19

Marianna.

The digital cleanup begins with a vengeance.

Back in the guest room, illuminated only by the sterile blue glow of Duane’s cracked spare iPhone, I sit cross-legged on the edge of the mattress and launch into an operation I should have executed years ago. I am purging. I am tearing down every digital shrine, every secret altar, every pathetic little thread of parasocial attachment I’ve maintained to a man who looks at me like I’m an annoying bug on his windshield.

I tap open I*******m, navigating directly to the hidden burner account I made back in college—the one with a fake name and a profile picture of a golden retriever where I secretly followed every F1 fan page, meme account, and paddock insider blog just to catch blurred, geotagged glimpses of Duane walking into circuits. I go straight to his official handle. The blue checkmark mocks me. Without a second hesitation, I hit the three dots in the top right corner.

Block.

Block all new accounts they may create.

Confirm.

It feels like severing a nerve.

Done. He doesn't exist. I pull up T*****r, scrolling down my following list to purge every single Veloce Racing update, every driver tracker, every fan-edit video set to dramatic pop songs that had ever made my heart do a stupid little flutter. I block the team hashtags. I block the fan forums where people romanticize his cold, icy stare as "mysterious alpha energy."

Idiots. All of them. Especially past me.

To cement the execution, I open up a private, hyper-niche F1 gossip and fan group chat on Telegram where anonymous users dissect paddock drama under pseudonyms. My fingers fly across the virtual keyboard, driven by a surge of pure, unfiltered spite and adrenaline.

“I’m officially done,” I type out into the group chat, staring down at the glowing screen. “I’m so tired of putting up with arrogant, cold-hearted, emotionally stunted guys who think a scowl is a personality trait. Done letting a fast car and a jawline make me forget my own self-respect. I’ve decided to get my life back on track and cut the dead weight. Peace out, circus.”

Hit send.

Notifications pop up instantly from strangers replying with shock, supportive memes, and virtual popcorn, but I don't care. I swipe out of the app, delete the Telegram icon entirely from the home screen, and toss the phone onto the nightstand like it’s contaminated.

I’m breathing heavily, my chest rising and falling in short, sharp bursts, but beneath the adrenaline, there is a profound, terrifying lightness. It’s the feeling of a building finally collapsing after you’ve spent months watching the cracks spiderweb across the walls. The suspense is over. The worst-case scenario has happened, and I am still breathing.

I don't need him. I don't need his team, his apartment, his money, or his condescending, two-sentence verdicts on my worth. I have a second interview tomorrow morning with Dr. Margot Lindholm at Kinetic Performance Institute. I have a salary of $54,000 waiting for me if I don't screw it up. I have a future that doesn't involve being a footnote in a billionaire racing driver's life.

The next morning arrives with the merciless brightness of Miami sunlight slicing through the heavy blackout curtains.

By 6:30 AM, I am already awake, pacing the silent perimeter of the guest room. I don't wait for Duane to leave. I don't care if he’s lurking in the kitchen or torturing a punching bag in the home gym. I am wearing my new, slightly stiff Target blazer, the pants that are just a half-inch too long dragging softly against the polished marble floor, and the flats that have already claimed a layer of skin from my heels. I’ve tied my hair back into a sleek, no-nonsense ponytail that screams I am a competent medical professional who will not cry in your supply closet.

When I step out into the hallway, the apartment is dead quiet. The master bedroom door is shut tight. Good. I don't leave a note. I don't say goodbye. I grab the spare key card, drop it neatly onto the entryway console table right beside the private elevator doors, and press the call button.

The descent to the ground floor feels like dropping down an elevator shaft of pure liberation.

The air outside hits me like a wall of warm, wet laundry—typical Miami May humidity—but today, it feels electric. I walk the three blocks to the Brickell high-rise housing Kinetic Performance Institute, my blistered heels protesting silently with every step, but I ignore the pain. Pain is just feedback. Pain means I'm moving.

When I step out on the 40th floor at 7:15 AM, the reception area is already humming with quiet, expensive energy. The water feature trickles against the stone wall. The same receptionist with flawless box braids looks up from her screen, blinking in mild surprise as she recognizes me.

"Ms. Reyes," she says, her tone shifting from polite to genuinely impressed. "You're early."

"Punctuality is my primary love language," I reply, flashing a smile that feels sharp, bright, and entirely real.

Dr. Margot Lindholm doesn't make me wait. Exactly at 7:30 AM, the clinical director steps out of her office, clipboard in hand, dressed in a sharp charcoal pantsuit that commands immediate respect. She looks me up and down—taking in the crisp blazer, the clean hair, the fierce, unblinking focus in my eyes—and a slow, approving smile breaks across her face.

"Come back to my office, Marianna," she says, turning on her heel. "Let's talk about your transition plan."

The interview—if you can even call it that—is a masterclass in alignment. Dr. Lindholm isn't interested in rehashing why I bolted from the building on Sunday during the fiery crash broadcast. She skips straight to logistics. She wants to know my technical proficiencies with soft tissue mobilization, how I handle acute post-traumatic stress in high-performance athletes, and whether I can maintain absolute discretion when dealing with high-profile racing clients whose multimillion-dollar contracts depend on their medical privacy.

"Our motorsport clients can be... difficult," Dr. Lindholm notes, pen tapping rhythmically against her clipboard as she looks over my revised credentials. "They push through pain. They lie about their symptoms because they're terrified of being benched, especially during race season. You need an iron spine to stand up to them. Can you be ruthless when it comes to their rehabilitation?"

I think of Duane Richter, standing in his home gym, trying to force his injured shoulder past forty degrees of rotation out of sheer, unyielding stubbornness. I think of the cold, dismissive way he looked down at me and declared me beneath his notice.

"Dr. Lindholm," I say, my voice steady, ringing with absolute, unflinching conviction. "I specialize in handling stubborn men who think they're invincible. I can be as ruthless as the job requires."

A low, approving chuckle rumble in her throat. "Good. Because your first official assignment starts soon. We have a roster of Veloce Racing development drivers and primary staff coming in for post-weekend recovery evaluations following Sunday's Miami Grand Prix fallout. I want you shadowing our senior specialist immediately. Sink or swim, Ms. Reyes."

"I'll swim," I say without missing a beat.