Chapter 20 The Grand Prix 2/2
Later, as we moved toward the hospitality suite, we passed through the core of the paddock, where rival teams were setting up. This was the moment I had dreaded and, simultaneously, the moment Rhys seemed to thrive on. This public space was his element—the crucible where power was displayed and enforced.
"Keep up, Doctor Winslow," Rhys instructed, gripping my elbow briefly, the professional touch holding a layer of unwarranted ownership. He steered me through the crowded corridor as if I were merely an expensive extension of his own body.
We stopped briefly by the garage of Viper Racing, one of Apex's fiercest competitors. Julian, ever the diplomat, introduced us to their principal, a suave, older man, Jean-Pierre, who offered a polite but strained handshake.
"Doctor Winslow," Jean-Pierre said, his eyes sharp. "I must commend your timing. The market disruption caused by your little documentary was quite... thorough. A masterful stroke of corporate warfare. Your employer must be very pleased with your recent loyalty." The last word was delivered with icy sarcasm, clearly referencing my recent employment shift.
Rhys cut in smoothly, dismissing Jean-Pierre's veiled hostility with a practiced smile, before introducing us to their star driver, Marco Rossi. Rossi was Italian, famous for his aggressive driving and his openly reckless charm—the antithesis of the stoic, measured Rhys.
Rossi’s eyes, the color of rich hazelnut, didn’t linger on the suit; they lingered on me—a woman suddenly appearing at Rhys Vance’s side, radiating intelligence and exhaustion.
"Rhys," Rossi drawled, his smile instantly engaging, "I see you've finally upgraded your collateral. I expected an analyst, not... this." He let his gaze slide down my suit, a visual assessment that felt less critical than Rhys's and far more appreciative. He lingered on the high collar of the silk blouse, remembering the only time the vulnerable me had ever appeared in public—my hasty flight.
Rhys's grip on my elbow tightened instantly, transforming the professional contact into a warning. The muscles in his forearm flexed beneath the sleeve of his suit, a silent, visceral response to the public challenge.
"Doctor Winslow is integral to Apex's success, Marco," Rhys stated, his voice a low growl that carried a distinct threat. "She is the sharpest mind in structural integrity and competitive strategy."
Rossi merely shrugged, unbothered by Rhys’s hostility. "Integrity, strategy. Boring words for such an interesting woman. I heard you were in Chicago, Doctor Winslow. You missed the culture—and the fun—by staying with the economists." He stepped closer, deliberately violating Julian's soft perimeter. His breath smelled faintly of expensive cognac and adrenaline. "I'm having a small gathering tonight. Casual. Engineers only. You should come. I'd love to hear your analysis on my cornering technique."
The invitation was blatant flirting, a direct challenge to Rhys's authority. For the first time since boarding the jet, a genuine, albeit nervous, smile touched my lips. Rossi wasn't asking for my analysis; he was acknowledging my existence outside of Rhys’s shadow. The external validation—the recognition that I was more than Rhys’s property—felt intoxicating.
"Cornering is where most people lose control, isn't it?" I asked, allowing my smile to become deliberate and meeting his gaze directly. "It's all about finding the perfect entry point, knowing exactly when to push the limits, and when to hold back. It takes discipline."
Rossi chuckled, leaning even closer, ignoring the dark presence of Rhys entirely. "Ah, discipline. A beautiful word, Doctor. But sometimes, holding back is the real tragedy. I prefer to push the limits until the whole world is spinning. Tell me, are you a pusher or a holder?"
Rhys’s hand, still locked on my elbow, convulsed. The air around him dropped several degrees. I maintained eye contact with Marco, feeling the delicious, dangerous spark of antagonism.
"I am a strategist, Rossi," I countered smoothly, the professional mask firmly in place, even while my pulse raced. "I calculate the risk, then I make the optimal move. But I never let someone else choose my trajectory."
Rhys's knuckles were white against my elbow. I felt his body tense into pure, predatory fury. The small, contained space of the paddock suddenly felt like a cage match, and I was the prize.
"Doctor Winslow is fully occupied with Apex strategy for the duration of the weekend," Rhys stated before I could even open my mouth to decline or accept. "Her schedule is non-negotiable. She is here solely to work."
Rossi laughed, a smooth, practiced sound. "Such a strict boss, Rhys. Don't worry, Doctor. When you tire of being owned, you know where to find the fun." He gave me a lingering look and winked before turning away. The message was clear: Rhys was holding me back, and Rossi was offering an escape.
I pulled my arm away from Rhys. "My schedule is non-negotiable because I set it, Mr. Vance. And if I want to have a conversation with a rival driver, I will. You will not speak for me."
Rhys leaned close, his voice cutting and low. "You will not flirt with the rival driver, Ellie. It's a security breach, and it's a strategic weakness. You were hired to eliminate the threat, not create a new one. You are here to work, not to validate your sudden freedom."
I stared back at him, seeing the familiar hatred and control blazing in his eyes. He wasn't protecting me; he was staking a claim. He hated the idea that someone else might see the "woman beneath the armor," and he hated the fact that I was disposable enough to flirt with another man while wearing his suit. The possessiveness was a direct extension of the control he had wielded since childhood. I realized with a cold clarity that the more attractive or desirable I became to the outside world, the more aggressive his control would become.
The race weekend had just begun, and the real tension was already off the charts. I had walked directly into his most powerful arena, and now I was a piece on his board, attracting the unwanted attention of a highly competitive rival.