chapter 4 Aug 7, 2025 The thing about Monaco is that even when you lose, you win. The Monaco Grand Prix concludes with Charles finishing second and Elio third. It means champagne, expensive suits, and pretending I give a shit about celebrating when all I want is to crawl into bed and delete the last months from my hard drive. But no. Adison insists on dragging me out because "you can't let that German iceberg ruin your life, babe." So here I am, poured into a black dress that cost more than it covers, standing in Jimmy's like I belong among the yacht wives and Instagram models. "You look hot," Adison says, adjusting my neckline with the focus of a pit crew. "Charles is going to swallow his tongue." "Charles doesn't notice me unless I'm holding a wrench." Except that's not true, is it? He notices me plenty when we're alone. He notices me when I'm pressed against storage room walls or bent over his driver's room couch. He just doesn't notice me when it counts. Case in point: there he is across the club, looking like God's gift to motorsport in a Tom Ford suit, charming the pants off some blonde journalist who probably can't tell a front wing from a chicken wing. He's leaning in close, that little half-smile playing on his lips. His hand briefly touches her arm with the kind of casual intimacy he'd rather die than show me in public. Our eyes meet across the crowd. For a nanosecond, heat flares and muscle memory of all the times those gray eyes have looked at me like I'm the only thing keeping him sane. Then he looks away. Dismissive. Done. Like I'm just another face in the crowd. Cool. Love that for me. I down my champagne like it's water and flag the bartender for another. Then another. The bubbles mix with my anger into something dangerous and reckless. "That's quite a scowl." I don't need to turn to know who it is. That voice has been in my memory all week like silk sheets I shouldn't want to crawl between. Elio Black looks like sin personified in navy blue, his dark hair artfully tousled, hazel eyes knowing exactly what they're doing to my pulse rate. He hands me a fresh champagne flute before I can ask. "Let me guess-work stress?" His smile says he knows exactly what stress I'm watching. "Something like that." I take the drink because my hands need something to do besides form fists. "Shouldn't you be celebrating your podium? With one of the models already eyeing you from the VIP section, probably." He moves closer, voice dropping to that register that makes smart women do stupid things. "I was, until I saw something much more interesting." Usually, I'd shut this down faster than a blown engine. But Charles just laughed at something the Blonde Journalist said, his head thrown back, and something in me snaps. Many months of being his dirty secret, of watching him give everyone else what I'm not allowed to have in public. Fuck it. "Interesting?" I let my voice go honeyed, channeling every femme fatale I've ever seen on screen. "Do tell." Elio's eyes widened slightly, he wasn't expecting me to play along. But he recovers fast, that famous charm clicking into high gear. "You in that dress is a religious experience, Eva. Makes a man reconsider his priorities." "Your priorities seem pretty clear from the tabloids." But I'm smiling now, letting him see I'm not entirely immune. "Maybe I'm tired of tabloid priorities." His hand finds the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric. "Dance with me?" Across the room, Charles is still absorbed in his conversation. Good. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. "Why not?" I said with a smile. The dance floor is packed, bodies moving to bass that vibrates through my bones. Elio pulls me close, and I let him. More than just let him, I melt into it. Hands sliding up his chest, hips finding rhythm against his. "You're full of surprises tonight," he murmurs against my ear, hands tightening on my waist. "You have no idea." I glance over his shoulder, find Charles watching us with laser focus. The blonde journalist might as well not exist anymore. Gotcha. I slide my arms around Elio's neck, press closer until there's no space between us. He's solid and warm and smells like danger. His hands span my waist, thumbs brushing the curve of my ribs, and for a moment I forget this is about Charles. Forget everything except the heat building between us. "Eva." Elio's voice is rough now, playful facade cracking. His hands flex against me like he's fighting for control. I look up at him through my lashes, lips parted, leaning up like I might kiss him. Our mouths are inches apart, sharing breath, and his eyes go dark with want that has nothing to do with jealousy games or revenge. That's when a hand clamps around my wrist. Hard enough to bruise and possessive enough to brand. "We're leaving." Charles's voice could freeze hell over. I turn to find him vibrating with barely controlled fury, gray eyes burning with emotions he has no right to feel. Not when he spent the night pretending I don't exist. Not when he told me we're nothing. "I don't think that's your decision," Elio says, stepping protectively closer. The testosterone levels spike to DEFCON 1-a full-blown they might throw punches any second situation. Charles's grip tightens. "She's drunk." "I'm totally fine," I snap, but the champagne bubbles choose that moment to make me sway slightly. Traitors. "She said she's fine," Elio counters, squaring up like they're about to throw down in the middle of Monaco's most exclusive nightclub. Which, knowing these two, isn't entirely off the table. The crowd's starting to notice. Phones appear like mushrooms after rain. The last thing any of us needs is "F1 DRIVERS BRAWL OVER MYSTERY WOMAN" trending by morning. "Charles." I put my free hand on his chest, feeling his heart hammering under the expensive suit. "Let go." Something flickers in his eyes-hurt, maybe, or betrayal. Rich, considering he's been treating me like furniture all night. But his fingers loosen just enough for me to choose. And God help me, I choose him. I always choose him. "I should go," I tell Elio, hating the disappointment that flashes across his face. "Thank you for the dance." Elio holds my gaze for a long moment, and I see it all there-desire, frustration, determination. "This isn't over," he says quietly, a promise and a warning wrapped in four words. Charles practically drags me through the crowd, his hand moving from my wrist to the small of my back, burning through fabric like a brand. The night air hits cold against my flushed skin as we burst onto the street. Silence pressing between us harder than any words could. And as we stand there, just the two of us in the Monaco moonlight, I realize I've just escalated our dangerous game to a whole new level.