20 England

20

ENGLAND

PHAEDRA

By the end of the race, the #RIPCosmin hashtag has slacked off, owing to the video Reece posted. But a particularly nasty group of sexist dickwads—the type who bitch on social media about how “annoying” it is to hear a woman’s voice in the broadcasted race comms—have begun promoting exactly the type of hashtag I feared:

#CryingEngineersBeLike

Followed by—yep, I guessed it!—jokes about my period, or that I’m out of chocolate, or I just watched Titanic , or broke a heel on my Louboutins.

Awesome.

Cosmin is under observation for the rest of the day because he did technically lose consciousness. When he asserts that he’s fine and insists on leaving, he’s given a warning by the race stewards. Personally, I’m glad they threatened him into staying.

Hours after the race, I get a text from Klaus asking me to go to one of the paddock meeting rooms. My stomach is doing the un-fun type of cartwheels, and as I make my way down the hall, I tell myself it’s probably fine—maybe he just wants to have a little chat. A friendly ol’ chin-wag where he puts an arm around me and calls me Schatzi and boops my nose with a warning to keep my shit together better in the future.

This goes straight out the window when I’m met with grave looks on either side of the table—Klaus and Reece—and a monitor that appears to be set up for a video call I’m praying won’t be my dad.

“Take a seat,” Reece says, flicking a wave at the empty chair.

It’s late and I’m exhausted—most team members are passing the twelve-hour mark for being at the track. I drag the chair out and sit, fingers twisting in my lap beneath the table.

“I hope that screen isn’t about to be filled with Mo’s face,” I say. “He doesn’t need this bullshit. I get that a poorly timed show of emotion isn’t ideal in our business, but—”

“We have spoken with Edward already,” Klaus cuts in, getting straight to the point. “I feel it might be wise for you to step aside for the remainder of the season.”

A bitter note of laughter escapes like a messy hiccup as the news gut-punches me. “It ‘might be’? As in this is a suggestion?” I shrug. “Yeah, okay—declined.”

“Stronger than a suggestion, Schatzi,” he clarifies, his voice low and soft.

“You would still have a role for now, of course,” Reece adds, folding her hands and donning a sympathetic voice. “Though less hands-on.”

“What, because I was so gauche as to break down a little when I thought our driver might be dead?”

Reece rubs her forehead below her small, feathery bangs. “We all know why we’re sitting here,” she says with a sigh. “Let’s be adults and not turn this into an utter farce.”

On the heels of my defensive reply, the phrasing of her previous comment sinks in. “Whoa whoa whoa.” I hold up a hand. “What do you mean I have a role ‘for now’?”

I lock eyes with Klaus, whose face holds the combination of grim resolve, reluctance, and sorrow one might see on a person who has to put down a dog infected with rabies.

It hits me hard that he absolutely can fire me , unless my dad were to override it. Mo is technically Klaus’s boss, sure. But this is why team principals exist: to manage every moving part of the team. The buck stops there. A racing team owner is more like the person who owns a racehorse—he doesn’t need to get his boots too dirty, because other people have been hired to wade through the shit.

Just as my panicked brain is bleating, Deny everything! I remember that Reece will certainly have disclosed what happened on the yacht in Barcelona—an event that neither Cosmin nor I denied when confronted.

The jig is up, as they say.

I’m replaceable; Cosmin isn’t. I’m out and he stays.

A flood of panic rises in me as I imagine a decade’s career destroyed.

Sitting upright, I hide my despair with calm defiance. “What I do in my free time is no one’s goddamned business,” I insist, sweeping them both with a cool glare.

It absolutely is the team’s business—I’m straight-up blustering. I was so caught up in the momentum of this thing with Cos that I was thinking with my pussy. If anyone else on the team had done it, I’d be calling for their head on a platter, but I can’t let that show.

“Phae.” Reece closes her eyes impatiently. “The situation all but guarantees you can no longer operate untainted by emotion. The ongoing nature of your little fling makes it clear that mature restraint is not forthcoming.”

“ Why do you even have an opinion about this? ” I seethe.

“I have an opinion,” she bites out, “because you hormonal delinquents made this my bloody problem.”

“This is such bullshit,” I growl. “Today was an unusual situation. Everyone was shitting themselves over that crash—it wasn’t some girlie histrionics that only happened because I’ve seen Cos without his pants a couple of times.” I cut a glare toward Klaus. “Was my performance off in Monaco? Montréal, France, Austria?”

He sits back with a weary sigh, tapping his blue Montblanc pen against the tabletop and scrutinizing me. “Try to look at this objectively, Schatzi. We are working with thousandths of seconds’ difference to win. Any emotion-based hesitation is a death sentence.”

“My work is solid,” I insist. “I fucking stand by it. And you know what? I’m calling y’all’s bluff: if you were gonna shitcan me, HR would be sitting here with us.”

Hoo boy. My dad’s Carolina drawl only comes out when I’m at the end of my rope, and there it is. I pause, studying them both for a reaction, and see that I’m right, which gives me the confidence to press on.

“What’d Mo say, anyway?” I ask. “Does he want me out? Because his opinion is the one that matters most to me right now.”

“Given your father’s condition,” Klaus says, “it would be a good time for you to fly home. Be with the family.”

“That’s not an answer. And Mo and I have discussed my coming home repeatedly . He’s adamant that I stay here as long as possible and not let his—” My throat tightens. “Not let his health impact the season. He’s firm on that point.”

Reece and Klaus exchange a look I can’t quite read.

“Shall I call him myself and ask?” I prompt.

Klaus pockets his pen, the gesture definitive.

“He’s torn on the subject and doesn’t feel he can address it impartially. So he gave me leave, as team principal, to make the decision I feel is best.”

I’m frozen, eyes locked with his. A half minute that feels like forever passes.

“And I suppose,” I say slowly, “there’s no way that decision could be impacted by you wanting to buy Emerald out from under me, right?”

His expression is so genuinely offended that I immediately wish I could take the words back. As we stare each other down, I wait in vain for the gesture I hope is coming, our silent communication— your head is above your heart —to show me there are no hard feelings and he recognizes that I’ve just lost my temper out of frustration, as usual.

It doesn’t happen, and I die inside a little. For years, Klaus has not only been my mentor and friend but something like family. This distance between us is horrible.

I look into my lap, frustrated tears prickling my eyes. “Okay,” I finally concede. “I do trust you, Klaus—I always have. Make the call.”

“I’d like to hear what you think I should do. Be honest.”

Ah, fuck. It’s a test.

I feel cold as I know what my answer has to be.

“Fine,” I whisper. “Put Lars in my chair. I’ll take a family leave and go back to the States, at least for the next race or two. And—”

The hollowness inside me is ghastly. If I have any hope of coming back this season, this must be done, and I need to make it look like it isn’t killing me.

“I’ll break off the thing with Cosmin. It’s, uh…” I force the lie out. “It’s nothing serious. A few weeks’ absence will do the trick.” I manage a crooked twist of a smile. “The guy’ll be on to the next socialite or supermodel in days—everyone knows how he is.”

Reece looks so relieved I almost pity her, mad as I am at her interfering ass. Klaus slides his hand across the table in invitation, and I clasp it.

“You will be glad you spent this time at home,” he assures me gently. “There will be other seasons. There will be other men .”

“Sure.” I give his huge palm a squeeze and let go.

“You may soon have big shoes to fill as team owner. Be worthy of them.”

I can’t tell if he’s mocking me, or possibly saying this to hide his true intentions from Reece. Other seasons ? Big shoes to fill ?

“Yeah, okay.” I stand and rub my face, exhausted. Reece is already on the phone to Lars, calling him to the meeting room. “I’m gonna take off,” I say, pointing a thumb over my shoulder. “You don’t need me for the convo with Lars, right? I have stuff to take care of, obvi.”

Klaus gets to his feet and comes to embrace me. “That’s not only for you,” he murmurs against my hair, “but for Edward as well. Please deliver it.”

Fuck it—I’m letting myself cry. For me, for my dad, for Klaus, and for what I have to tell Cosmin tonight before I take a cab to the airport and leave him.