Page 13

ABU DHABI

SIX MONTHS LATER

KLAUS

The banquet room is so long, it may as well be a battlefield. In a sense, it is. Metaphoric ruins are strewn across it between Natalia and me—wreckage and churned earth where we fought for connection this year and failed.

I can’t take my eyes off her tonight. She’s in a red dress that hugs her curves and flares out to dance around her thighs in taunting challenge like a matador’s cape.

The dress’s plunging neckline frames a gold necklace shaped like delicate tree branches studded with tiny red stones.

I can’t help wondering if it was a gift from someone—I’ve never seen it before.

The emerald heart pendant would have been lovely with her outfit, echoing the sweetheart curve of the bodice, but it was delivered back to me months ago by Phaedra, after the Austrian Grand Prix.

She and Talia had mended their fences, and Phaedra wasn’t shy about partially blaming me for their months-long rift.

I don’t want this back , I tried telling Phaedra. Please tell her to keep it.

She narrowed her flashing green eyes at me and lifted the little velvet box to drop it from a great height, making me scramble to catch it.

Yeah, I’m not playing some high school bullshit game with you two , she told me. You fucked up, and that’s your problem. Getting in the middle of this shit was what made Nat and me not talk for months. So suck it up and hand it back to her yourself if you want. I’m done.

I’ve ferried the cursed necklace on and off a dozen flights since then, both reluctant to go to Natalia and urge her to keep it—and pleading for her to forgive me for my stubbornness and cowardice that night in Montréal—and reluctant to let the matter die entirely by leaving the necklace at home.

I suppose I’ve continued to carry it like some talisman that might bring her back to me.

But tonight I see clearly that she’s moved on. One of her hands balances a plate of food, the other wields a fork. Her focus is all on her conversational partner, an F1 commentator near my age who seems to be putting every ounce of his Scots charm into their tête-à-tête.

The banquet celebrating the end of the nine-month racing season was already set: food and wine, music and décor sorted. But when Cosmin secured his first win in the final race, the bar was raised.

Constructors’ championship winners Allonby Racing sent over a case of 2008 Dom Pérignon, and second place Team Coraggio gifted us a case of Sassicaia.

To celebrate Cosmin’s win—which lifted Emerald F1 into third place, at last a force to be reckoned with on the grid—I called in pastry chefs to set up a table making fresh-to-order papanasi, a traditional Romanian dessert, to surprise Cosmin.

Crossing to a table bearing flutes of champagne—admittedly as an excuse to move closer to Natalia—I swap out my empty glass for a fresh one.

I study her while affecting “gracious host” observation of the party.

Hundreds of Emerald team members laugh and chat.

A few are merrily tipsy enough to dance near the band at one end of the room.

Phaedra sidles up to me and takes the slender flute from my hand, tipping back a sip.

“Really tearing it up tonight, eh, Klausy?” she teases.

“You never have a second glass.” She throws a look at Natalia and one corner of her mouth twitches with mirth.

“Ahh, I see. It’s a prop so you could get close enough to draw a bead on Nat. ”

Natalia’s laughter spills out and she touches the commentator’s arm. The fork drops off her plate, and he gallantly stoops to retrieve it.

“You don’t miss much,” I confess. My gaze flicks to Cosmin, and Phaedra’s attention follows mine, taking in the driver’s handsome form with all the acquisitive bliss of the newly in love. “You share Cosmin’s observant eye,” I tell her. “You’re well matched.”

Her shrug is aloof, but she hides a private smile behind a sip of champagne.

“You gonna talk with Nat,” she asks, “or let Shrek over there scoop her up?”

“There’s too much blood under the bridge with Talia.

” I manage a stiff smile. “Still, thank you for your concern.” Hunting for a change of subject, I scan the room, settling on Cosmin’s trophy on a table.

“I wish Edward could have seen this. It was his dream. A tragedy that he missed it by only months.”

Phaedra’s chin tightens with the emotion my words incite, and I feel like a brute for having mentioned her father to avoid talk of Natalia. Bringing him up hurts me too, though I can’t show it. I’ve felt adrift without my closest friend. It’s further sapped my enthusiasm for my job, to be honest.

Phaedra clears her throat. “Yeah, true. We’ll see how it goes with my nerdy introvert ass at the helm now.” She drains the champagne in three gulps and presses the empty flute to the center of my chest. “Thanks for the bubbly. I’m gonna find a corner to hide in.”

I place a hand over hers to take the glass. “I’ll see you at the morning meeting.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You bailing? It isn’t even midnight, Cinderella.”

I consciously avoid angling toward the sound of Natalia’s nearby laughter. “I’m quite tired. You have things well in hand.”

“Copy. But—just sayin’—if you don’t stake your claim on Nat, someone else is going to have her ‘well in hand.’”

I scoff, and she holds up a finger, continuing.

“Hear me out. I wasn’t nuts about the idea of you two dating at first, but it was mostly insecurity driving the bus on my feelings.

And for real, dude… you’re adults. You can work through it.

I mean, hey, Cos and I did!” she adds with a smile.

“I think you and Nat should give it another go.” Before I can protest, she winks and glides into the crowd.

Spoken with the untainted confidence of someone whose own relationship is, at least at the moment, cradled by untroubled waters.

With Phaedra’s assertion echoing in my mind, I flee the sound of Natalia’s nearby voice and make my way to the bandstand, then wait for the current song to conclude.

I chat with the leader and thank the musicians for the continued evening’s entertainment.

Along with handshakes all around, I slip each person a pair of thousand-dirham notes as a tip.

I take a step backward off the bandstand and jostle into someone behind me. Hands clutch me just above the elbows, and my half-formed apology dies as I turn. Natalia stands, bracing her forearms with both hands as if holding herself back.

“Good evening, Miss Evans,” I greet. “Did you have a request for the band? What’s your wish?”

“ Wish? Hmm, I’m supposed to ask for world peace,” she replies, sardonic. “But Auntie Min always says, ‘Wish for something possible, or prepare to be disappointed.’ Which is—y’know—accurate in this case. With you.”

Pretending not to register the barb, I hold an elbow out, inviting her to walk with me. She eyes it critically before draping a hand into the bend of my arm, her fingers not quite settling on the fabric of my jacket. I catch a wave of the warm amaretto scent of her hair, and my heart twists.

Peace between us has been challenging. We’ve barely spoken since June, aside from when required for business.

“Your tolerance for me is conspicuously slim,” I note lightly.

Her arm withdraws. “Are you surprised?” she snaps. “It is what it is.”

The bitterness in her tone spurs my own. “‘ It is what it is’? That’s tautology at its finest, Miss Evans.”

“Don’t be snide. I only came over to talk because I have a professional request: I’d like to do a deep-dive article on Cosmin.

I haven’t pitched it to Nefeli at ARJ yet—I figured since I’m here anyway, I’d feel you out first.” Apparently abashed at the phrasing she’s chosen, she blushes, scowling.

“Don’t be gross,” she adds, as if I’ve exploited the dual meaning.

I allow a mild, oblivious lift of my eyebrows. “I’m not sure what you mean. I said nothing.”

“But I’ll bet you thought it.”

In our periphery, the commentator to whom Natalia was speaking earlier asserts his presence, signaling to her and pointing at the door. She gifts him with a nod and smile, and a cloud of jealousy blooms in me like ink dropped in water.

“I’m unclear as to why you’d bring this question to me,” I tell her, my tone detached. “This is a matter for Emerald’s head of communications.” I take a step back and sketch out an inch-deep bow. “If you’ll excuse me. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your date. ”

Her eyes go wide for a moment, surely remembering our walk that night in Melbourne when she said the same words, nine months ago. “ Wow , nice little potshot,” she breathes with sarcasm. “I’m glad I came to my senses about you.”

Our eye contact is electric with challenge.

Natalia’s gaze skates away and focuses beside me.

A warm, bare arm interlocks with mine. Team Harrier’s Sage Sikora—the sole woman on the grid, a reserve driver who stood in for the last eight races of the year when their lead driver was out with an injury—peers up at me from her diminutive height, wearing a kittenish smirk and a fantastical dress.

The fabric is metallic silver, fashioned to look like medieval armor from the waist up, with a neon-pink tulle skirt erupting below.

“Ritzy bash, Franke,” she says in her lazy, US West Coast accent. “The music would put my granny to sleep, but the food and booze are better here than at Harrier’s shindig.”

“Pleased you chose to defect to our gathering.” I openly survey the aqua-haired spitfire on my arm, not above the vengeful pleasure of knowing Natalia is watching me do it. “Your outfit is unprecedented, as ever.”

Sage raises her liberally tattooed arms. “ All of me is unprecedented, babes.” A glance of acknowledgment to Natalia. “Natalie Everett, right? From Auto Racing ?”

“Evans. Natalia,” she corrects with a stiff smile.