chapter 5 Aug 7, 2025 Three days post-nightclub meltdown, and the garage air is thick enough to choke on. Charles and I navigate each other like rival cars in a tight chicane-precise, tense, one misstep away from a collision. "We need to talk about that night." I corner him during the ten-minute window between sponsor obligations and simulator runs, because apparently I enjoy emotional masochism. He doesn't even look up from his setup sheets. "There's nothing to discuss. You can dance with whoever you want. It's none of my business." The words are delivered with the warmth of liquid nitrogen, but his jaw's doing that thing where he's one wrong comment away from cracking a molar. "Then why did you drag me away like I was your property?" That gets his attention. Gray eyes snap to mine, sharp as scalpels. "Because you were making a scene. Both of you were." He steps closer, voice dropping to that dangerous whisper that usually precedes either spectacular sex or spectacular disaster. "If you want to throw yourself at Black, do it when the cameras aren't rolling." The accusation hits like a slap, mostly because it's not entirely wrong. I had been using Elio as emotional warfare, and we both know it worked too well. "I wasn't throwing myself at anyone." Charles moves faster than his qualifying lap, suddenly I'm trapped between him and the workbench. My body, the absolute traitor, responds like it always does-pulse racing, skin heating, brain cells committing mass suicide. "No? Then what do you call that performance on the dance floor?" His breath ghosts across my face, and I hate how much I want to close the distance. "Maybe I was just having fun. Something you've made very clear we don't do." The words come out steadier than I feel, which is a minor miracle considering he's close enough that I can count his eyelashes. "Fun ." He practically spits the word, hand twitching toward my face before he catches himself. "Is that what you call it?" The moment stretches taut between us, many months of complicated history compressed into the six inches of charged air separating our bodies. I'm about to say something spectacularly stupid, probably involving my feelings for him or other catastrophic topics, when the garage door bangs open. Nicholas fucking Brooklyn struts in like he owns the place, which is rich considering he's been P11 or worse all season. His eyes ping-pong between us, taking in our compromising positions with the glee of someone who just found premium gossip. "Saw Elio Black out front," he says, as casual as discussing tire pressures. "Told me to say 'hi' to you, Eva." The temperature drops twenty degrees. Charles goes rigid beside me, every muscle coiled like he's about to launch into turn one at Monza. My stomach does this weird flip-flop thing that has nothing to do with the protein bar I choked down for breakfast. "Did he." Not a question. Charles's voice is cold as ice and Nicholas's smirk widens. The bastard knows exactly what grenade he just lobbed. "Yeah, seemed pretty interested in how you were doing. Should I tell him you're… busy ?" More crew members file in behind him, chattering about front wing angles, completely oblivious to the emotional nuclear reactor currently melting down in their workspace. But Nicholas sees everything-the way Charles's hands have balled into fists, how I'm still trapped against the workbench, the tension thick enough to spread on toast. "Thanks for the message," I manage, proud of how normal I sound. "I'll handle it." "I bet you will." Nicholas's tone suggests he knows exactly what kind of handling is happening here, and he's filing it away for future ammunition. Charles doesn't move until the garage fills with people, then steps back like I'm radioactive. The loss of his proximity feels like stepping out of a sauna into a freezer. "Weinberg, data review in five," someone calls out. He leaves without another word, but the look he throws over his shoulder promises this conversation isn't over. Which is hilarious, considering we never actually have conversations. Just heated exchanges that end with someone pressed against a wall when no one's around. Twenty minutes later, I'm summoned to Parker's office like a kid called to the principal. He looks tired, and I realize with a sinking feeling that he knows. Of course he knows. The paddock gossip mill makes high school look subtle. "Sit," he says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. "We need to discuss Monaco." "If this is about the setup changes-" "It's not about the setup changes." He leans back, studying me with the expression of someone who's seen too much drama in too many garages. "Eva, you're brilliant at what you do. Your work has been instrumental to our success this season." There's a 'but' coming. There's always a 'but.' "But personal complications can destroy careers faster than a blown engine." His voice is gentle, which somehow makes it worse. "I don't care what you do in your personal time, but when it starts affecting team dynamics, when other teams' drivers are showing up at our garage…" "Elio was just-" "I know what Elio Black wants." Parker's expression suggests he knows more than I'm comfortable with. "And I have a pretty good idea what's happening between you and Charles. I'm not blind, Eva." My face burns. So much for subtle. "The point is," he continues, "championships are won and lost on focus. Divided attention, emotional chaos, public drama… These things don't just affect you. They affect the entire team." "I understand." The words taste like ash. "Do you?" He leans forward, paternal concern creeping into his professional demeanor. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're juggling lit dynamite. Be careful who you let close, Eva. In this sport, emotions are luxuries we can't always afford." I leave his office feeling like I've been put through a compactor. My carefully constructed world, the fake name, the fake backstory, the professional distance, the secret hookups, suddenly feels like a house of cards in a hurricane. I head back to work, ignoring the feeling that I've just lit another fuse. Because Parker's right-emotions are luxuries in this sport. But maybe that's exactly why I can't seem to stop collecting them like self-destructive souvenirs.