Page 23

Stella

“I’m making you a dress and that’s that.”

I put my hands up, not about to argue with Calais’s offer to design a dress for me to wear to Zaid Yousef’s upcoming gala. It’s on top of the wedding gown she’s creating—one that I won’t be wearing if Thomas and I officially split up before then—but she seems more than happy to have the extra work.

We’ve been talking fashion and the woes of running our own businesses ever since Figgy dragged Thomas away. Calais strolled around the corner a moment later, then looped her arm through mine and escorted me to one of the many sitting rooms to chat with her and Geneva.

“We’re the leftover siblings,” she said, flipping her honey-brown hair over her shoulder. “The ones our father doesn’t give a single shit about because we’re not interested in hotels.”

For being only twenty-three, she has a shockingly level head on her shoulders. To be running her own fashion line at such a young age is admirable, and I see a little of myself in her. She’s the same age I was when Stella Margaux’s really took off, which serves to remind me how far I’ve come. One hundred stores opened, millions of macarons sold, and next week I’m set to start working on plans for our long-awaited London location.

I have to thank Thomas for that last one. Without him asking me to move here, I don’t think I would have thought much about branching into the European market, aside from our two stores in Paris. North America has kept me busy enough, but it’s time to dream bigger.

Speaking of the man, I catch sight of him striding past the wide archway of the sitting room. His jaw is tight and his hands are balled into fists at his sides; there’s a tension to him that I haven’t seen before.

Something’s wrong.

“Thomas?” I call out, hoping he’ll hear me and stop, but he doesn’t even slow. I flash an apologetic smile at Calais before pushing up from the settee. “Sorry, excuse me a second.”

Hustling into the hallway, I make it in time to see him disappear around the corner. He’s lucky I’m a champion at running in heels, because I catch up to him a few seconds later, grabbing his elbow to get him to stop.

His head whips around to me, furious until he sees who’s stopped him. When our eyes lock, the set to his jaw softens but the anxious crease between his brows remains.

“What’s going on?” I ask, keeping my hand on his arm. “Are you okay?”

“I’m—” He cuts off before he can say fine like I expect, lips pressing into a firm line as he considers what he wants to actually tell me. “I just…I got some news.”

I frown. “I’m guessing it wasn’t good news.”

The exhalation that leaves his lips is probably meant to be a laugh but it’s more of a pained grunt. “You could say that.”

I don’t want to push him to tell me what’s going on. He didn’t make me last night, and I want to return the favor now. But whatever Thomas sees on my face as he searches it must make him want to share.

“Dad announced the company’s going to Andrew when he retires next year.”

I won’t pretend I know much about their family dynamics, but based on what I’ve observed in the past twelve hours, this seems like an unexpected move. “I really thought it would be Edith,” I admit.

“Me too. And I guess I was either banking on it being her or my father staying on for a few more years.”

“Why?”

Thomas takes a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever he’s about to say. “Because with Andrew at the helm, A.P. Maxwell International will no longer be a sponsor of the McMorris Formula 1 Team.”

Again, I’m no expert, but just from a business standpoint, this doesn’t sound good. “I’m sure that’ll be a blow to the team.”

“Stella.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and dips his head so we’re eye to eye. There’s a plea in them for me to understand. “My place at McMorris hinges on that sponsorship money. Without it, there’s a chance I’m no longer on the team.”

I freeze. “Wait, what ?”

At my outburst, he holds me tighter. “Formula 1—honestly, racing in general—is all about money when it comes down to it. Teams want drivers who not only perform well but pull in as much revenue as possible. You have to be fucking spectacular to come into the sport without heavy financial backing, and it’s especially important if you want to stay there.”

“You have other sponsors, don’t you?” I press.

He nods. “I do. But none as big as my family. And with my behavior lately, if they jump ship, more are sure to do the same. That’s the biggest problem here—if they leave me too, then I definitely won’t have a seat.”

Shit. Thomas and I may still be in the process of learning about each other, but I know enough—have seen enough—to know he wants to stay in this sport. That he’s worthy of staying. To think he might lose his place at McMorris because his family will no longer back him is a massive blow, one that gut punches me when the magnitude of this announcement finally settles.

In the time it takes for me to think of something to say, Thomas is already letting go of me and dragging a hand through his hair, his motions agitated. “Our reserve driver somehow knew before me,” he says as he paces a few steps away, then turns and does it again. “I think he knew I wasn’t going to get my contract renewed because of this. It’s been in the works for a while and yet no one fucking told me .”

Anything I could have said dies in my throat. There’s nothing I can do to make this better and it kills me. He doesn’t deserve this—to have his dream snatched away because of a decision out of his control. Maybe he could talk to his brother and get him to change his mind. But unfortunately, I get the sense they don’t have that kind of relationship.

“I have one more season and then it’s over,” he goes on, so pained that I can feel it in my chest. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.”

“It doesn’t have to be the end,” I blurt. I take two quick steps forward to block his pacing, putting my hands on his chest. “Maybe you can convince Andrew to keep sponsoring the team. Or, hell, maybe you can convince them to keep you just based on your talent alone. Look at how much better you’re doing compared to Arlo.”

Another huff escapes him, but this one has a darkly sardonic edge to it. “I wish it were all that easy.”

I drop my hands when he shifts to move just out of reach. The rejection stings, but I push it down. This isn’t about me. I’ve already had my world rocked by the loss of the future I thought I would have. It’s Thomas’s turn to face that horrible reality now, and all I can do is stand by and be there if he decides he needs me.

“I’m going for a drive,” he mumbles, glancing in the direction of the front hall. “Need to clear my head.”

I nod. I’d need some time alone to process such massive news too—which is exactly why I locked myself away for two weeks and drank a ridiculous amount of wine.

But then he surprises me by asking, “Want to take a ride with me?”

I can’t resist the hand he holds out to me. So I don’t. I slide my palm into his and let him lead me out to the front of the house.

My heels sink into the gravel as we walk to his SUV. Even torn up, his manners are still impeccable; he opens my door, helps me put my seat belt on, and even makes sure the hem of my dress is safely tucked inside the vehicle before closing the door again. We don’t speak as he climbs in next to me and turns over the engine, letting it rumble for a few seconds before he shifts into drive and navigates us onto the narrow country road.

The quiet is heavy. It’s not my place to break it no matter how oppressive it feels or how tempted I am to pester him with questions. I don’t even care where he’s driving us.

For now, I keep my eyes locked on the sights out the window, on the trees and the farmland and softly rolling hills. It really is beautiful out here, so different from the endless concrete of the cities I’ve spent my life in. I imagine it would be peaceful to live here full-time. I’m almost tempted to pull up a real estate website and see what’s available around here. Would Thomas mind me being neighbors with his family even after our divorce?

I might ask if I didn’t want to be the first to break the silence, but my head snaps in his direction when music starts to softly play.

“If I throw up,” he says over the opening bars of Ed Sheeran’s debut album, “I’m blaming you.”

I fight a grin, a bubbling warmth flooding my chest. “Is this a bad time to tell you my pockets are full of Kerrygold?”

Thomas lets out a loud laugh that seems to surprise him, but it has his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Hey, you’re the one who made the mistake of telling me your deepest, darkest secret.”

“I hope I can trust you never to share that with anyone.”

“I think our wedding vows cover embarrassing stories, so you’re safe.”

The corners of his lips pull up a little more. When he reaches over to grab my hand, I let him take it, lacing our fingers and not thinking twice. It feels right. It’s the comfort we both need.

“I’m sorry.” He glances my way, eyes softer now, before returning his attention to the road. “I didn’t mean to unload on you. You didn’t sign up for that.”

“Again, pretty sure I did by agreeing to marry you,” I point out. “And while we’re married, I’ll be here to listen to all your rants.” I pause. “Mostly because I love being in people’s business. It’s my only flaw.”

He gives a soft chuckle this time and the sound has me desperate to hear more. There’s something about making him laugh, especially in a moment like this, that feels like it’s my purpose. We may have made a mess for ourselves, but maybe we stepped into each other’s lives at the exact right moment.

“My nosy wife.” It’s a fond—if not vaguely insulting—endearment, but it still makes my heart skip a little beat. “Anything in particular you want to know?”

I strain against my seat belt so he can see me better in his periphery. “Well, if you’re giving me carte blanche…” I wait until he nods before settling back and continuing. “You told me once that you and Andrew aren’t that close. Why is that?”

His fingers tighten for a second and I consider telling him, Never mind, you don’t have to answer . But when his grip relaxes, thumb brushing over mine, I keep quiet.

“I think I also told you how everything my brother did, I wanted to do it too,” he says after a few long seconds. “He was the first in our family to get into karting, the one who made me want to start. My father was thrilled to have both of his sons involved in motorsport, but Andrew wasn’t as welcoming of me getting into it. He wasn’t happy when Dad started focusing more on me.”

I may not have any siblings but I’ve heard horror stories of rivalries from others. With the way this tale is starting, I think I know where it’s headed. “You said he stopped racing to go to university instead. Was that the whole truth?”

Thomas’s parliament smile makes an appearance at my question. “Not completely,” he admits. “He stopped because our father decided to throw all his money and attention behind my career. I was only twelve at the time, but I guess he knew I had the potential to go far. Andrew, on the other hand, wasn’t performing as well. Dad gave Andrew an ultimatum: He could keep racing without our family’s support or go to university and have a guaranteed spot at the company after graduation. We all know what he chose.”

And now, if the conclusions I’m jumping to are correct, Andrew is getting his little brother back for stealing his dream.

“And your father’s fine with Andrew pulling the sponsorship?” I ask in near disbelief. “Seriously?”

Thomas blows out a breath. “I brought it upon myself with the Castellucci situation. If I hadn’t said those things…maybe this would be different. But I see where they’re coming from when they say they don’t want me representing the company.”

I watch the fight practically drain from his body. It’s like he’s just resigning himself to all of this, like he really thinks it’s over.

“No, fuck that,” I hear myself say before my brain can catch up. “We can’t let them use that as an excuse.”

“We?”

Of course that’s what he questions. “Yes, your highness, we . This is a group project now. We’re going to clear your name and make sure you keep that sponsorship.”

Thomas scoffs. “That’s a reach, Stella.”

It probably is, but I’m up for the challenge. “I already said I was going to get Reid to talk to you, but we’re going to get you straight to Lorenzo Castellucci. He’s our key to getting your reputation back on track.”

Thomas stays quiet, but it doesn’t matter. The wheels are turning so loudly in my head that it would drown him out anyway.

My gaze darts back out the window. A few minutes ago, I was loving the calm pace of life out here, but now I’m ready to be back in the thick of the city. Back to the chaos I thrive in.

“Can we go home?” I ask, turning back to him. “Do we have to stay out here any longer?”

The word home slips out accidentally. I meant go back to London , or somewhere other than that manor full of people conspiring against him—against us.

But Thomas doesn’t seem to mind the phrasing. He gives my hand one last squeeze, then lets go in favor of putting both of his back on the wheel. He’s hanging a U-turn a second later, gunning it back toward the house.

“How fast can you pack?” he asks.

“Ten minutes, tops.”

“Perfect.” The soft smile he shoots me has my heart lifting to dangerous heights. “Let’s go home, love.”