Chapter 20 20
Chapter 20 20
The first time Vicky saw him again — not in photos, not in campaign decks, but moving, breathing, alive — it was through the television in her office.
The screen was muted at first.
A Formula 1 pre-race segment.
Crowds screaming. Flashbulbs.
That same name, in bold at the bottom corner: Rafael De Luca Ricciardi — World Champion, Neon Apex F1.
She told herself she wasn’t going to watch.
She had reports due, an inbox full of deadlines, a migraine that refused to die.
But her eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
He looked—
God, he looked different.
Older.
Broader shoulders, jaw sharper.
That calm, lethal composure of someone who’d learned how to weaponize charm.
The interviewer was smiling too wide. “Rafael, you’ve become something of a legend already — four consecutive wins this season, a championship lead, and millions of fans calling you the Ice King. What drives you now?”
His lips twitched. “Fear of losing.”
“Of what? A title?”
He paused. A long, heavy beat.
Then he said, “Not a title.”
Even with the volume off, she could see it — that flicker in his eyes, like a spark behind glass.
He wasn’t smiling anymore.
The interviewer laughed awkwardly. “Care to elaborate?”
He did. And when he spoke, his voice carried through the speakers, low and unguarded.
“I lost something years ago,” he said. “Someone, actually. I’ve been trying to outdrive that ever since.”
The interviewer blinked, stunned. “You mean—”
But Rafael cut him off with that same crooked grin that made headlines and heartbreaks. “Let’s just say, I was seventeen. I didn’t know what I was doing. Still don’t, most days.”
The crowd loved it.
The internet exploded.
And Vicky?
She froze.
⸻
By afternoon, every sports site had clipped that segment.
#DeLucaConfession trended across platforms.
Some said he was talking about a first love.
Some said it was about family.
Some said it was just another PR stunt to soften his image.
But she knew better.
She recognized the way his jaw tightened before the words came out.
The way he didn’t quite blink afterward.
Because that was his tell — the same look he had when he used to lie about being “fine” after losing a karting race.
She slammed the laptop shut.
⸻
That night, she sat in her apartment with a glass of wine she didn’t really want.
Her email pinged with new campaign alerts.
One of them was from Apex Media Relations.
Victoria,
We’re inviting top-tier PR executives to Monaco this season for an exclusive industry networking event. It would be a pleasure to have you.
She stared at the screen.
Monaco.
His team.
His race.
The same event where she’d be shaking hands with sponsors who practically worshipped him.
She hit delete.
Then pulled up her calendar.
Then undeleted it.
⸻
The event was a blur of champagne, chrome, and people who talked too loudly about money.
The circuit shimmered beyond the glass windows, the sound of engines thrumming in the background like a heartbeat she couldn’t ignore.
Vicky moved through the crowd like smoke — polite, poised, detached.
Her badge read Victoria Alvarez — Executive Communications Director.
Not the girl who used to wait at a bus stop with Rafael De Luca and laugh about who’d crash first.
Across the room, a large screen played race highlights.
Him, overtaking on turn 3.
Him, lifting the trophy.
Him, smiling under confetti.
She caught her reflection in the glass beside his image — older, calmer, maybe even colder.
She didn’t flinch.
Until someone said, “You used to work with De Luca, didn’t you?”
The voice came from a journalist — blonde, sharp eyes, smirk like a scalpel.
Vicky’s mouth curved, professional and effortless. “No. But I’ve managed worse.”
The woman laughed. “You sound like him.”
Vicky raised an eyebrow. “That’s an insult.”
⸻
She stayed until midnight.
The crowd thinned, the air thickened with the smell of champagne and sweat.
When she finally stepped outside, the noise of the race still echoed down the street.
She looked toward the paddock — the floodlights still burning bright.
Somewhere beyond those walls, he was probably celebrating, surrounded by cameras, flashes, applause.
It used to be just them — one girl, one boy, and a dream too big for two hearts to carry.
Now, it was him and the world.
And she was part of the machinery that kept that world spinning.
⸻
Back in her hotel, she kicked off her heels, turned on the TV — and there he was again.
This time, post-race press conference.
The moderator smiled. “Rafael, congratulations. Four wins in a row — incredible. How does it feel?”
“Familiar,” he said easily. “Winning is addictive.”
“And what about the emotional side? Fans are obsessed with your story — the discipline, the focus, the heartbreaks.”
He leaned back, grin lazy. “Heartbreaks?”
The crowd chuckled.
The moderator pressed on. “There’s speculation you were referencing someone from your past in that interview earlier today. Care to clarify?”
He didn’t look away from the camera.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t smile.
He just said,
“Some stories don’t need clarification.”
Then — and maybe she imagined it — he glanced slightly to the side, as if at someone far away, like his gaze was following a ghost.
The moderator moved on. The crowd clapped.
But Vicky sat frozen in her hotel room, the noise fading around her.
⸻
Later, when she turned off the TV, she caught her reflection again — and realized she was smiling. Not with joy. Not even with pain. Just disbelief.
Because after all this time, after all the distance, he still had the nerve to turn her into a soundbite.
A myth.
A confession designed to melt headlines.
She picked up her phone. Opened Twitter. Typed:
If you can’t drive without looking in the rearview, maybe don’t call yourself a champion.
Then she deleted it.
Because she was too good at her job to start a war.
Still, she whispered into the empty room,
“You always did love an audience, didn’t you?”
⸻
By morning, her inbox was flooded with new campaign proposals — every brand wanting their own Rafael.
She accepted every one of them.
Cold, efficient, sharp.
If the universe insisted on throwing his shadow across her career, fine.
She’d turn it into currency.
He might own the spotlight.
But she was going to own the narrative.
And someday, when their paths crossed again — when he’d stand in front of her not as a ghost or a name on a poster but as a man who once promised I won’t forget —
She’d make damn sure he remembered exactly what forgetting her had cost.