Chapter 18 18
Chapter 18 18
The first thing Vicky noticed was the noise.
Not the music — the kind of noise that came from expensive shoes, forced laughter, and too many egos wearing tuxedos.
The Palazzo Bianco gleamed under chandeliers, gold against marble. The annual Motorsport for Hope Gala—one of those glittering events where billionaires pretended their donations could polish their sins.
She didn’t want to be there.
But her boss insisted. “Presence matters, Alvarez. Smile, mingle, and for God’s sake, don’t start an argument about ethics with a tire executive again.”
::
So she smiled.
She wore the black satin dress that fit too well and heels that hurt too soon, and she smiled until her jaw felt like a mask.
She didn’t know he’d be there.
⸻
Rafael arrived late, as usual.
The crowd shifted when he entered — not dramatically, but noticeably.
Like gravity remembered itself.
He was wearing a suit the color of midnight, no tie, top button undone, confidence worn like skin.
Eight years in the spotlight had made him fluent in silence — the kind that made people lean closer without knowing why.
He shook hands. Nodded. Smiled just enough.
Cameras flashed.
It was supposed to be routine — a photo op, a fundraiser, another night to look flawless and feel nothing.
And then he saw her.
At first, he thought it was his mind playing a cruel joke.
He’d seen her ghost before — in airports, in passing faces, in the flash of dark hair and sharp posture.
But this wasn’t that.
This was her.
Standing near the champagne bar, laughing politely at something she clearly didn’t find funny.
His breath caught, just slightly — like the body remembered before the brain did.
⸻
Vicky felt it too.
That prickle. That shift in the room.
She didn’t have to look to know. Her pulse already knew.
She turned anyway.
And there he was.
Rafael De Luca Ricciardi.
The man she had spent years avoiding in both life and algorithms.
Her first thought wasn’t poetic.
It was: Damn it.
He hadn’t changed much — just sharpened.
Older now, heavier presence, less boy, more consequence.
When he smiled at someone across the room, the same stupid charm still lingered in his expression.
And she hated that her knees still remembered it.
⸻
They didn’t approach each other at first.
They circled — two planets pretending not to share an orbit.
He spoke to investors. She checked her phone.
He laughed at a joke. She downed her drink.
They were professionals now — older, busier, more practiced at pretending the past was dead.
But every time she moved, his eyes followed.
And every time he looked away, she felt it.
⸻
It took a well-meaning drunk to break the stalemate.
“Miss Alvarez!”
Her boss’s contact, a logistics executive with too much cologne, waved her over. “Come here, come here—have you met the guest of honor yet?”
Before she could protest, he turned to the tall man beside him.
“Mr. De Luca, this is Victoria Alvarez. Works in PR—one of the sharpest minds in the industry.”
She forced a smile. “Vicky. Please.”
Rafael extended his hand, polite, measured.
“Rafael,” he said.
Their hands met.
Skin to skin.
Cold, electric, real.
Eight years of distance collapsed into that one second.
“Pleasure,” she said. Voice steady.
“Likewise,” he answered.
If anyone noticed the tension, they didn’t comment.
The drunk executive just clapped his hands together and said, “Well! Two professionals. I’ll let you talk shop!” before stumbling away toward the open bar.
Perfect.
⸻
Vicky set her glass down. “Small world.”
Rafael tilted his head. “Feels smaller than it should.”
“Congratulations on the season,” she said, tone neutral. “Top five in the standings. Impressive.”
“Thank you. I read your agency’s statement last month. The one about crisis image management.”
Her brow lifted. “You read PR think pieces now?”
“I read yours,” he said simply.
She froze for half a second. Then smiled — that sharp, polished, unbothered smile. “I didn’t know my writing was that popular among… racers.”
“I didn’t know PR people still thought racers couldn’t read.”
“Touché.”
They stood there for a beat too long. The air between them wasn’t awkward — just heavy with everything they weren’t saying.
⸻
She turned first. “I should get back to—”
“Why did you leave?”
Her steps paused. She looked back over her shoulder. “Excuse me?”
“Back then. Milan. The school.” His voice was low, careful. “One day you were there, the next you weren’t.”
She blinked slowly. “Funny. I could ask you the same thing.”
He didn’t reply.
She exhaled, shaking her head. “Rafa… we were kids. We made choices. We survived them.”
“I didn’t,” he said quietly. “I just got faster.”
That line hit harder than she expected.
It shouldn’t have. But it did.
“You look good,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Happier.”
“I’m busy,” she corrected.
“Same thing.”
“Not really.”
Her voice softened, but her eyes didn’t. “Don’t do this. Don’t try to make it sound poetic. We both know what happened.”
He smiled — not his usual kind, but small and real. “Maybe I just missed talking to you.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.”
And with that, she picked up her glass, nodded once, and walked away.
⸻
Later that night, when the gala ended and the lights dimmed, Rafael found himself outside under the stone archway of the palazzo, the hum of the city around him.
The rain had started again — soft, cool.
He lit another cigarette and watched the smoke curl upward.
He almost didn’t notice when a black car pulled up to the curb.
She stepped out of the doorway, coat draped over her shoulders, phone pressed to her ear.
He didn’t call out.
Didn’t move.
She glanced up once, saw him across the courtyard, paused.
No words. No gestures.
Just that look — long enough to say we were something once, short enough to mean we can’t be again.
Her car pulled away.
He stayed.
The cigarette burned down to his fingers before he realized he hadn’t taken a single drag.
⸻
The next day, headlines hit the motorsport world:
“Rafael De Luca Ricciardi officially signs with Bandini GP.”
And in an office across the city, Vicky opened her inbox to see a new client list from her firm.
Top of the page:
Bandini GP – Public Relations Transition (Lead Contact: Alvarez, V.)
She stared at it for a long time.
Then whispered, to no one in particular,
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
::
The rain started before midnight.
Not a storm — just that slow, steady kind that crept under your clothes and stayed there.
The courtyard behind the dorms smelled like wet stone and cigarette smoke. Lights from the school’s west wing flickered, and somewhere, the security guard’s radio buzzed with static.
Vicky sat on the steps, knees pulled up, her hoodie zipped halfway, watching the rain blur the edge of the world.
She wasn’t supposed to be outside.
But Rafael had texted her — “Meet me by the bikes. Don’t tell anyone.”
Which was code for something’s wrong.
She’d waited twenty minutes before he showed up, hood pulled low, duffel bag slung across his back.
Her stomach sank. “What the hell is that?”
He didn’t answer. Just kept walking toward her, water dripping from his sleeves, eyes bright in that half-mad way they got when he was scared but pretending not to be.
“Rafa.” Her voice cut through the rain. “What’s going on?”
He stopped in front of her.
Close enough for her to see the tremor in his jaw, the way his fingers clenched the strap of his bag.
“I’m leaving.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Tonight.”
“Leaving where?”
“Modena.”
She stood. “That’s two hundred kilometers away.”
He nodded once. “I got a call. A contract.”
Her heartbeat stuttered. “A contract?”
“Junior series. Real cars this time, not karts. They want me on the grid by next month.”
It should’ve been good news.
For anyone else, it would’ve been.
But all she could see was the duffel bag. The wet pavement.
The goodbye forming between them before he even said it.
“So that’s it?” she asked. “You just pack up and disappear?”
He dropped his gaze. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. It’s all still—”
“Secret. Right. You and your secrets.”
“Vick—”
“No, say it,” she snapped. “You get to chase your dream, and I just… what? Stay here? Pretend this never happened?”
He took a step closer. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The rain thickened, filling the silence.
She crossed her arms, blinking fast. “You weren’t even going to say goodbye, were you?”
“I was,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t know how.”
“Try words.”
He exhaled, long and slow, running a hand through his hair. “You think this is easy for me?”
“I think you’re running,” she said. “Again.”
He laughed, short and bitter. “Of course I am. It’s what I’m good at.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
She stared at him — the boy she’d met a year ago, the one who climbed fences with her at midnight and stole cafeteria desserts just to make her laugh.
Now he looked like someone else entirely — older, harder, already half gone.
“Do you even know when you’ll be back?” she asked.
He hesitated. “No.”
That one word cracked something inside her.
“Then don’t bother,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her throat wasn’t.
He took another step forward, closing the space between them until she could feel the warmth of him through the rain.
“Vick.” His voice was low. “Look at me.”
She did.
She hated that she did.
He reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair from her cheek. His thumb lingered just below her jaw — a small, stupid gesture that felt like the beginning of something or the end of everything.
“You were the only thing that made it feel real,” he whispered.
“Then maybe that’s why you’re leaving,” she said.
He smiled — not with humor, but with that soft, broken thing she’d never seen before.
“I’m coming back.”
She shook her head. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You’re seventeen,” she said, voice sharp now. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”
“Maybe not. But I know what I feel.”
Her breath caught.
She wanted to yell. To run. To believe him.
Instead, she said, “You’ll forget.”
He frowned. “What?”
“You’ll forget me,” she said, quieter now. “That’s what people do when they leave.”
His hand dropped to his side.
For a moment, she thought he’d walk away right then.
But instead, he stepped closer and kissed her.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t perfect.
It was just… real.
Warm. Desperate. A little clumsy.
The kind of kiss that feels like it could change everything, even if you both know it won’t.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.
“I won’t forget,” he murmured.
She almost said I will, just to hurt him, but the words stuck somewhere between her chest and her pride.
So she said nothing.
He turned toward the gate, water dripping from his hair, bag slung low on his shoulder.
When he reached the edge of the courtyard, he stopped and looked back.
She was still there — arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“If I win,” he said, “will you come find me?”
She didn’t answer.
He smiled, small and sad. “Didn’t think so.”
And then he was gone.
⸻
She stayed under the rain until the courtyard lights went out.
Her hoodie was soaked. Her heart, worse.
The next morning, his dorm bed was empty.
The rumor spread fast: De Luca’s gone pro. Signed to a team in Italy. The next big thing.
She deleted his number.
Then undeleted it.
Then changed it to Do Not Answer.
⸻
Months later, she saw him again — on TV.
Helmet off, sweat on his neck, reporters shouting his name.
He smiled into the camera, the same crooked grin she’d once memorized in secret.
And when the interviewer asked, “What drives you, Rafael?” he paused — just a second too long — and said,
“Someone once told me I was running.”
Vicky threw the remote at the screen.
⸻
That night, she opened her notebook — the one he used to steal for doodling tire diagrams — and wrote one line at the top of a blank page:
Never fall for a boy who races anything he can’t control.
She underlined it twice.
Then closed the book.
And for eight years, she didn’t open it again.