Page 31

Thomas

Lorenzo Castellucci is just a kid.

If someone had said that about me when I was twenty-one, I wouldn’t have taken it well. I was grown enough to have a Super License, a place in Formula 1, and more money than I knew what to do with. How could anyone consider me a child?

I understand it now, because I’m staring at someone who had the exact same privileges I did five years ago and had no idea what the universe could throw at him. He knows now, though. All too well.

The rehabilitation center is just barely on the Italian side of the border with Switzerland, tucked into the foothills in a quiet compound. I passed through at least three security checkpoints to get to Lorenzo’s room, and there’s a man dressed in black lingering outside the door, waiting to escort me back to the lobby when I’m done. There will be no wandering, not in a place where a private room costs nearly € 100,000 a month.

But considering Lorenzo is standing—yes, standing —in front of me, the care must be nothing short of miraculous.

His hands grip a walker, tight enough that his pale knuckles are nearly white. My shock is certainly written across my face, because the first thing he says is, “Don’t believe everything you hear about me.”

I won’t anymore, considering the last and latest reporting was that he was paralyzed from the waist down as a result of the crash. Maybe that was the prognosis for a time, until surgeons could carefully take pressure off his spinal cord and repair the surrounding damage. They must have succeeded at it if the sight in front of me is any indication.

I spent the sixteen-hour journey here wondering what version of Lorenzo I’d find, interspliced with gut-wrenching guilt for having to leave Stella the way I did. But I wouldn’t be in Italy if it hadn’t been for her machinations, combined with her literally pushing me out of bed to get here before Lorenzo changed his mind about wanting to see me.

“Come in.” Lorenzo nods toward the two high-backed chairs by the wide window, overlooking the snowy landscape. “Have a seat.”

I hesitate, waiting for him to turn and step in the direction of the sitting area first. His movements are slow and measured, supported by the walker, but he’s managing it fine. He’s walking on his own.

I want to ask if he’s in any pain or if he needs help, and yet my mouth stays closed, not daring to accidentally say the wrong thing. I try not to stare when I do finally sit and wait for him to do the same. The lump of bandages underneath his T-shirt hints at a recent surgery, and the wince I see cross his face tells me his recovery hasn’t been easy. This is a journey he’s not far into, even four months after the crash that landed him here.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I say once he’s settled into his seat.

Lorenzo leans back, relaxing into the cushions, and quietly assesses me. “Thanks for cutting your holiday short to come here.” Again, my surprise must show, because Lorenzo gives a weak snort. “You really think there aren’t photos of you and your wife out on the beach? Paparazzi don’t rest. You know this.”

I do. It explains the high security here, and that in turn explains why we’ve seen neither hide nor hair of Lorenzo in months. He’s stayed locked down to keep it that way. His circle must be small and loyal since nothing has leaked.

Somehow, I’m being let in.

“How is your wife, anyway?” Lorenzo asks, head cocking to the side. The motion makes him look even younger, dark curls sweeping across his forehead like a boy who refused to let his mother cut his hair. “Still strange that you even have one.”

His Italian accent and inherent charm make the insult almost sound like a compliment. “I know it was surprising to a lot of people,” I admit. “But she’s good. Things are…really good.”

Things might be better if we’d gotten a chance to speak before I had to jump on a plane. Her urging for me to go is why I didn’t waste any time, and I try not to read into it too much. Did she push because she wanted me away from her? Or did she push because she knew how much I wanted— needed —this sit-down to happen?

I don’t know. But I do know that the second I touch down in London, she and I are going to have a conversation about where our relationship is headed.

I thought one night together would be enough to break the tension. To make me want to back off from pursuing her. Extinguish the flame that’s been steadily burning in my chest.

But I’m slowly realizing that one night with Stella could never be enough. I was a fool to think it might be. And more of a fool to even suggest it.

Lorenzo stares me down for a moment longer, unreadable. “I know you didn’t come here for small talk,” he eventually says.

“No, I didn’t.” I take a breath. “I mostly wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“Oh, is that all?” he drawls, the insult clear this time.

“It’s the most important.” There’s no sense in being anything but up-front with him. “But I also wanted to ask a favor of you.”

He’s quiet, but he’s not waiting for me to go on. His gaze trails to the window, jaw working, probably debating if he’s made a mistake inviting me here.

“I already know what you want.” His eyes drag back over and there’s a resignation in their depths. An anger too, but I don’t get the impression it’s directed at me. “I’m sitting down for a major interview soon to clear the air. Make my amends—and do it publicly. People need to stop blaming you for something that was my fault.”

My brow dips, but he shakes his head, staving off my questions.

“You shouldn’t have said what you did,” he starts, “but I shouldn’t have given you a reason to say it.”

I blink and let the words settle in. It’s a huge admission—huge growth. Six months ago, he was laughing after he nearly killed me. Then he threw my apology for the leaked video rant back in my face, telling the media that if I was a better driver, I wouldn’t have found myself in the barriers at the first sign of a little racing.

To hear him take responsibility for this is unexpected but not unwelcome. I just hate that it’s the result of so much pain.

“I have to make up for what I did.” He pauses, wetting his lips, and for a moment he looks so young and lost that I want to put a hand on his shoulder. But then he lifts his chin and it’s gone; he’s back to being the haughty contender to the throne. “Don’t expect too much, though. Some people are going to hate you forever, even if I tell them not to.”

I blow out a breath and nod, accepting that. That’s a fact of life when you’re in the public eye. But it’s better when you don’t give everyone a valid reason for it.

“Your teammate really fucked you with that one,” Lorenzo finishes, shooting me a pitying look. “It didn’t have to be like this.”

I nearly nod again but freeze when the words register. “I’m sorry, what?”

The pity quickly shifts to confusion. “Did you not know?” He waits for me to shake my head before explaining, “Arlo Wood leaked the video.” He says it like this is common knowledge. “Filmed it too.”

“No, that’s not—” I cut short, letting out a nervous laugh. “That can’t be true.”

Not just that, but it doesn’t make sense . Why would Arlo jeopardize my career like that? We’ve been fine together as teammates for the past two years—not the best of friends and definitely still fierce competitors, but we’ve always worked well enough together. We’ve gotten along. So why would he not only do this to me but take the risk himself? What would he gain?

“Are you sure it wasn’t our reserve driver?” I suggest, because that’s someone with motive. “Finley Clarke?”

Lorenzo shakes his head. “It was Arlo.”

The room is spinning, shifting on its axis as I try to piece it all together. But no matter what I try to force into place, none of it fits.

“You really didn’t know,” Lorenzo murmurs. “I thought it would have gotten back to you by now.”

“Gotten back to me?” I repeat incredulously. “How did you even find out?”

His lips twist into a wry smile. “I may not love being the son of a world champion, but people tend to tell me more because of it. They think they’re impressing me, trying to be my friend. Arlo practically bragged about what he did.”

As much as I don’t want to believe that…I do. Arlo loves to show off, loves to impress anyone he can, especially anyone he views as more impressive than him. And with him and Lorenzo coming in from F2 so close together, maybe he thought there was some sort of camaraderie there, something that Lorenzo is telling me never existed.

But speaking of camaraderie, maybe Finley didn’t have his hand directly in this, but he could have had Arlo do this on his behalf. They were teammates before, after all, and with Finley desperate to get into F1, there’s a chance this was a joint effort to push me out. Still, the blame lies at Arlo’s feet.

Whatever it is, and whatever reason he had for doing this to me, the damage is done. If he did it to get me out of McMorris, he may still succeed, even with Lorenzo’s attempt to help.

“ Fuck ,” I exhale.

Lorenzo tosses me a vaguely sympathetic glance. “I’m sure next season is going to be interesting with you two.”

I scoff a laugh. That’s an understatement. I don’t know how I’m going to look Arlo in the eye after this, let alone resist the urge to throttle him when we’re back at the factory for preseason work.

“I’m almost disappointed I won’t get to witness it.”

The world stops spinning again at the reminder that there is no next season for Lorenzo. He may be up and able to walk, but that doesn’t mean he can jump back into a car like nothing happened. I don’t know enough about his injury or recovery to know if he even could race again. But that isn’t the question I want to ask.

“If you could,” I hedge, “would you want to race again?”

Lorenzo only takes a second to think. “No.”

“No? Really?”

“It’s a fucking cliché,” he says, “but it was never my dream. It was my father’s. He wanted me to carry on the legacy. He…expected it.”

Lorenzo’s behavior makes more sense now in a way I never thought it would. I can’t imagine the pressure of being expected to live up to a four-time world champion’s legacy, to bear the weight of the Castellucci name.

“I’m glad to have that off my shoulders,” Lorenzo finishes, and while I don’t doubt that in the slightest, the way he glances away makes me wonder if it’s the whole truth. “Anyway. Reid will let you know when the interview’s coming out.”

The dismissal is clear. I hesitate for only a beat before pushing myself out of the chair. Lorenzo stays seated, his walker between us, but his eyes follow me up.

“Thanks for meeting with me.” I consider offering a hand for him to shake but think better of it. We don’t have that kind of relationship, that kind of understanding, and I doubt we ever will. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. And I’m still sorry for what I said. You didn’t deserve that.”

His smile barely lifts the corners of his mouth. Not a show of amusement, but acceptance. “You weren’t wrong, though, were you?”

“Not about all of it,” I concede, meeting and holding his gaze. “But enough of it.”

There’s a waver of something in his expression, a returned hint of that childlike vulnerability. It’s crushing to see, and even after it’s wiped away, it twists my stomach into knots.

I can only hope that whatever comes next for him is better than what’s already come to pass.

Stella’s in the kitchen when I let myself into the house.

I have zero concept of time right now, but the hazy sun tells me it’s morning, and my phone says it’s just past eight a.m. on a Wednesday. With how jet-lagged I am, you’d never think I’d traveled before, let alone believe I flew across the world on a weekly basis.

It’s like I’m walking into a dream when I step into the kitchen. Stella is bent over in front of the oven, wearing the apron she got me for Christmas. When she straightens, there’s a muffin tray clutched in one of her mitted hands and a wide smile on her face. If someone had told me that coming home to my wife was going to be like this, I might have gotten accidentally married sooner.

“I hope you like blueberry muffins,” she says, which isn’t exactly the first line I’d want her to say if this was actually a dream, but I’ll take it. “Thought you might want something special for your homecoming.” She places the tray on the counter and pulls off the oven mitt, her engagement ring glimmering under the lights. “Sorry it’s not spotted dick, but I simply don’t have the moral constitution to make anything with a name that terrible.”

The laugh that leaves me feels as natural as breathing, all because it’s Stella who inspired it.

“You’re forgiven,” I tell her. “This is everything I could have wanted.”

The only thing I needed was her presence. To see her here is more than enough.

“How did it go?” she asks as she pops the steaming muffins out of the tin one by one. The question is casual enough, but I can sense how anxious she is to know.

I pull out a stool at the island and sit. “It went as well as it could. I got to apologize, and Lorenzo did the same. He’s doing an interview soon and said he’s going to make it clear that he doesn’t hold a grudge against me. Don’t know if it’s going to do much for my reputation, but I’m glad we got to sit down.”

Some of the worry in her expression seeps away. “That’s really good. And how’s he doing, recovery-wise?”

“Better than I expected. He was up and walking. Certainly won’t be driving an F1 car anytime soon, but it didn’t sound like he wanted to stage a comeback anyway. He’s done with racing.”

“Wow.” Stella wipes her hands across her apron before slowly untying it, like she’s trying to wrap her mind around that. “Big choice to make, injury or not.”

It is, and I spent plenty of time on the flight home contemplating my own desires to stay on the grid. Especially with the other bomb Lorenzo dropped.

“I learned something else interesting too,” I say, and Stella raises her eyebrows, curious. “It was Arlo who leaked the video of me.”

Her hands drop heavily to her sides, eyes wide. “Your teammate?”

“That’s the one.”

The apron is off and over her head. “That’s it, I’m gonna kill that smarmy little shit.”

Trying not to smile too widely, I hold up a hand to stop her as she marches around to my side of the island. “I appreciate your desire to defend my honor. But that’s not necessary.”

“Why? Do you have something planned for him? Have you already told the team?”

“No, and I’m not going to.” At the way she rears back, I explain. “He’ll get what’s coming to him eventually. And who knows, maybe Lorenzo will say something. Best thing I can do is keep my nose out of it.”

Stella doesn’t look pleased, but nods nonetheless. “I guess the last thing you need is your wife going off on him,” she grumbles.

A thrill goes through me at her mention of being my wife. The fact that she’s said it and has welcomed me home so warmly, even if she hasn’t tried to hug or kiss or touch me yet, means more than she knows. Maybe she wants me to be the one to initiate something, to see she’s not the only one who’s glad to be reunited.

I reach out and grab her by the waist, tugging her toward me until she’s standing between my knees. With me sitting and her barefoot, we’re exactly eye to eye, and I get to see every inch of the face that I’ve been desperate for the whole time we’ve been apart.

“I missed you,” I tell her.

Stella smirks and puts her hands on my chest, but there’s something distant in her eyes. “It was only three days.”

“Three days too many. I didn’t want to leave in the first place.”

I didn’t want to leave her in that bed, naked and satiated, looking like an absolute dream. I didn’t want to give up our one night together. But what got me out the door was the hope that we could pick it back up—that we could turn it into something that would last longer.

“That’s sweet,” she says, but she doesn’t return the sentiment. When she glances away for a brief moment, I’m hit with the feeling this isn’t about to go the way I wanted.

“Can we talk?” I ask quickly, before she tries to escape. “About us?”

She’s quiet as she holds my gaze, unblinking, a war happening behind her eyes that I can just barely see. And then she says, “I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.”

I don’t let her go, but my grip loosens. How can she say we don’t have anything to talk about when we have a million things we need to settle?

“Come on.” I scoff, trying to read her face for any sign that she’s messing with me. But I see nothing. “We can’t leave things like we did. We didn’t—” We didn’t get closure. We didn’t say where we’re going from here. We didn’t give ourselves a chance to explore all the things that should come next. “We didn’t even have a conversation.”

“We didn’t need to,” she says gently, but it feels more like she’s stomping me into the ground. “We’d already set the parameters of what was going to happen. Talking would have complicated things.”

And not talking will make it easy ? Can’t she see that doesn’t make any sense?

“We had our one night, Thomas.” The pat she gives my chest is meant to soothe. To show me there are no hard feelings. Instead, it’s like driving a chisel into the crack that’s formed in my heart, splitting it down the center. “Let’s leave it there.”

“Fine.” I don’t mean to say that. I don’t want to. I want to demand she hear me out. “I understand.”

I get a tight smile in reply, the distance in her eyes growing. She’s so far away that even when she leans in to kiss my cheek, I don’t feel it.

“I’ve got to get going,” she announces when she straightens. My hands fall away from her when she steps back and I wonder if that’s the last time I’ll touch her in private. “We’re closing on the new Stella Margaux’s location today. I can’t wait for this store to be open.”

She’s acting like everything is perfectly normal, as if she hasn’t stripped my world of the color and sound and light she’s brought into it. I want to be happy for her, to be the supportive partner she deserves, but I can’t bring myself to do more than stare and nod.

“See you later, yeah?” she says over her shoulder as she heads for the door.

She’s gone before I can answer. But truth be told, I don’t think she was ever here. The Stella I know isn’t the one I just spoke to. This one was unfamiliar—the stranger I woke up next to in Vegas months ago. This isn’t the woman who said she was mine.

And she’s made it clear she never will be.