." The anthem plays. Charles sprays champagne with mechanical joy. Elio catches my eye from the second step, raises his bottle in what might be acknowledgement or mockery. I stay until the crowds thin, until the podium's empty and the track goes quiet. Somewhere in the paddock, Charles is debriefing, analyzing data, pretending this victory feels complete. Somewhere, Elio's nursing second place and probably a broken heart. And me? I'm walking back to my exile hotel, carrying the weight of "see you" and the taste of tears mixed with Dubai dust. "See you," I whisper to the empty track. Still waiting for it to mean something more.