Chapter 9 The Circle We Run In

I was supposed to be sprawled on my couch tonight with a mud mask and a glass of rosé.

But no. My black evening gown was too tight, my heels too high, and that gold-embossed invitation far too heavy to ignore.

“Your parents send their apologies,” the family secretary had said in a voicemail. “Your father’s in Dubai, your mother’s still home. So… it’s you, dear.”

Of course. The eldest Alvarez. PR professional by day, backup heiress by night.

I took a deep breath as the doors of Hôtel du Mirage swung open, revealing a ballroom packed with half-bald men in satin ties and women in couture laughing in operatic tones.

This world wasn’t mine. But it was far too familiar to reject.

“Miss Alvarez,” a waiter greeted, guiding me toward the main hall. “Mr. Santillana is waiting for you at the front table.”

Of course he was. One of the few people here who actually knew me—not just my last name, but the childhood memories from the villa in Marbella. He’d been my father’s partner once. Now he owned more shares and fewer original teeth.

“Vicky!” he exclaimed when I approached. “God, you look more like your mother every day. But sharp, like your father. Sit, sit.”

I gave him a thin smile and took my seat. “Hopefully not sharp enough to ruin investments.”

He laughed, pleased. The rest of the table was filled with men I only knew from documents—steel magnates, real-estate investors, and one former minister now moonlighting as an Instagram philanthropist.

The night moved on with wine, wagyu, and talk of mergers, taxes, and how to attract Middle Eastern investors “without having to grovel.” I replied with a professional smile and velvet-wrapped sarcasm.

Still, between one sip and the next, my thoughts kept drifting. My father. There was always a reason he skipped these events. Too busy, he said. But I knew better. He hated showing weakness—and nothing was weaker, in his eyes, than sending his daughter to represent him.

I once heard him tell my mother, Let Vicky live freely. This world isn’t for girls. Today? This world isn’t for anyone except the girls who can survive in fifteen-centimeter heels without losing their dignity while fielding questions about portfolios.

My mind snapped back to the room when a man stood up across the hall. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair that looked… familiar. Oh, no.

Rafael De Luca Ricciardi.

Black tuxedo. White shirt. Bow tie undone. And an aura that screamed I don’t belong here, but I came to mess with your peace anyway.

My eyes narrowed. He turned. And damn it—yes, he saw me. His smile appeared, slow and dangerous.

And of course, he walked over. His steps were unhurried, lazy even—like a man who’d just dropped a million in stocks and didn’t care because he looked good doing it.

“Vick,” he greeted, voice deep, nearly a whisper.

“Don’t sit here,” I shot back immediately. “I’m trying to look sane.”

Naturally, he sat. Naturally, he grabbed my wine and drank it like we were on a date. People around us started to glance over. Matching faces. Remembering names. Connecting stories.

“I thought you hated events like this,” I said, taking a sip of water because my patience had officially run dry.

“I came because I was invited,” he said easily. “And because someone told me you’d be here. I was curious if the rumor about your black dress was true.”

I turned to him. “If that rumor involves me being ready to kick an annoying man into a fountain, then yes—it’s true.”

He laughed. Low. Deep. The kind that made a young mother at the next table drop her fork.

Rafael stood first, grabbed two empty plates from a passing waiter, and walked toward the buffet like this was a casual dinner at his mother’s house. I followed—because I’m a twenty-five-year-old adult woman perfectly capable of behaving normally around the ex who broke my heart and then became a global racing icon who’s way too handsome for anyone’s good.

He picked up two slices of truffle lasagna, handed one to me without looking. “You used to like this, right?” he asked quietly. Neutral. Almost gentle.

My hand froze. Lasagna. Truffle. Four layers of cheese. The dish I defended to death when he took me to that French restaurant whose menu read like a riddle. The same dish he mocked as being “too American for an Italian stomach.”

I stared at the lasagna like it was a ghost from another life. Then calmly pushed my plate away.

“I used to,” I said evenly. “Now I prefer quinoa salad and rational decisions.”

He turned to me. The smile didn’t vanish completely—but it shifted. Narrowed. As if he’d just read a plot twist he didn’t like. “You’ve changed.”

“Eight years is plenty of time for that.”

We walked back to the table, sitting like two diplomats forced into the same conference. Silent. Formal. But no one could ignore the tension humming between us—like static that refused to die even after the wires were cut.

“I know I’m not part of your life anymore, Vick,” he said finally, his voice low but clear. “But we’ll keep running in the same circles. I just hope we can… build something neutral.”

I snorted. “Friends?”

“If that’s possible.”

I stirred the water in my glass, then looked at him. “Okay. We can be friends. Colleagues. Two adults who can talk without holding grudges.” I leaned in a little, my smile small but sharp like a freshly honed kitchen knife. “But, De Luca, never, under any circumstances, mention anything about eight years ago. I buried all of that. Along with my favorite CD and the self-respect you destroyed.”

He raised an eyebrow. One second, two. Then he nodded slowly. “Noted.”

A waiter passed with dessert. I took a crème brûlée without saying anything. Rafael grabbed a panna cotta and ate it slowly, playing the laid-back part that would make fashion magazine photographers lose their minds if they caught it on camera.

“I’m just curious,” he said, still looking at his plate. “If it’s all buried… why did your voice shake when you said ‘eight years ago’?”

I turned on him. “That wasn’t a shake. That was breathing technique. Keeps me from throwing up.”

He laughed. Low. Deep. A laugh that felt more in the ribs than in the ears. God help me, I wanted not to like it.

But when he looked at me again, those dark brown eyes that hadn’t aged a day, I knew one thing:

I could pretend to be his friend. I could pretend the past meant nothing. But my body? My body remembered better than I remember my own Netflix password.

:::

The next morning, Bandini’s creative room had been turned into an impromptu studio that felt more reality-show set than elite racing team office.

Ring lights hung in every corner, cameras sat on motorized sliders, and the black-and-gold Bandini backdrop was set up like an Oscar wall. In the middle of it all, Yevena stood like a sleep-deprived Hollywood director, clipboard in one hand, espresso in the other.

“All right,” she clapped. “Today we’re shooting three pieces: Rapid Fire, Teammate Challenge, and a short teaser for our TikTok launch. Fast, punchy, visual, viral. Got it?”

Alex raised his hand like a kindergartener. “Can I skip the question about which one of us is sexiest?”

“If your answer is not Rafael, we lose a million followers,” I shot back from behind the camera, tablet in hand, headset hanging around my neck.

Alex laughed and leaned on Rafael, who sat cool on the black leather couch like he was waiting for a cologne shoot. Tight black tee, dark jeans, that thin smile that could melt Norwegian ice.

“He likes content that involves sitting and looking handsome,” I murmured to Yevena. “Too bad we can’t sell that on Amazon.”

“If we could,” Yevena said softly, “I’d be a billionaire.”

“Take one!” the cameraman called.

“Who spends the most time in the bathroom?” Yevena kicked off rapid fire.

“Alex,” Rafael answered instantly.

“Hey!” Alex protested. “I exfoliate!”

“With Taylor Swift on and a lavender diffuser?” I arched an eyebrow.

“That’s self-care, not an international crime,” Alex said, glaring at me.

They traded answers about who was more forgetful, who forgot their passport most often (Rafael), and who had more DMs from fans (Rafael again, with PR evidence).

Behind the camera I shifted, noting timestamps for clips we’d turn into story highlights later. My eyes met Rafael’s more than once. Always on purpose. Always for too long.

“Next, Teammate Challenge,” Yevena said. “Grab a mini whiteboard. You’ll write answers for each other. Who’s late to briefings the most?”

Two boards went up. On Rafael’s: “Rafael.” On mine: “Me.”

Alex gaped. “Seriously?”

Rafael shrugged. “I’m late in style. That’s different.”

I scribbled that down in my work notes. Not for a caption. For evidence, in case I ever needed an official reason to drop a phone on his face.

We shot through the morning. During a break, Rafael sat on the edge of the edit table, opened a bottle of water, and drank slowly. The heat had left his neck slightly damp.

“Remember when we filmed that stupid phone video at the karting track?” he asked suddenly.

I blinked. “You told me not to bring up eight years ago.”

He lifted a hand. “Okay. Seven years, eleven months.”

I watched the camera shooting Alex in slow motion as he threw a pillow at the lens. “Funny. I remember the video disappearing because someone accidentally dropped the phone in the station restroom.”

“That wasn’t my fault. You—”

I held up a finger. “One more word and I throw this tripod at you.”

He laughed. Again.

And as always, that smile split the room like a soft bullet through my defenses.

Damn it.

I’m PR. I’m professional. I’m Bandini’s first line and last wall of defense. But this man? He’s walking, breathing viral content. And me? I’m just the woman with a headset and a very long list of reasons I should not be staring at him like this.

But I kept staring. I kept remembering.