46

Marianna.

"What?"

The word comes out strangled. Wrong. Like I've forgotten how to speak English.

Oliver doesn't notice. He's still stretching, completely oblivious to the way my entire world just tilted sideways.

"The Veloce partnership," he says casually. "You know, the—"

"Yeah, I—" I force my hands to keep moving. Professional. Clinical. Like my brain isn't currently short-circuiting. "I just didn't realize it was... official."

"Oh, it's definitely official. My physio mentioned it last week. Said Kinetic's taking on all of Veloce's recovery protocols. Makes sense, really—Richter's been dealing with that shoulder issue since Suzuka, and Dr. Lindholm's supposed to be the best in Miami for—"

He keeps talking.

"—so yeah, big news for you guys," Oliver finishes cheerfully. "Veloce's medical budget is insane. This is probably great for Kinetic's bottom line."

"Right," I manage. "Great."

My hands find a knot in his psoas. I press into it harder than necessary.

He winces. "Ow, fuck—"

"Sorry." I adjust the pressure. "You're really tight here."

"Yeah, well, the simulator is basically medieval torture disguised as technology." He shifts on the table. "Speaking of Veloce though—did you hear about the legal thing?"

My hands freeze again.

This is becoming a problem. I need to stop freezing every time someone mentions Duane's team.

"Legal thing?" My voice sounds normal. Probably. Maybe.

"Yeah, it's probably nothing." Oliver's tone is casual, but there's something underneath it. Gossip-adjacent. "Just rumors going around the paddock. Something about a lawsuit? Or maybe assault charges? I don't know, the details are fuzzy."

The room tilts.

"Assault charges?" I repeat.

"Like I said, fuzzy. Could be bullshit. You know how the paddock is—someone sneezes wrong and suddenly there's a whole conspiracy theory." He laughs. "Probably just Christian Horner starting shit again. That man lives for drama."

But I'm not listening anymore.

Because my brain has just made a connection. A terrible, horrible, inevitable connection.

Dr. Hartley.

Duane punching Dr. Hartley.

"Marianna? You okay?" Oliver's voice sounds far away. "You look kind of pale."

"Fine." The lie tastes like metal. "Just—headache. From the stitches."

"Right, yeah, you should probably take it easy." He sits up, concerned now. "We can cut the session short if you need—"

"No." Too sharp. I force my voice to soften. "No, I'm good. Let's finish."

I finish the session on autopilot.

My hands know what to do even when my brain is screaming. Press. Release. Glide. Repeat.

Oliver leaves with his usual cheerful obliviousness, making me promise to "actually rest" and "not work myself to death."

I promise. Another lie.

At 4:32 PM, I check my phone.

No messages from Duane.

Which could mean nothing. He never texts much anyway.

I feel sick.

The nausea is real. But nothing comes up.

Breathe. Count. Ground yourself.

The uber drive through Miami in the late afternoon light. Golden hour. The kind of light that makes everything look beautiful even when it's not.

My phone sits in my lap. Heavy. Accusatory.

I should text Duane. But what would I even say?

The Uber pulls up to Duane's building.

I tip the driver $2 I don't have because I'm pathological about seeming normal.

The elevator ride feels like execution.

Slow. Inevitable. Each floor a countdown to facing whatever's waiting for me upstairs.

I don't know what I expect. Duane, maybe. Or an empty apartment. Or a note on the counter with more medical instructions delivered in his typical emotional constipation style.

What I don't expect—

What I absolutely, completely, totally don't expect—

The door swings open.

And there's a man in Duane's living room.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair. S

My brain short-circuits.

Intruder. Burglar. Assassin sent by Dr. Hartley. Home invasion.

The man turns around.

"Marianna!"

The world stops.

Not metaphorically. Actually stops.

Because that's not an intruder.

That's Marco.

My brother Marco.

Six-foot-two of overprotective male energy wearing a navy suit that probably costs more than my rent, grinning like he just won the lottery, arms already opening for a hug.

Here.

My keys slip from my fingers. They hit the marble floor with a sound like gunshots.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Marco's grin widens. "Surprise!"

"Marco?"

My voice doesn't sound like mine. It sounds like it's coming from underwater. From very far away. From a different dimension where older brothers don't spontaneously appear in their best friend's apartments to witness their sister's complete emotional collapse.

"What are you—how are you—"

The words won't form. My mouth is moving but nothing coherent is coming out.

Marco's still grinning. "Finished early in Monaco," he says, crossing the room toward me. "The Leclerc deal closed faster than expected. Caught a red-eye last night. Figured I'd surprise you—see how my baby sister's doing in her fancy new job."

"You—" I try again. Fail again. "You're here."

"Yeah, I'm here!" He reaches me. Pulls me into a hug before I can retreat.

He smells like airplane recycled air and home—that specific Marco smell that's been constant since childhood. Safe. Familiar.

Marco pulls back. Still holding my shoulders. Looking at me with that big-brother expression that says he's about to ask if I'm eating enough vegetables.

"Duane said you were at work so I figured I'd wait. He's—" He gestures vaguely toward the hallway. "—somewhere. Probably in the gym. You know how he is."

I do know how he is.

I know exactly how he is.

I know what he looks like shirtless hitting a punching bag. I know what his mouth tastes like. I know that he sits on the floor next to my bed when I can't sleep. I know the exact shade of dark his eyes go when he's looking at me like—

Marco's still talking. "—so I thought we could all grab dinner. Celebrate you being here. Catch up properly. I want to hear everything about—"

He stops. His hands are still on my shoulders. But his grip tightens.

His eyes—warm brown, like mine—are doing a scan. The kind of scan he does with his athletes when he suspects they're hiding an injury.

Face. Neck. Shoulders.

Back to face.

His expression changes.

The smile falters. Freezes. Dies.

"Mari?" His voice drops. Goes quiet. Dangerous. "What happened to your face?"

My hand flies to my forehead. To the bruising I thought I'd covered with concealer. To the evidence I can't hide.

"Nothing. I'm fine—"

"You're not fine." His hands move to my face. Tilting it toward the light. Examining the damage with the clinical precision of someone who's seen too many athletes lie about injuries. "You're bruised. Is that—are those stitches under your hair?"

Fuck.

"It's nothing," I try. "I just—"

"What. Happened. To. Your. Face."

Each word is deliberate. Controlled. The voice he uses right before he loses his shit.

And just like that—

The interrogation begins.

"I fell."

"You fell." Marco's voice is flat. Dangerous. The voice he uses with athletes who lie about injuries. "You fell."

"Yes."

"On your face."

"Yes."

"Hard enough to bruise."

"Yes."

We're standing in Duane's living room. Marco hasn't hugged me yet. Hasn't moved from his position near the couch, arms crossed, full big-brother mode activated.

"When?"

"Yesterday."

Marco's face is doing something complicated.

We find Duane coming out of his bedroom.

Freshly showered. Dark hair still damp. Wearing black joggers and a t-shirt that clings to muscles I have professionally touched and definitely not thought about inappropriately.

He sees Marco.

His expression doesn't change. But something shifts in his eyes. A calculation. An assessment.

"Marco." Neutral. Calm.

"Duane." Not neutral. Not calm. "We need to talk."