Chapter 16 16

Chapter 16 16


Six Years Ago — Monza, Italy

Everyone said the first championship would feel like flying.

They were wrong.

It felt like drowning — in noise, in flashbulbs, in people shouting his name like they owned it.

“Rafa! Over here! Smile!”

“Ricciardi, how does it feel to win your first title?”

It was supposed to feel like everything he’d worked for.

But the only thing he could think of when the checkered flag fell was how quiet it had been the last time she said his name.

Vicky.

The girl with ink-stained fingers and a voice sharp enough to cut through ego.

The one person who never looked at him like a miracle — only a mess she’d somehow agreed to tolerate.

Now, he was standing on top of a podium, champagne dripping from his hair, pretending it meant something.

He held the trophy high, because that’s what you did. You smiled, you said thank you, you kissed the metal like it was sacred.

But in the moment between flash and noise — in the split second of silence that always followed a crowd’s roar — he heard her voice in his head:

“Don’t lose yourself in the noise, Rafa.”

Too late.

Later that night, he sat alone in his hotel room, the trophy on the floor beside his bed.

Everyone else was out celebrating.

His manager had texted: “Dinner with Apex execs at 8. PR says you need more photos with sponsors.”

He didn’t reply.

Instead, he turned on the TV — white noise. Opened the minibar — whiskey.

Then, out of habit, pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts.

Her name wasn’t there. He’d deleted it years ago.

Didn’t matter. He still knew the number by heart.

He typed it out halfway, thumb hovering over send, before locking the screen again.

Coward.

He poured another drink.

By year two, Neon Apex had turned him into a brand.

“Rafael De Luca Ricciardi — the storm with a steering wheel.”

Billboards. Interviews. Training camps.

Every smile was practiced, every sentence rehearsed, every headline calculated.

They wanted perfection.

And perfection was boring.

He played the part anyway.

It was easier than explaining the truth — that winning without her watching felt like a song played in the wrong key.

There were girls, of course.

Models, journalists, heiresses who wanted to be photographed on his arm.

They looked good in photos. They said the right things. They laughed at the right jokes.

But none of them ever told him to shut up when he was being dramatic.

None of them ever smirked and said, “You’re not a god, Ricciardi. You’re just a boy who drives too fast.”

So he smiled for cameras, kissed strangers, and kept his secrets.

Sometimes, late at night in Monte Carlo, when the city lights blurred in his windshield, he’d drive to the coast — alone — and race the sea wind down the narrow roads.

Not to feel alive.

To remember what it felt like to lose.

Because the last time he’d really lost something, it was her.

Three years later, he won his third title.

They called him unstoppable.

They called him the future.

He called it exhausting.

During one of the post-race interviews, a reporter asked,

“Who inspired you most on your journey?”

He hesitated.

His PR handler gestured off-camera — say family.

He smiled for the mic. “Someone who believed before I did.”

The handler frowned.

The internet exploded.

And that night, alone again in a penthouse overlooking the city, he wondered if she’d seen it.

If she’d recognized the words.

If she’d cared.

He never found out.

By the time he turned twenty-three, the pressure had turned into routine.

Sponsors. Races. Photos. Scandals.

He had the reflexes of a machine and the face of a myth.

People called him a legend in the making.

He didn’t feel like one.

He felt… empty. Like every win took a piece of him that couldn’t grow back.

Sometimes, he’d see her name buried in articles — Vicky Alvarez, Columbia graduate, rising star in PR.

Once, a headline: “Alvarez & Co. handles international crisis for corporate brand.”

He saved the clipping, though he didn’t know why.

Maybe to remind himself she existed somewhere still real.

Somewhere untouched by the circus he lived in.

It was Monaco that broke him.

Another podium. Another victory.

Except this time, the champagne sprayed wrong — caught him in the eye — and for a few seconds, he saw nothing but blur and light.

In that blur, he swore he saw her face in the crowd.

Dark hair, sharp gaze, expression unreadable.

It couldn’t have been her.

But the ache that followed felt like proof enough.

He spent the rest of the night in the paddock garage, sitting on the cold concrete floor, helmet beside him.

The sound of cooling engines filled the silence.

His mechanic found him there at 3 a.m.

“Rafa, you good?”

“Yeah,” he lied. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He stared at his hands, still trembling from the adrenaline.

“About how winning keeps feeling smaller.”

One month later, he sent a letter.

He didn’t sign it. Didn’t say her name.

Just wrote:

“I saw the greenhouse again. Thought I’d let you know it’s still standing.

So am I. Mostly.

—R.”

He mailed it to an address he wasn’t even sure was hers anymore.

Maybe it never reached her.

Maybe it did.

Maybe that’s why, years later, when he walked into Bandini HQ and saw her standing there—older, colder, sharper—she looked like she’d been expecting the storm.

He told himself he’d moved on.

That she belonged to a different lifetime.

That the boy she knew was gone, replaced by the man on magazine covers.

But when she glared at him in that first meeting, headset slung around her neck, fire in her voice, professionalism dripping from every syllable—

he realized something dangerous.

She hadn’t been the one left behind.

He had.

Because she’d built something from the ruins,

and he’d only learned how to decorate his cage.

Later that night, back in his Monaco apartment, he opened the bottom drawer of his dresser.

Inside: a small green thread tied around a silver key.

He still carried it sometimes.

Not as nostalgia.

As punishment.

He ran his thumb over the metal edge, the memory hitting like an old bruise.

He remembered the airport. The way she’d looked at him like he was both the best and worst thing that had ever happened to her.

The way she’d said, “Goodbye, Rafael,” and meant it.

He whispered into the dark,

“Not goodbye. Not yet.”

And the universe, cruel as ever, listened.

::

The air smelled like wet asphalt and metal.
Rain had fallen all morning, leaving the paddock slick and cold.
The kind of gray day that made everything look washed out — except the cars. Those gleamed like weapons.

Vicky pulled her blazer tighter and adjusted the press badge around her neck.
It still felt strange — her name printed under the words Media Relations Assistant.
Small title, big lie. She was just here to deliver press kits for her boss’s client — a mid-tier sponsor that barely got a logo on the cars.

This wasn’t her world anymore.
Or so she’d told herself.

“Alvarez, go drop those folders off at the Neon Apex tent,” her boss called, juggling coffee and attitude. “Quickly. We’re already late for the 10:30 slot.”

Neon Apex.
Her grip tightened around the folders.

Of course. Of course the universe had a sense of humor.

“Got it,” she said, pretending her voice didn’t crack.

The paddock was chaos — photographers, engineers, PR reps barking orders, engines firing up like thunder.
She kept her head down. Just another assistant. Invisible.

Until she wasn’t.

⸻

He was there.

Standing beside his car, half-zipped suit, hair pushed back and still damp from the rain.
Rafael De Luca Ricciardi.
Older. Sharper.
The boy she knew was gone; this was something else entirely.

The cameras loved him — and he knew it.
He laughed at something a mechanic said, flashing that lazy grin that used to make her heart trip over itself.

He looked… untouchable.
And yet, when his hand brushed his jaw — that same familiar gesture — her stomach flipped like she was seventeen again.

She told herself to move. Deliver the damn folders and leave.
But her legs had their own plans.

She slowed near the entrance, waiting for a gap in the PR crowd.
That’s when someone called his name.

“Rafa! Two minutes for a photo op!”

He turned toward the sound — toward her line of sight — and for half a second, his eyes found hers through the moving chaos.

Half a second was all it took.

The world narrowed.
Noise fell away.
Rain, engines, shouting — all faded until there was only the weight of recognition.

His smile faltered. Just a flicker.
But she saw it.

She looked away first.
Because that’s what you do when you promised yourself you’d moved on.

⸻

“Excuse me,” she muttered, handing the folders to a startled team assistant. “From PR Solutions. For your sponsor deck.”

“Uh—thanks?” The kid blinked, distracted by the sight of her badge.

She was already turning to leave.

But then —
“Victoria?”

His voice.
Behind her.
Too close.

She froze.
Eight thousand versions of “don’t turn around” echoed in her skull.
And then, because she was weak, she turned.

He stood a few feet away, race suit half-open, gloves hanging from one hand.
There was oil on his fingers. Sweat at his temple.
And God help her — he’d never looked more alive.

“It’s Vicky,” she said, automatically.

He smiled faintly. “Right. Still hate being called Victoria.”

“You still remember that?”

“Hard to forget someone who threw a pen at my head.”

Her lips twitched. “You deserved it.”

“I probably did.”
A pause.
“I thought you were in New York.”

“I was,” she said carefully. “Work brought me here. Temporary.”

He nodded, but his gaze lingered — taking her in, quiet, searching.
“Temporary,” he repeated. “Right.”

An engineer shouted his name from across the paddock.
The noise broke the fragile bubble between them.

He hesitated, half-turned toward the car. “You staying for the race?”

“I shouldn’t,” she said.

“But will you?”

She met his eyes.
“Maybe.”

He smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “Then I’ll win.”

She rolled her eyes, masking the ache in her chest. “You always do.”

He didn’t answer. Just gave a small nod, the kind that meant more than words, and jogged back toward the car.

⸻

She found a spot near the fence after her boss disappeared into a hospitality suite.
The cars lined up on the grid, engines snarling, the rain easing into a mist.

When his car rolled to the start, she couldn’t breathe.
He looked calm inside the helmet — like chaos obeyed him.
When the lights went out, the track came alive.

Twenty laps blurred into thunder.
And Rafael — number 7 — carved through it like the road belonged to him.
Every turn precise, every acceleration fearless.
Watching him was like watching control and recklessness make love.

When he crossed the finish line first, the crowd erupted.
She didn’t cheer.
She just stood there, heart pounding, nails digging into her palms.

Because this was what she always knew would happen.
He’d leave, and he’d win.
And somehow, it still hurt.

⸻

Later, as the crowd thinned, she walked past the podium area, pretending to check her phone.
He was there, mid-celebration, champagne dripping down his suit, reporters swarming.

Their eyes met again — briefly — across a sea of cameras.
And for a moment, the look he gave her wasn’t victory.
It was apology.
Raw. Quiet. Unsaid.

She turned before he could read anything in her face.

⸻

Back in her hotel room that night, she opened her suitcase to grab her charger.
Something metallic glinted inside — a small silver key, tied with green thread.
She hadn’t meant to pack it.
She hadn’t meant to keep it, either.

She sat on the edge of the bed, turning it over in her fingers.
Outside, fireworks cracked for the race weekend celebrations.
Somewhere across the city, he was probably being interviewed, smiling for the world.

And she —
She was the only person who knew what that smile cost him.

She put the key back in her bag and whispered to the empty room,
“Congratulations, Rafa.”

Then, quieter:
“I wish I didn’t still care.”

⸻

The next morning, he left for Italy.
She left for New York.
No texts. No calls.
Just another almost.

And yet — when his car roared down the track again a month later, broadcast live across every sports channel — she watched.
Not because she wanted to.
Because she couldn’t help it.

And when the camera caught his face on the podium, eyes scanning the crowd like he was looking for someone,
she realized she’d been holding her breath the whole time.