chapter 6 Aug 7, 2025 Post-Monaco breakdown, and I'm operating on autopilot. Pack the tools. Check the inventory. Re-check the inventory because I don't trust myself not to have missed something while mentally spiraling. Pretend my life isn't currently held together with expired superglue, repressed trauma, and a generous helping of poor decisions. The Apex Nova garage looks like organized chaos-cords everywhere, crates half-packed, mechanics moving with tired precision. Which, honestly, is a perfect metaphor for my entire existence right now. "You've been off all morning." I blink, and Adison is there, like she always is when the cracks start to show. She materializes with coffee in hand like some kind of caffeine fairy godmother, the steam curling around her in judgmental little spirals. "What happened at the party?" she asks, tone deceptively casual. "Because I saw you walk in looking like a goddess and walk out like someone lit your nerves on fire." I start to deflect, but she doesn't let me. Not today. "Eva, come on. Two promising drivers, who are literal rivals on and off the track, both acting like they're starring in a motorsport soap opera, and the common denominator is you." I take the coffee because my hands need something to do besides shake. "I don't want to talk about it…" "People are already whispering, Eva." Her voice drops to that serious register that means she's about to hit me with truth bombs I'm not equipped to handle. "If something happens, I can help. But only if you let me in." I'm formulating my standard deflection, something witty and emotionally evasive, when she goes for the jugular. "You know my secret. You know what it cost me when my family cut me off because of who I love. I lost my name, my inheritance, everything. But I rebuilt myself. And you never judged me for that." The words hang between us like a shared wound. I remember the night she told me, three months into our friendship, crying over her ex-girlfriend's photos while her father's lawyers sent another round of disownment papers. The Fisher fortune, tech money, old and cold, gone because she dared to love a person named Claire. "Adison-" "I know you're pretending to be someone you're not." She steps closer, and I can see my own reflection in her concerned eyes. "But with me? You don't have to." The walls I've built, Eva Farnese, the nobody mechanic with nobody parents and nobody problems, crack like cheap plaster. Before I can stop myself, I'm in her arms, clinging like she's the only solid thing in my tilting world. "Thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you…" "You're not alone." She squeezes tighter. "We'll talk more later, okay?" Later turns out to be the special kind of hell that only exists in private terminal airports-sterile, echoing spaces where the tension is hidden under branded espresso machines and complimentary neck pillows. Teams loiter in their designated zones, pretending we're all just colleagues in matching polos instead of highly-strung competitors silently calculating championship points with every glance. Apex Nova and Nexus Racing, sharing a charter flight like we're one big, dysfunctional Formula 1 family. All smiles and sponsor-approved friendliness, while everyone quietly plots how to shank the other team for a tenth of a second on the next circuit. Charles stands near the departure board, perfectly positioned like it's his own personal press wall. He holds court effortlessly, all charming anecdotes and relaxed posture. Nicholas and Parker are laughing at something he just said-loud, easy laughter that feels rehearsed. He looks calm, controlled, untouched by any possible scandal or regret. Like he didn't drag me out of a Monaco nightclub like some possessive lunatic before returning to his regularly scheduled act of pretending I'm background noise. I turn away before my face can betray me, before the crack in my composure becomes something visible. I stare at my phone like it contains the secrets of the universe, like I'm not actively ignoring twenty eight unread messages from my father. The notifications glare up at me-his name, over and over again. And even now, even after everything, that name still makes something cold twist in my stomach. I swipe the screen off and clench the device tighter than necessary, grounding myself with the pressure. If I focus on Charles, or Elio, or those messages, I'll drown. So instead I breathe. I lock my jaw. And I wait for the damn plane. "Gelato?" I spin around to find Elio Black holding two cups of actual Italian gelato. In an airport. Like a normal person just casually travels with frozen desserts. "I eat when I'm stressed," he explains, offering me one with a grin that should require a permit. "This is my grandma's solution to every problem since childhood." I take the cup because my brain short-circuits when confronted with unexpected sweetness, literally and figuratively. The first spoonful is pistachio heaven, and I actually moan a little. Sue me. "You've suddenly become very sweet," I say, suspicious but charmed despite myself. "Should I be worried?" "Please." He clutches his chest in mock horror. "My PR agents would have a heart attack. I'm supposed to be all mysterious, incredibly sexy and emotionally unavailable." "Well, two out of three isn't bad." The words slip out before I can stop them, and his delighted laugh makes something warm bloom in my chest. "Which two exactly?" He leans closer, eyes dancing with mischief. "Wouldn't you like to-" "Eva." Charles's voice cuts through our banter like a hot knife through gelato. "You're needed." I don't turn immediately, taking another deliberate spoonful of pistachio perfection. When I finally look at him, his gray eyes are arctic. "For what?" I ask, matching his temperature. "It's important." Charles said as a pure possessive caveman. Elio's smile never wavers, but I catch the competitive edge sharpening his features. "Of course. Work comes first." He pauses, eyes lingering on mine just a beat too long. "We'll continue this in Silverstone then?" It's a challenge disguised as a question, and we all know it. "Maybe," I say, which is 'yes' in Eva-speak, and Elio's grin widens. Charles's jaw does that thing where he's about to crack a filling. "Eva. Now." I follow him through the terminal, his stride eating up ground like he's racing to escape his own emotions. Two different races. Two different drivers. And me, without a map, heading straight for the wall.