chapter 3 Aug 7, 2025 Qualifying day in Monaco is like speed dating with death-fast, intense, and someone always ends up disappointed. I'm running on three espressos and pure spite, finalizing Charles's setup while pretending his existence doesn't make my pulse do stupid things. "Two clicks softer on the rear ARB," I tell the crew, not looking up from my data. "He's overcooking it into Sainte Devote." "Okay, wait- Pause," says Nina, our new PR hire with glossy hair and a tablet full of sponsor logos. She peers over my shoulder like I'm typing in runes. "Did you just say… clicks? Rear… what now? Are we adjusting a spaceship?" "Rear ARB-anti-roll bar," I sigh, not unkindly. "It helps with how the car handles in corners. Two clicks softer means loosening it a little so the back end doesn't slide out when Charles charges into Turn One like a medieval knight." "Got it." Nina blinks. "Vaguely." I offer her a quick smile. "Hang around long enough and you'll start speaking fluent racers too. It's contagious." Before she can respond, Charles materializes beside me like a well-dressed ghost. "I need more front end through the swimming pool section." Of course he does. "You need to trust the car." I make a minor adjustment, hyperaware of how he's standing exactly eighteen inches away. We've become experts at this-communicating everything and nothing at once, every word carrying more weight than it should. "I do trust the car." His voice drops half an octave, and I know he's not talking about the Apex Nova anymore. I finally meet his eyes, and for a split second, the mask slips. Heat flares between us, many months of complicated situationship compressed into a single look. Then Nicholas, Apex Nova second driver, walks by and Charles steps back like I'm radioactive. "I'll need those changes before Q2," he says loudly, professionally, like I'm just another replaceable part in his championship machine. Cool. Love being treated like a glorified tire pressure gauge in public when privately he whispers my name like it's the answer to every question he's afraid to ask. I grit my teeth and pretend the rising heat in my chest is just from the sun. Not humiliation or heartbreak. I'm contemplating the therapeutic benefits of hitting things with wrenches when I spot a familiar figure lurking by our hospitality unit. Because apparently, Elio Black has decided to make annoying me his new hobby. "Are you stalking me now?" I abandon my workstation, marching over to where he's leaning against the wall like a GQ photo shoot waiting to happen. His grin could power half of Monaco. "I prefer 'strategic positioning.' Much more professional sounding." "And what's your strategy exactly?" I cross my arms, giving him my best unimpressed face. It's the same one I use on Charles when he's being particularly emotionally constipated and irritating me. Something shifts in Elio's expression, the playboy mask cracking at the edges. "Honestly? To figure out why you're the first woman in years who doesn't seem impressed by… this." He gestures to himself with a self-awareness I wasn't expecting. "Maybe because I've seen your type before. All charm and headlines, but nothing substantial underneath." The words come out harsher than intended, but I'm not in the mood to coddle millionaire egos today. He actually looks thoughtful instead of offended. What is this, opposite day? "You're probably right. But maybe that's because no one's ever made me want to be more substantial." The sincerity in his voice hits like a surprise chicane. I scramble for my defensive walls. "That's a good line. Very convincing." Elio laughs, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?" "Why should I? You've probably had everything handed to you your whole life." "Not everything." His voice goes quiet, almost vulnerable. "Not the things that actually matter." I'm saved from responding by Adison's voice cutting through the moment. "Eva! Stop flirting with the rival and get your ass back here! Charles is having a meltdown about tire pressures." "I'm not flirting!" I shout back, ignoring Elio's amused expression. "And tell Weinberg if he doesn't trust my calculations, he can do them himself!" "Weinberg?" Elio's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Not Charles? Interesting." "It's called professionalism. Look it up." "Is that what you call it?" His tone suggests he sees right through my bullshit, which is alarming. The last thing I need is F1's most eligible bachelor developing actual observation skills. I retreat to the safety of my data, but I feel Elio's eyes on me as I go. It's different from Charles's gaze-less desperate heat, more curious intensity. Like I'm a particularly complex racing line he's trying to figure out. I bury myself in telemetry and race simulations, trying to shake off the static left behind by both men. But distraction doesn't last long-because soon, it's qualifying. * * * Qualifying is a masterclass in controlled chaos. Charles puts in a stunning lap, clinching pole with the kind of precision that makes my engineer heart sing and my stupid romantic heart ache. Through the garage cameras, I watch him climb from the car, pulling off his helmet to reveal that focused intensity that first made me weak in the knees. Our eyes meet across the garage chaos. For one unguarded second, his face breaks into a genuine smile-not for the cameras or the team, but for me. Then Parker appears with media obligations, and Charles reconstructs his walls in real-time. The smile morphs into his standard victory expression, and I'm relegated back to furniture status. Elio qualifies third, and I hate that I notice. Hate that I watch him onboard, admiring the fluid way he attacks the Monaco streets. His driving style is the opposite of Charles's calculated precision-all instinct and natural flow, like he's dancing with the car instead of commanding it. "He's good," Adison observes, appearing at my shoulder. "Different from Charles, but good." "Since when do you analyze Nexus drivers?" "Since they started analyzing you." She gives me a knowing look. "That wasn't a casual visit earlier." "It was nothing. He's probably working through his little black book alphabetically and got to 'E' for Eva." "Mhmm." Adison's tone suggests she's not buying it. "And Charles grinding his teeth during your entire conversation was also nothing?" "Charles doesn't get to have opinions about who I talk to." The words taste bitter because we both know that's not how it works. Not when he's inside me one minute and pretending I don't exist the next. I tell myself I don't care. I lie to myself with practiced ease, the way he lies with silence. By evening, I'm wrapped in a dress I barely chose and a mood I can't shake. That evening's celebration at Le Grill feels like slow torture. Charles sits directly across from me, close enough that I can smell him, far enough that we might as well be in different time zones. He laughs at Parker's stories, charms the sponsors, plays the perfect pole-sitter while I pick at my overpriced fish and pretend my chest doesn't ache. Nicholas, three drinks in and feeling chatty, starts hitting on our new marketing coordinator. Charles watches with thinly veiled disgust while I resist the urge to point out the hypocrisy. At least Nicholas has the balls to flirt publicly. "You okay?" Adison whispers, catching me staring at Charles for the fifth time in ten minutes. "Peachy. Living my best life. Thriving, actually." "Eva-" "Did you know Monaco has the highest density of millionaires per square meter?" I interrupt, desperate to change the subject. "We're literally surrounded by rich assholes. It's like an infestation." Adison follows my gaze to where Charles is now talking to a sponsor's daughter, all polite attention and careful distance. "Some infestations are harder to get rid of than others." Charles chooses that moment to glance my way, catching me looking at him. His expression darkens, jaw tightening in that familiar way. For someone who insists we're nothing, he does a spectacular boyfriend impression.