Chapter 2 Don't you dare { Eight Years Later }

Eight years later.

If you think divorced parents are messy, wait until you see divorced parents who get back together and fall in love again like horny teenagers in their fifties.

I stood at the top of the Alvarez family mansion’s spiral staircase—yes, a mansion, complete with a chandelier that looked like frozen slime dripping from Versailles—watching my mom giggle while feeding my dad chocolate-covered strawberries. In satin pajamas. In the living room. At nine in the morning.

I wasn’t exaggerating.

Strawberries. Satin. Morning. If there were a Nobel Prize for “fastest way to make your daughter want to go blind,” they’d win it.

“Oh my God,” I muttered, squeezing my travel mug of coffee. “I’d rather watch a car crash on repeat than see them… stare at each other like that.”

My mom looked up, her green eyes—thank God I didn’t inherit them—glittering like she’d just fallen in love for the first time.

“Sweetheart! You’re up. Want breakfast?”

“Breakfast? After sitting through the senior-citizen version of Gone with the Lust? No thanks.”

My dad chuckled. “You’re always dramatic, Kikky.”

I clomped down the stairs with a flat expression, clutching my phone that had been buzzing nonstop in my hoodie pocket. At least technology still made sense, unlike the middle-aged PDA meltdown I’d just witnessed.

When I reached the living room, I stood stiffly, a little too formal for someone wearing ripped NYU sweatpants and a faded t-shirt that read Don’t Talk To Me Unless You’re Coffee.

“They called again,” I complained, holding up my phone. “From the F1 racing team. European division. They said they’re still waiting for my answer about the PR executive position.”

My mom lit up like a kid learning Disneyland stays open past midnight. “The one in Monaco? Oh, that’s amazing! That’s such an elite job, isn’t it? Your father even worked with one of their sponsors back when he was—”

“—saving the company from bankruptcy,” I cut in. “Yeah, I know. I’ve heard that heroic saga a thousand times.”

My dad straightened in his chair. “It could be a huge career move. You just finished your master’s. Time to get back into the real world instead of hiding out in this mansion, binging Netflix and bathing in sarcasm.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m not hiding. I just rewatched the entire John Wick trilogy while eating gelato and blocking my ex on LinkedIn. That’s self-care, Dad.”

He sighed. Mom gave a tight smile, but her eyes narrowed at me with that blend of love and the classic when will you stop joking and start acting like an adult?

I turned toward the massive glass windows. The backyard stretched across one of Georgetown’s elite neighborhoods, where people were too rich to bother with parallel parking and too busy complaining that their private chefs had over-seasoned the salad.

I grew up here. At least until I was fourteen, before the divorce drama exploded and I bolted to Milan for the same reason teenagers run to punk rock: escape and identity.

Back then, my parents had just signed the divorce papers. I sat for the entrance exam at an international high school in Milan and passed—easily. I just wanted to be anywhere else.

And of course, fate thought it was hilarious to throw someone into my life there.

Rafael.

Oh, hell no. Don’t go there.

I took a long breath and downed the last sip of coffee. “Anyway, I told them I’d fly to London first for the final interview. But apparently their headquarters are now in Monaco, near the manufacturer’s base.”

“Which team?” my dad asked.

I shrugged. “They call themselves Bandini GP. Only two seasons in, but they’re already making waves. Supposedly the owner broke off from one of the big teams. I don’t exactly keep up with paddock gossip, so…”

My dad leaned forward, the easy smile gone, replaced with the serious face he usually wore in boardrooms when convincing investors, not when talking to his daughter.

“Vicky,” he said quietly. “You know I would never interfere with your career decisions—”

I raised one eyebrow. “That’s a lie, but go on.”

He ignored me like always. “—but a rookie team like Bandini GP… well, they’re unproven. It’s risky. Especially for someone in PR. You could end up drowning in internal scandals, unstable drivers, dramatic sponsors.”

I grabbed a leftover strawberry from their plate and bit into it hard. “Oh, so basically like managing your marriage back then?”

My mom gave a small snort but didn’t argue.

“I’m serious,” my dad said, brushing past my jab. “If you really want to step back into the industry, why not aim for Neon Apex instead? They’re one of the most established teams on the grid. Just last season they won nine out of twelve races. Their system is solid. Their driver, uh… what’s his name…”

“Rafael De Luca,” I said, too fast.

Too sharp.

And stupidly—too loud.

Dad nodded, oblivious to the way my heartbeat had just turned into a death circus.

“That’s the one. Four-time world champion. A genius kid. If you got into a team like that, you’d—”

“—die slowly from the inside? No thanks.”

Both of my parents stared at me. My mom even dropped her spoon on the table, the clink way too dramatic for something that small.

I smiled sweetly, like some orphan trying to fake gratitude. “What I mean is, who in their right mind would want to work under the insane pressure of a giant team? Sponsors, journalists, social media chaos, deranged fans writing fanfics about who’s sleeping with who. God, I just survived a master’s thesis, I’m not volunteering for a new tumor.”

Dad looked like he was about to argue, but I cut him off.

“Besides, Neon Apex is overcrowded. Too many big names. And I’m not exactly a fan of… testosterone-filled environments with egos stacked higher than their trophies.”

And yeah, also because one of those big names was the guy who once kissed me like I was the only girl in the world, then left me like I never existed.

The only thing worse than being dumped by Rafael De Luca was the fact that he actually made it.

The bastard became a legend. His face was on watch ads, billboards in Times Square, even on a cereal box in Italy—De Luca Choco-Flakes.

I wasn’t kidding. I’d seen it.

And now, my dad casually suggested I work under the same team as him? Share a building, a paddock, media events?

I’d rather eat Misty the Destroyer’s leftovers for a week—my cat—than play professional while he walked past me with that smug smile and said, “Hey, Vick.”

Hell. No.

“Bandini GP may not be huge yet, but at least they still have something to prove,” I said. “That’s where I can grow. Be part of the foundation. PR is about shaping an image. You can’t ‘shape’ something that’s already been cast in platinum and shrink-wrapped with an ego worth a private jet.”

Dad still looked skeptical. But I could tell he knew I’d already made up my mind. “In that case, you need to be ready for anything. Including chaos.”

I shrugged. “I live with you two acting like post-menopause teenagers. I think I can handle chaos.”

:::

Three days after ignoring my dad’s “wise” advice—which, honestly, always sounded more like CEO press releases than fatherly concern—I signed the contract with Bandini GP.

Their Washington branch was inside a glass tower that was way too spotless to feel like an actual workplace, and the HR office smelled like lemon-scented ambition.

One day later, I woke up with jet lag eyes and freezer-burned skin from the plane, standing in my new Monaco penthouse. Yeah. Monaco.

A city that was glamorous, cramped, and used way too often as a screensaver by suburban moms who only watched F1 because “all the drivers are hot.”

The penthouse was fine. Minimalist. Modern. One small balcony overlooking the bay, a massive window that made it easy to pretend I was starring in some indie film, the type where the heroine stands dramatically with her coffee in the morning.

Reality check: I was standing there in a mustard-stained t-shirt and one broken flip-flop. Glamorous.

But hey, at least there was no Rafael De Lu—

Don’t say his name.

:::

First day of work.

Technically, it was transition week. Every F1 team knew the end of the year was off-season hell: that limbo where everyone was still traumatized from the last season but forced to fake enthusiasm for the new one. New contracts, new sponsors, new FIA regulations, and of course… new drama.

I sat at my shiny new desk that looked more like something from a dentist’s office than a PR department. Laptop open, rows of media partnership contracts glowing on the screen. I was chewing on a slice of office cheesecake with the same level of enthusiasm as a plastic cactus.

Quiet.

Neat.

Stable.

Until my office door flew open. “Vicky! My God, you’re sitting here like nothing’s happening while the outside world is on fire.”

That was Yevena—senior PR, the one who was supposed to take me to lunch twenty minutes ago but apparently chose gossip over sandwiches.

She strutted in wearing a pencil skirt so tight it probably violated human rights, her blonde hair in a loose bun, her face split between lottery-winner joy and tragic heartbreak.

I raised an eyebrow. “If the world’s on fire, why are you still wearing twelve-centimeter heels?”

She ignored me, tossed a tablet onto my desk, then collapsed into the chair across from me, panting like she’d just sprinted down Mount Gossip.

“A driver just signed a contract,” she said dramatically, hand to her chest like she might faint. “For next season.”

I bit into the cheesecake again. “Okay?”

“Not some rookie. Not a TikTok driver. This is… a giant.”

I sighed, already bored of guessing. “Maxime Leroux?”

“Too old.”

“Dimitri Ishinova?”

“Retired.”

“Don’t tell me. Don’t you dare tell me…”

She leaned forward, whispering like the CIA had bugged the room. “Rafael. De. Lu. Ca.”

The cheesecake lodged in my throat. I coughed until my eyes watered, and I was ninety percent sure I’d die stupidly to the sound of that cursed name.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” I croaked.

Yevena shook her head, her eyes huge, positively glowing from delivering the biggest gossip bomb in Europe.

“He signed. Today. Management just got confirmation from his lawyers. And—God help us all—he’s coming to Monaco in two days for suit fittings and media day.”

I stared at her. Long. Sharp. “He’s our driver,” I whispered.

Yevena nodded, then suddenly narrowed her eyes. “Wait… you two know each other?”

I smiled flatly. “Yup.”

“Like, know-know?”

“Close enough to have seen him naked?”

Her jaw dropped. “Holy shit.”

I stood, snatched the tablet off my desk, and marched toward the office kitchen. “Vicky, where are you going?”

“Somewhere that can give me one of two things: either an extra shot of espresso or a hammer to smash a window.”

Two days.

Two days until I had to face the man who once kissed me like I was the only girl in the world—then left me without a word.

Welcome back to the circus.