Chapter 4 You Haven't Changed

He was the same… only sharper, older, more… everything.

Tall. Olive skin. A jawline that looked like it had been carved by a Greek god with a perfectionist streak. His hair was a little longer now, falling neatly to the side in that effortless I-woke-up-handsome style. The black Bandini GP suit fit him like it had been stitched directly onto his body. The tiny name tag on his chest was almost invisible—because who needed an introduction when you were Rafael f*cking De Luca?

His eyes locked on mine. And yes, of course, he smiled.

That smile. The one that once convinced me to steal sandwiches from the cafeteria. The one that made me forgive him for being two hours late with nothing but a glance.

The one that, eight years later, was still lethal.

Damn it.

I slowly got to my feet. Hands stained with toner. Hair a mess. No makeup. Outfit straight out of “caffeine zombie who hasn’t showered.” And him? He looked like he’d just stepped out of a luxury watch ad.

He opened his mouth. And I knew, in that split second, if I didn’t take a deep breath and summon every ounce of self-control, I would do something wildly unprofessional. Like slap that expensive face.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was still low, calm, and entirely Rafael.

As if the last eight years had been nothing more than a cutscene. As if he hadn’t left me sitting alone in a park in a navy dress with a shattered heart. As if the very next day there hadn’t been photos of him sharing oysters with a Victoria’s Secret model in Paris.

With the caption: New chapter begins.

I stared at him.

One second.

Two.

Three.

A look I hoped was strong enough to crack open the earth if I had superpowers.

He stayed in the doorway, posture tall, confidence rolling off him like it was genetic. His arms were folded, a matte-black watch wrapped around a wrist that—fine, okay—was unfairly lethal.

And that smile? Still plastered across his face like an unconfessed sin.

I lifted one eyebrow, bent down to tug out the print job that had jammed, stacked the papers neatly on the desk without breaking eye contact.

“This is today’s rundown,” I said, flat and professional, sharp as freshly cut paper. “Uniform fitting at ten. Static photo shoot at eleven. Promo video session ‘Welcome to Bandini’ at noon, followed by the one-on-one interview in the media room. I’m handling that session.”

His gaze never left my face.

I gave him nothing back. No expression. No emotion. Just a blank look that, if it could speak, would have said: you should be ashamed standing here without combusting from guilt.

He still didn’t answer. I flicked a glance at the strand of hair falling onto his forehead, too long for paddock standards. Distracting. Too I’m-a-sex-symbol for a PR executive like me.

I tapped the folder toward his hair. “Cut that. Media likes a driver’s neck clean and sharp.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You care about my hair?”

“I care about camera framing,” I cut in. “You’re not a movie star. You’re commercial property now. You should look like an athlete, not the lead singer of some 2000s rock band.”

I didn’t wait for an answer. There was no room for nostalgia or silent-eye-contact games. I grabbed the folder, shifted the papers, and walked past him without giving space for a second hello.

My steps were steady. Controlled. As if my heart wasn’t pounding against my ribs like a drum solo.

And he stayed there. Silent. Like a statue of Mars that had just been hit in the face with reality by his ex-girlfriend, who now happened to be his PR boss.

“Don’t be late,” I said without turning fully.

Then I left. Just like that.

If he caught the faint smell of toner on my hands or the speck of printer dust on my black hoodie, so be it. At least I was standing on top of my scars.

While he… was standing under a spotlight I’d set up myself.

:::

The Bandini GP media room felt more like a high-end podcast studio than a racing office. Black matte walls. Spotlights aimed squarely at the two chairs set at a perfect angle to the camera. A low glass table in between with a single bottle of water on top.

I stood behind the interviewer’s chair, flipping through the rundown notes one last time. There was no room for mistakes. The video crew was ready. The cameraman gave me a thumbs-up.

“Ready?” I asked, without looking up.

“Always,” came his voice.

I closed my eyes for a moment. Centered myself. Took a breath. Then I sat down, opened the folder in my lap, and finally looked at him.

Rafael was already settled in the chair across from me. Relaxed, legs spread, one arm draped over the backrest like he was in his own living room. The freshly tailored Bandini race suit clung to him perfectly. His hair—still uncut—fell slightly onto his forehead, pulling off that calculated “I don’t care” look that he obviously cared a lot about.

And of course, there it was. That smile. Again.

“Recording,” the operator said. The red light on the camera blinked on.

I put on a neutral face. My voice even, practiced. “Today we’re joined by Bandini GP’s newest driver. Four-time world champion, motorsport icon, Rafael De Luca.”

He dipped his head slightly. “Glad to finally be here.”

It sounded sincere. Too sincere. Note to self: don’t believe it.

“First question,” I said. “Eight years ago, you debuted in F3. Now you’ve returned to a team that’s still growing. Why Bandini?”

His eyes locked on mine. Not the camera. Not the crew. Me. “Because they need someone who knows how to win. And I need a team that’s hungry.”

I held back the faintest smile. A textbook answer. But his stare? That wasn’t textbook. That was personal.

“You said they’re hungry,” I pressed, voice just a shade colder. “Are you sure you can feed that hunger? Or are you just here bringing reputation?”

There was a pause. Then his mouth curved. “I’ve always preferred to prove things with the car, not with words.”

The cameraman almost coughed to cover his reaction. I stayed steady. “Fine. Then after four titles, are you still hungry?”

“More than ever.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping half an octave. “Hunger doesn’t fade when you stop eating. Hunger fades when you stop dreaming.”

I flipped to the next page briskly. “Fans want to know. Who’s the first person you’ll call if you win with Bandini?”

He shrugged casually. “Haven’t decided yet.”

“Final question,” I said, keeping my tone professional. “If you could speak to your twenty-year-old self, what would you say?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened. “Never look back.”

I wrote it down, even though my hand trembled slightly. “Good,” I said shortly. “That’s a wrap.”

The operator signaled. The red light on the camera went dark.

The air shifted. Crew members started moving, but I stayed put. Closed the folder, straightened the papers. Rafael was still watching me.

“Very professional,” he said quietly.

I stood. “That’s my job.”

I grabbed the water bottle, tucked the folder under my arm, and walked past him.

He turned, following me with that too-casual gaze for someone who’d just been cornered on camera. “You haven’t changed, Vick.”

I only lifted a shoulder in reply and kept walking.