3

Marianna

The inside of a Bugatti Chiron, as it turns out, smells like leather and expensive cologne and something else I can't quite identify. Something dark and woody and masculine that makes my brain short-circuit in ways that are absolutely not helpful right now.

I climb in—gracefully is not the word; "flop like a dying seal" is more accurate—and immediately create a wet spot on the passenger seat that probably costs more than my entire existence.

"Sorry," I mutter, pulling the seatbelt across my body. "I'm getting your seat wet."

"I've had worse things on these seats." He says it completely deadpan, and I'm not sure if he's joking or being serious, and I definitely don't want to think about what "worse things" might mean.

The engine starts with a sound like controlled violence. He pulls away from the curb without checking his mirrors, because apparently traffic laws are for people who aren't Duane Richter.

We drive in silence.

Not comfortable silence. The kind of silence that feels like a living thing, pressing against my skin, making me hyperaware of every breath I take, every small movement.

I should say something. Should make small talk. Should thank him for coming to get me.

"Thanks," I manage finally. "For picking me up. I really appreciate it."

Nothing. No response. Not even a grunt of acknowledgment.

I watch him drive. His hands on the steering wheel—long fingers, oddly graceful for someone who makes his living going three hundred kilometers an hour—moving with practiced precision. The way his jaw tightens when he shifts gears. The slight furrow between his eyebrows that suggests he's thinking about something that annoys him.

He's the complete opposite of Josh. Where Josh was soft and eager-to-please and talked constantly about his feelings, Duane is all hard edges and silence and danger barely contained. Josh wanted to talk about our relationship every five minutes. Duane looks like he'd rather light himself on fire than discuss emotions.

Personally, I've always thought Duane was kind of an asshole. We grew up in the same circles—well, adjacent circles, since his family had actual wealth and mine had the kind of "comfortable" that required a hyphen—and I've known him since I was eight. He and my brother became friends when they were both karting competitively, back before Duane became Duane Richter: Three-Time World Champion and my brother became that guy who used to race against Duane Richter.

Even back then, Duane had this aura. This untouchable quality. Like he was playing a different game than everyone else and winning by rules only he understood.

When his parents died—a car accident, quick and brutal and final—he didn't cry at the funeral. Just stood there, eight years old in a suit too big for him, staring at nothing. My mother said it was because he was in shock. My father said it was because he was strong.

I thought it was because he'd already learned that caring about things only gets you hurt.

He went to live with his uncle after that. Kept racing. Got better and better and better, until by eighteen he was in Formula 1, and by twenty-one he'd won his first championship, and now, at twenty-six, he's considered one of the greatest drivers in the sport's history.

And he's... him. That's the problem, really. The whole devastating package of him—the emotional unavailability that should be a red flag and instead just reads as mystery, the face that makes you want to punch something, the way he exists in the world like he's already won whatever game the rest of us are still figuring out the rules to.

The rain blurs everything outside into streaks of light. Inside, there's just the hum of the engine, the smell of wet leather, and him. His presence filling up the space in a way that makes the car feel smaller than it is.

I shouldn't be noticing the way his fingers curl around the gear shift. Shouldn't be tracking the small movements of his hands like they mean something.

But I've dreamed about those hands.

Not the kind of dream I can tell anyone about. Not the kind where I wake up and laugh it off. The kind where my body works the way it's supposed to, where I'm not frozen, where I'm not broken—and it's always him. Always these hands. Which is inconvenient at best and psychologically damning at worst, but my subconscious apparently didn't get the memo about self-preservation.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the thought. Focus on something else. Anything else.

"So," I try again, aiming for light and casual and landing somewhere around "desperate and awkward." "How's the season going? I saw you won in Barcelona."

"Yep."

That's it. Just "yep." Not "thanks for noticing" or "it was a good race" or any of the other things a normal person might say. Just the verbal equivalent of a shrug.

"Must be exciting," I continue, because apparently I'm a masochist who enjoys humiliation. "Being on track for another championship."

"Mm."

Is that even a word? Is "mm" a word?

I count to ten in my head. Remind myself that murder is illegal. That my brother would probably be upset if I strangled his best friend in said best friend's very expensive car.

Josh's words from yesterday are echoing in my head: You're a wooden board, Mari. A freak. Maybe I should just lean into it.

"Look," I say, "I know you probably have better things to do than play chauffeur to your friend's disaster of a sister, but I didn't ask for this, okay? My luggage is missing, my phone is dead, I had no idea my brother wasn't even in the country, and I've had—" I stop myself before I can say "a really shit twenty-four hours" because I don't need to give him more ammunition. "Just... I'm sorry you got dragged into this. I'll be out of your hair as soon as possible."

He glances at me then. Just a quick flick of his eyes away from the road, but it's enough to make my breath catch.

God, those eyes. Dark and depthless and completely unreadable.

"You're not going to your brother's apartment," he says.

"What?"

"You're coming to my place."

"What?!!"