Chapter 7. Arthur Vance

7. Arthur Vance

I honestly couldn’t believe what was happening. One second I was bent over my sketchbook, completely lost in a dressing room layout, and the next, a voice pulled me straight out of my head, a voice I recognized instantly.

“Nice room,” he said, casual and effortless, like he was commenting on the weather.

My pencil jolted across the page. My heart slammed so hard it stole my breath as I turned around, and there he was.

Arthur Vance.

His dark hair was messed by the track breeze, a faint smile playing on his lips. He wore a worn-in jacket that made him look impossibly real, like he’d stepped straight out of every teenage daydream I’d ever had. The man I’d crushed on for years was standing right in front of me.

“A-Au…” I stammered, squeezing my eyes shut for a second and forcing myself to breathe. “M-Mr. Vance,” I finally managed, though my voice wobbled badly. Every ounce of confidence I’d built vanished the moment he looked at me. His eyes were warm and steady, and suddenly I was fourteen again, watching his races on a fuzzy TV screen. And somehow, impossibly, he looked even better in person, with sharper features, broader shoulders, and a presence no camera had ever done justice to. How was I supposed to stay composed?

“You’re with the architectural team, right?” he asked, completely unfazed, as if he hadn’t just flipped my world upside down.

I swallowed hard. The low hum of the track being prepped made it obvious he was here for practice. Before I could answer, another voice joined in.

“Mr. Vance,” Stephan said, stepping forward with his usual polished calm. Mr. Turner and a few others from yesterday’s meeting were with him, their suits somehow still immaculate despite the heat.

“Mr. Turner,” Arthur replied easily, flashing him a charming smile.

“I see you’ve met Ms. Adler,” Mr. Turner said, peering at me over his glasses.

“Not quite,” Arthur said, glancing back at me. “I just saw her sketching while I was walking around. That’s about it.”

Stephan nodded. “Ms. Adler is handling the VIP room designs. The racers are scheduled to meet with her this afternoon to discuss any special requests.”

“I see,” Arthur said, his gaze returning to me. “Then I’ll catch up with her later. You know to go over what I have in mind.”

The conversation moved to schedules and logistics, none of which involved me. I took the opening.

“Please, go ahead,” I said, hugging my sketchbook to my chest. “I’ll check the other rooms, take measurements, and note what I need.”

I didn’t wait for a response. I just walked away, my heart still racing.

Once I was alone, I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to calm the frantic rhythm. I had just met Arthur Vance—*the* Arthur Vance. It felt unreal, like a fangirl moment pulled straight out of a dream. I’d admired him for years, and somehow I’d actually spoken to him. My face warmed just thinking about it.

Enough now. Focus.

I forced myself back into work mode, moving through the track and taking measurements, sketching layouts for staff rooms. Eventually, I found myself back near the pits, refining ideas for the VIP rooms when I heard footsteps crunch behind me again.

“So…?” Arthur’s voice came once again behind me.

I blinked, caught off guard yet again, and immediately scolded myself. Professional. “Yes—of course,” I said, straightening. “I’m Ximara Adler, Mr. Vance. I’ve been assigned to design your personal dressing space here and at the other locations.”

My voice steadied, thankfully.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Adler,” he said, his smile widening. “I like your confidence.”

Heat crept up my neck, but I pushed it down. Focus, Ximara. This was your job, not a teenage fantasy. Nail this project and prove yourself.

“Thank you, Mr. Vance,” I said with a polite smile. “So how would you like your room to be?”

He tilted his head slightly, considering. “Well, to answer that properly, it might help if you knew a bit about my career. Makes it more personal.”

I stiffened, just a touch, but kept my tone even. “Mr. Vance, I don’t think that’s necessary to design your space.” It may have sounded blunt, but I wasn’t here to fangirl.

He didn’t seem bothered. “Fair enough, you're focused on the job.” His easy humility caught me off guard. “I just thought it might make things smoother. So tell me, what do you actually know about me?”

I hesitated, then sighed inwardly and decided to humor him. “If it helps, you’re talking to one of your long-time fans, Mr. Vance,” I said, keeping my voice professional. “I’ve followed your races for years. Been watching since I was a teenager.”

“Really?” he said, eyebrow lifting with quiet amusement.

“Yes,” I replied, steering us back on course. “Now, can we get to the point? What would you like customized in your room?” I pulled out my tablet, opened my design app, and walked him through three concepts: a minimalist design with steel accents, a rugged industrial look, and a bold red-and-black option. I explained everything from locker placement and lighting to benches while jotting down notes as he gave quick.

“These are impressive,” he said, leaning closer to get a better look. “I like the third one. It feels fast and energized. Maybe add shelving here,” he pointed, “for gear. And a full-length mirror, if there’s space.”

“Noted,” I said, typing it in. For a moment, he wasn’t Arthur Vance the legend—just a client who knew exactly what he wanted.

Then my phone buzzed, breaking the moment. It was Stephan: Wrap up and meet me in my office ASAP for a briefing for the weekend event.

“One second,” I said, stepping aside to reply. Then I turned back to Arthur. “We’ll make sure everything fits your specs. If you have reference photos or ideas, feel free to send them over.”

“I’ve got a few,” he said, straightening. “Nothing major, but since you asked, I’ll send them. Mind if we swap numbers?”

I froze for half a second. Arthur Vance asking for my number? My teenage self nearly short-circuited, but I kept my composure. This was work. Strictly work.

“Sure,” I said, giving him my number while he saved it.

“See you later,” I added, slipping my tablet into my bag.

“See ya,” he said easily, lifting a hand as he walked away.

I headed straight back to my room, dropped my things, and then rushed to Stephan’s temporary office in the hotel’s business wing. The meeting was brief; details for the weekend kickoff event, a mixer for the team and contractors, were discussed. Dress code. Schedule.

I absorbed it all, my mind split between Arthur’s feedback and the revisions I’d be making tonight.

By the time I dragged myself back to my room, exhaustion washed over me. I kicked off my shoes, collapsed onto the bed, and started texting Ali about my day. I was mid-sentence when a soft rustle stopped me cold.

A white envelope slid under my door, stark against the dark carpet.

My stomach dropped. I shot up, yanked open the door, and scanned the hall. Empty. No footsteps or movement, just silence.

The stalker was quicker than me.

I’d convinced myself the letters back in New York were some stupid prank, but this? Here? In Argentina?

My hands trembled as I picked up the envelope, dread pooling deep in my gut. I ripped it open.

Ximara,

Guess you’re enjoying yourself there. Didn’t miss me, huh? Don’t worry, I’ll always be around through every high and low. All the best with your new project; I know you’ll shine.

The words hit like a blow. This wasn’t a joke. Someone was watching me and following me very closely and noticing every action of mine. They knew very well what I was doing, about my projects, and probably even what I was doing right now too. They’d crossed borders to stay close.

The hallway felt quiet. The room was suddenly exposed. I slammed the door shut, locked it, double-checked the windows, and yanked the curtains closed. Then, clutching the letter, I turned out the lights and curled into the corner of the room, breath shallow, mind spinning.

Who the hell was this?

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