The Billionaire Racer I Kissed

Clara’s phone buzzed in her hand, and she knew it was time to leave.

She leaned closer to Mark, lowering her voice so it wouldn’t carry over the muted music humming through the private room.

“I need to go. I still have work to finish.”

Mark barely looked at her. He nodded once, distracted, his attention already drifting back to the people around him. His lips curved into a lazy smile, loose, pleased, like a man settling deeper into a night he didn’t want to end.

“Okay,” that was all he said.

Something tight pulled in Clara’s chest, but she ignored it. She straightened, pasted on a polite smile, and said her quick goodbyes to his team. No one noticed her leaving.

Outside the room, the air felt cooler. She exhaled, adjusting her bag on her shoulder as she headed toward the stairs.

She hadn’t planned to stay this late. Mark had signed a major contract that evening, and she’d followed him to celebrate, just for a while, she’d told herself. Long enough to show support. 

Halfway down the stairs, her steps slowed. Her hand froze at her side. Her car key.

Her stomach dipped as she stopped, turned back. Irritation brushed against fatigue. Of course. She must have left it on the table.

She climbed the stairs again, faster this time, already reaching for the door. It was open enough for her to see the inside.

Mark was laughing and his secretary too stood close. Close enough that Clara noticed the way her hand rested on his chest before her mind could stop her. 

Close enough that when Mark leaned down, it felt practised. Their lips met.

The sound around her dulled, as if someone had turned the world down a notch. She stood there, unseen.

Around them, his team lingered, some pretending not to notice, others very clearly noticing. No one looked surprised.

Understanding landed slowly, cruelly. This isn’t new.

Heat rushed to her face, sharp and humiliating. Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag until it hurt. Stepping forward, she reached for the table and picked up her key.

Mark turned and their eyes met. Something flickered across his face. First shock, then calculation, but Clara was already walking away.

“Clara… wait.”

His footsteps followed her down the stairs. His voice chased her, low and urgent. 

“It’s not what you think. Let me explain.”

She didn’t stop. By the time they reached the lower level, her chest was burning, not with tears, but with something hotter. She lifted her head, refusing to let him see anything break.

He caught up to her near the bar, grabbing her wrist. 

“This isn’t..”

She yanked her hand free. “Don’t.”

Her voice surprised them both. It was steady and cold. People glanced over curiously.

“Please,” he said, lowering his voice. “Let’s talk upstairs.”

Clara laughed then. A short, humourless sound. “Now you want privacy?” She said, stepping back from him. 

That’s when she saw him. He sat at the bar, turned slightly sideways, one elbow resting against the counter. A dark shirt, sleeves pushed up, shoulders broad. He looked ordinary and unimportant.

Mark was still talking behind her, his words tumbling over each other. He was sounding desperate now.

Something inside Clara snapped into terrifying clarity.

She turned and walked straight up to the stranger, and without giving herself time to think. She kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It was sharp and intentional, fueled by fury and humiliation and the need to take something back. Her hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt. She felt the brief hitch of surprise in him before she pulled away.

Silence rushed in. Clara turned to Mark. He stood frozen. His face was pale, stunned, eyes locked on her like he didn’t recognise the woman standing there. 

The sight sent a slow, wicked satisfaction through her chest. Her lips curved in a smile. And for the first time that night, she felt good.

Mark didn’t move at first. He just stared at her, jaw tight, pride visibly cracking. Then his mouth twisted into something ugly.

“Are you serious?” he said sharply. “This is what you choose to do now?”

Clara didn’t answer. She turned back toward the bar, ready to leave, her pulse still racing, but the man she’d kissed was already standing. By then Mark had left.

He looked down at her, with an unreadable expression, his eyes were dark with something colder.

“Did you enjoy using me,” he asked quietly, “or was I just convenient?”

A few heads nearby turned. Someone laughed softly. Heat crawled up Clara’s neck.

“I didn’t.” Her fingers curled at her sides. “You don’t know what just happened.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I know what you did.” The stranger said, stepping closer. Close enough that she felt his presence like pressure.

“You wanted an audience,” he said. “Congratulations. You have one.” His tone dripped with sarcasm.

Her jaw clenched. “I didn’t ask you to stand there.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, quick, gone. Then he smiled dangerously.

“I like that,” he said. “Most women apologise. You don’t.”

She lifted her chin. “Most men don’t talk down to women they don’t know.”

A beat passed. Then a low laugh slipped from him. It wasn't warm.

“Careful,” he murmured. 

Just then someone whispered his name behind her. And another voice followed. Louder and excited.

“Oh my God… that’s him.”

Clara’s stomach dropped. Turning around slowly, she saw faces lit with recognition. Her gaze snapped back to him.

“You’re…” Her voice failed.

His eyes held hers, steady, assessing, already in control.

“Matteo Devereaux,” he said quietly.

The name hit harder than the kiss.

Around them, someone gasped.

Clara stood frozen, her lips still burning, her mistake suddenly enormous.

And Matteo Devereaux looked down at her like he’d already decided what to do with her.