Chapter 5 Damage Control Shift

Afternoons at Bandini GP usually smelled like coffee, the soft click of doors, and the rapid keyboard tapping from Yevena, who somehow typed like she was racing.

But today the soundscape was different. There was an extra soundtrack: the thud of WhatsApp notifications from the group “Media Handling – URGENT,” a printer huffing because it was overheating, and me growling as I scratched out another press release draft like someone who had just been left at the altar.

“I’m going to burn ESPN,” I muttered, holding a printout from the biggest sports site on the planet. “With this printer. Then I’ll scatter the ashes into the sea.”

Yevena emerged from the pantry with two cups of coffee and an expression that was suspiciously calm for a global emergency. She set a cup on my desk and sat down with her usual, unbothered poise.

“If you burn ESPN, we’ll have no news sources left. Not efficient,” she said, sipping coffee.

I pointed at the headline. “BREAKING: Rumor Claims Rafael De Luca Left Neon Apex Not Over the Engine. But Because of a Personal Scandal Involving the Team CEO’s Daughter.”

“This is not a rumor, Yevena. This is fanfic typeset in Times New Roman and printed a million times,” I said, sarcastic. “Do they think this is Drive to Survive season two or a Spanish telenovela?”

“At least they used a good photo of Rafael,” Yevena replied, opening her tablet and enlarging his portrait in the article. “Look at that jaw. It’s a weapon of mass destruction.”

I squinted. Damn it... she had a point. Even in phony news, Rafael looked like an expensive cologne ad: messy hair, that lazy, half-smoldering stare, a white shirt hanging open. If I didn’t know what his heart looked like, burned out like a spent tire in pit lane, I might have believed he was an angel, too.

“Where is Rafael?” I asked.

Yevena tapped the tablet a moment, then answered casually. “Driver’s lounge. Playing FIFA with Alex.”

“...FIFA,” I repeated, low. “So while his name is trending at number one because of a rumor that he slept with the former team CEO’s daughter, he’s... playing video games.”

“I think he just scored a hat-trick. Alex was swearing a minute ago,” she said.

I let out a long breath, then stood. “Fine. While he’s busy saving the virtual world, I’ll save the real one. We start with the press release. Neutral, firm. Don’t confirm, don’t deny. Focus on Bandini’s future.”

“And don’t forget the line about respecting privacy and not responding to speculative rumors,” Yevena added like she was reciting a charm.

I opened my laptop and typed fast. “Bandini does not comment on personal speculation circulating in the media. Our focus remains on the upcoming racing season, team integrity, and sustainable competitive performance.”

Standard. Cool. Tight.

“Get legal to sign off on the wording. And prepare a Q and A template for reporters who will follow up,” I said.

“I already drafted a version,” Yevena said, tossing the document over via email. “And Vick... don’t be too hard on yourself. This isn’t your fault.”

I stopped typing. My shoulders tightened. “This is my job,” I said. “If I can handle a PR crisis about horny drivers and the rival team boss’s kid, I can handle anything.”

Yevena stood and patted my shoulder. “And if not, we can always send Rafael out there to apologize in a wet T-shirt with puppy eyes.”

I laughed. Quiet. Bitter. But at least I laughed.

Then I looked out the window. Dusk was falling over Monaco. Down below, in the drivers’ lounge, Rafael was probably still laughing, either because he’d just scored a beautiful goal or because life always landed him on a cloud.

And .. I was the one standing between him and the world. Again.

But this time I had a headset, an ID badge, and authority. Rafael De Luca was not going to get away with it as easily as before.

:::

Cold truffle pasta in a lunchbox is not anyone’s dream when you live in Monaco.

But at the Bandini GP office, still lit at nine p.m., I was sipping the last of an espresso while staring at a spreadsheet like it was a heartbreaking poem.

One month until the preseason test in Sakhir. Teams were starting to panic. Ours included. The new car, codename Silva 9X, was still as temperamental as a Hollywood actor: overheated too fast, too twitchy through slow corners. The engineering crew rubbed their heads, the sponsors rubbed their budgets, and I rubbed my temples, trying to make the world believe everything was fine.

Welcome to PR life, baby.

I scanned Yevena’s latest email, then opened the folder with today’s fitting and photo shoot images. Rafael, leaning slightly forward with that cocky grin, looked like a man ready to sell anything except his conscience. Oh wait. He sold that eight years ago.

A sound at the glass door. Footsteps.

Racing shoes, not Alex’s because Alex always whistles when he walks in. The man who treated the PR office like his personal karaoke stage had arrived.

I did not turn around. Not until a low voice said,

“You still here?”

Of course.

Of course it was him.

Rafael De Luca. Star driver. Media chaos generator. And the man who disappeared eight years ago like a credit scene at the end of a movie, without explanation.

I speared a piece of pasta with a plastic fork with the elegance of a mafia widow. “You still here too.”

He did not answer right away. Just the scrape of a chair across from me, and then his aftershave filled the air: wood, leather, and sin.

“You working alone?” he asked, his voice too calm. Too calm.

“I’m accompanied by a thrilling spreadsheet and the latest PR scandal you left me,” I said.

He laughed low. Deep. Rough. God. “That article was exaggerated,” he said.

I looked at him. “Unfortunately, the world does not operate on your truth scale, De Luca. The world and our sponsors run on headlines.”

Rafael leaned back, one hand playing with a bottle of water on the desk. “So now you’re my PR?”

“I’m the team’s PR,” I corrected. “If the fact that the lead driver is my ex and his drama makes Kardashian-level noise... well, that’s my bonus hell.”

He tried to smile. “You’re always funny when you’re angry.”

“And you’re always an ass when you smile,” I replied, deadpan.

Silence settled for a beat. The lights of Monaco glittered through the glass. The black sea beyond looked calm, like it was laughing at all of us pretending to be in control.

“I just had a meeting with the head engineer,” he said. “They said I was ‘pushing the car too deep’ into turn four earlier.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Because you literally go too deep. Like… too deep into trouble.”

He laughed again. “Touché.”

I closed my laptop slowly. “You can start by not being a headline. I’ll handle the rest.”

Rafael looked at me for a long moment. “And if I want to be good news?”

“Start by getting a haircut and stop sleeping with anyone’s boss’s kid,” I said, standing, grabbing my lunch box, and walking to the trash.

“Noted,” he said casually. “But does dating the PR lead count as forbidden too?”

I stopped and turned. “You do not even have clearance to be on my birthday guest list.”

He only smiled. Again.

And even though I knew better, something in my chest pulsed. Not longing. Not pain.

Maybe just a warning. This man had once broken me with a single smile and a plane ticket.

And I was not going to let him do it again. Not here, not at the HQ where I held the control.