CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
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Lucas
The season roared back to life.
He was on fire.
Singapore: P1. Brazil: P1 again. Austin: P4. The championship fight narrowed—he was third equal now, breathing down the leader’s neck with two races left.
Las Vegas delivered everything it promised: neon-drenched spectacle, high-stakes drama, and a win that felt like destiny.
He started P2, held his nerve, seized the lead on lap 28 during a perfectly timed safety car, and held it to the chequered flag—his fifth victory of the season.
Second overall now, with only Abu Dhabi left.
The fireworks over the Strip exploded as he stood on the top step, black race suit unzipped to the waist, champagne soaking him, eyes searching the paddock for her.
* * *
The post-race party was at a rooftop club high above the Strip—private, exclusive, all mirrored walls, pulsing bass, and champagne towers.
He arrived late, out of his race suit and into a tailored black suit—crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie.
He looked every inch the champion: sharp, dangerous, untouchable.
Mia was already there—a black silk slip dress gliding over her silhouette with quiet elegance, hair loose in waves, sparkling water in hand.
Across the room, he saw her talking to someone at the bar.
The man leaned in too close, grin wide, accent carrying over the music.
Lucas recognised him instantly—the Italian photographer from the Nice shoot last summer.
The same one who’d complimented her framing, brushed her elbow, looked at her like she was part of the shot.
Jealousy flared hot and immediate in Lucas’s chest—sharp, possessive.
He watched the photographer offer her a flute of champagne, saw her step back, saw the way the man kept pressing, laughing too loud, not taking the hint.
Mia’s smile stayed polite, but her shoulders tensed, her body language shifting—uncomfortable, cornered.
Lucas set his untouched drink down. Excused himself from the cluster of models mid-sentence. Made his way through the crowd, pulse hammering.
He reached them just as Mia was glancing around, looking for an exit.
“Lucas,” she said, relief flickering in her eyes as he stepped up beside her. “You remember Marco from the shoot over the summer.”
Marco turned, grin widening when he saw Lucas— “Ah, the star himself!”
Mia kept her voice light, professional. “He was just letting me know what a great campaign it’s shaping up to be.”
Marco’s eyes slid back to her, lingering too long.
“And I’m trying to convince this beautiful lady to share a glass of champagne with me.
Don’t you think she should be celebrating when she looks so sexy?
” He leaned in closer to her, voice dropping sleazily.
“Anything can happen in Vegas, no? One drink, bella. Loosen up a little.”
Lucas felt the jealousy snap into something colder, sharper.
Lucas stepped in closer—shoulder brushing Mia’s, protective wall up. “Mia,” he said, tone low but firm, “can I borrow you for a minute?”
He didn’t wait for Marco’s response. His hand settled on her lower back—light but deliberate—and he guided her away, cutting through the crowd without another word.
They slipped down a quiet corridor, past velvet ropes, into a small powder room tucked behind the VIP area. Door locked. Lights dimmed to soft gold.
The second the bolt clicked, they were on each other.
His mouth crashed down—hard, desperate, tasting of champagne and victory. She kissed him back just as fiercely, hands yanking his jacket open, fingers working his belt. He lifted her onto the marble vanity—dress shoved up, underwear pushed aside. He thrust in—deep, sudden, both of them gasping.
“Quiet,” he breathed against her ear, hips snapping forward. “They’ll hear.”
She bit her lip, nodding, but couldn’t stop the soft moans as he buried deep into her—a steady rhythm that built fast. Her legs wrapped around him, perfect pressure.
They were close—too close—when the door rattled.
Then swung open—someone had a key card.
Marco stood there—champagne flute still in hand, eyes widening.
For one frozen heartbeat: Mia on the vanity, dress around her waist, legs around him; him buried deep inside her, black suit jacket open, hands gripping her thighs.
Marco’s mouth opened—shock, then something darker.
“Well,” he said slowly. “This is… enlightening.”
He turned to leave.
“Marco—” she called.
* * *
Mia
Lucas pulled out—slow, careful—helped her down. Her legs shook as her feet hit the floor. She yanked her dress down with trembling hands, smoothing it frantically, but the fabric felt wrong now—too short, too tight, like it was advertising what Marco had just witnessed.
They straightened up—clothes fixed, breathing ragged—and slipped back into the party separately, faces composed, smiles polite, as if nothing had happened.
But everything had.
They found Marco at the bar, leaning against the counter, fresh drink in hand. He saw them approach—saw the way Lucas’s hand hovered near her back, protective.
“Marco—” Her voice came out unsteady, small. “Please. Don’t say anything.”
Marco looked at her—really looked—then at Lucas. A hard ridge formed along his jaw.
“You said no drinks,” he said quietly. “No flirting. Nothing. But then?” He gestured between them. “This you do.”
Lucas stepped forward—calm, but protective. “She said no. You didn’t listen.”
Marco’s eyes narrowed. “And you? You’re fucking her in a bathroom at a work party. Very professional.”
She stepped between them—heart hammering, panic rising. “Marco, please. We’re not— It’s not what it looks like.”
“It looks exactly like what it is,” he said. “And I’m not sure I feel like keeping quiet about it.”
Lucas stepped in front of him—black suit sharp, expression calm but dangerous.
“Marco,” he said quietly. “We need to talk.”
Marco laughed—short, bitter. “Talk? After what I just saw?”
She stepped up beside Lucas—voice shaking. “Please. Just… don’t say anything.”
Marco looked between them—then fixed on Lucas.
“You think you’re untouchable,” he said. “Championship contender. Pretty face. Everyone wants you. But you’re just another driver fucking around behind closed doors.”
Lucas’s jaw clenched. “Watch it.”
Marco leaned in—voice low, taunting. “Or what? You’ll hit me? In front of everyone? Ruin your perfect image?”
Then he turned slowly, eyes fixed on her.
“You know,” he said, voice low and venomous, “I thought you were different. Classy. Smart. But turns out you’re just another slut who spreads her legs for the drivers.”
The word hit like a physical blow.
Shame exploded inside her—white-hot, blinding. It was the same word Henry had let spread all those years ago. The same label that had isolated her, branded her, made her question her own worth. And now it was being said again. Because she’d let herself get carried away.
Her chest caved. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just felt the old panic clawing up her throat—the same panic from the morning she’d woken up bruised and alone, everyone believing the lie.
Lucas moved—fast, instinctive. His fist snapped forward—clean, hard, connecting with Marco’s jaw.
The photographer staggered back, champagne flute shattering on the marble floor. He hit the ground hard—out cold.
Mia’s hand flew to her mouth.
Shock froze her in place.
The room froze.
Every eye turned.
Gasps. Phones raised. Security moving in.
Lucas stood over Marco—chest heaving, knuckles red, black suit still immaculate.
He looked at her—eyes wide, shocked at himself.
The secret wasn’t just cracked anymore.
It was shattered.