Chapter Six
Leonidas knew he had two choices.
Pull away before it got worse, or fight until the end even though he knew he had already lost.
To go to Monaco was to face his nightmare made manifest—to see with his own two eyes the proof that his wife had lost faith in him, that whatever they had built in those fragile hours in Manhattan had been nothing more than a beautiful lie he’d told himself because he wanted it to be true.
But because he still had no plans of acting like a coward, and because he had always believed it was more efficient to rip the bandaid off with one brutally quick yank rather than prolonging the inevitable—
“You forgot your coat, kyria.”
Here he was, thirty minutes later, unable to keep himself from doing what he had always done as he draped the cashmere over his wife’s shoulders and watched her startle at the unexpected warmth.
So much for efficiency.
Lexy looked up at him with eyes that were softer than usual, her cheeks rosier than they had been before New York, before the penthouse, before everything between them had shifted into something he didn’t have words for yet. She smiled—just a small thing, barely there—and that was all it took.
She didn’t even have time to gasp.
The moment the jet lifted off and the seatbelt sign flickered out, Leonidas had her hand in his, was guiding her down the narrow corridor toward the master suite that he had always insisted she use on long flights because the bed was better and the blackout curtains were more effective and he had never once admitted, even to himself, that he liked knowing she was comfortable even when he wasn’t there to see it.
Only this time, he was there.
And the suite felt entirely different with both of them in it—smaller somehow, warmer, the air thick with something that made her breath catch when he pressed her back against the door.
They used the bed. They used the shower.
They used the ridiculous marble counter that she had always thought was purely decorative, and by the time they were finished, Lexy had come to the dazed conclusion that every room on this jet—every room anywhere, really—could become something completely different when it was the two of them together.
She fell asleep in his arms somewhere over the Alps, curled against his chest like a child who had never known anything but safety, and she didn’t stir when the jet touched down in Monaco, didn’t wake when he carried her through the private terminal and into the back of the waiting limousine that Aivan had arranged.
Leonidas watched her sleep as the city blurred past the tinted windows, her dark hair spilling across his lap, her breathing slow and even and trusting in a way that made something in his chest ache.
She was here.
She was his.
And he still had no idea if he was going to lose her.
****
The guest suite at Cannizzaro Racing headquarters was ready when they arrived, all clean lines and muted luxury, and Leonidas tucked Lexy into the oversized bed with a care he hadn’t known he possessed.
She murmured something in her sleep—his name, maybe, or maybe just a sound—and turned her face into the pillow like she was searching for his warmth even unconscious.
He made himself leave anyway.
The hallways of the facility were quiet at this hour, most of the staff either home or huddled in the tech wing dealing with the aftermath of the breach.
Leonidas moved through them with the ease of long familiarity, his footsteps echoing against polished concrete as he made his way toward the lower levels where the real work happened.
He was passing the mechanics’ bay when he heard it.
“—and then Guile does the Sonic Boom, right, but Ken counters with the Shoryuken—”
Leonidas slowed.
Two young men in Cannizzaro Racing coveralls were hunched over a phone, gesticulating wildly as they debated something with the intensity usually reserved for engine calibrations and tire compounds.
“No way, bro. Ken’s got better combos, but Guile’s zoning is insane—”
“You’re crazy. Ken Masters is literally the GOAT—”
“Excuse me.”
Both interns jumped like they’d been caught stealing, spinning around to find Leonidas standing behind them with an expression he hoped conveyed professional curiosity and not the quiet dread building in his stomach.
Their eyes went wide.
“Mr. Gazis,” the taller one breathed, his voice cracking slightly. “Oh my God. You’re—I mean—it’s an honor, sir, I’ve watched every single one of your races, the Monaco GP in 2016 was literally the reason I got into motorsport—”
“The way you took that hairpin,” the shorter one added, practically vibrating. “In the rain. With two laps to go. Sir, that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I have the clip saved on my phone,” the first one said. “I watch it when I’m stressed.”
Leonidas held up a hand, and they both fell silent instantly, still staring at him like he’d descended from Olympus rather than walked down a corridor.
“I’d like to ask you something.” He kept his voice carefully neutral. “About Guile and Ken.”
The interns exchanged glances, and then their faces lit up with an enthusiasm that made Leonidas’s stomach drop.
“You play Street Fighter too?” The shorter one looked like he might actually combust from excitement. “That’s so cool, sir. Who’s your main? I’m a Ken guy myself, but Diego here thinks Guile is—”
“Street Fighter,” Leonidas repeated slowly.
“Yeah, you know—the game? Guile’s the American Air Force guy with the flat-top, and Ken’s the blond martial artist with the red gi—”
The words washed over him like ice water.
American Air Force. Flat-top. Blond martial artist. Red gi.
His wife’s voice echoed in his memory.
He was American. Air Force. Very tall. Muscular. Flat-top haircut. Always wore his dog tags...
Japanese-American. Also blond. Really into martial arts. Had his own dojo. Always wore this red training outfit...
Leonidas closed his eyes.
“Sir? Are you okay?”
He had been jealous—genuinely, furiously, irrationally jealous—of video game characters. He had interrogated his wife about fictional men. He had spent actual mental energy seething over a martial artist in a red training outfit who did not, in fact, exist.
“Fine,” he managed. “Thank you for your time.”
He walked away before they could see the color rising in his face, their confused murmurs fading behind him as he turned the corner and allowed himself exactly three seconds to process the sheer absurdity of what had just happened.
His wife had panicked and invented fake ex-boyfriends using Street Fighter characters.
And he had believed her.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or groan or find the nearest wall and introduce his forehead to it repeatedly.
Later, he told himself. He would deal with this particular humiliation later. Preferably never.
****
The tech wing was a maze of glass-walled rooms and humming servers, the air sharp with the smell of coffee and stress.
Aivan was in the main control center when Leonidas arrived, standing before a wall of monitors that displayed scrolling data Leonidas couldn’t begin to interpret, his dark hair disheveled and his shirt wrinkled in a way that suggested he hadn’t slept since the breach was discovered.
“Leon.” Aivan turned, and despite the exhaustion carved into his features, there was relief in his voice. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“What do we know?”
Aivan gestured to the screens. “The attack was sophisticated. Professional. They targeted the adaptive control system files specifically—your wife’s work.”
Your wife’s work.
The words landed strangely, even now.
“How much did they get?”
“Less than they wanted.” Aivan moved to a nearby console, pulling up a series of diagrams that meant nothing to Leonidas but clearly meant everything to the exhausted engineers scattered throughout the room.
“Our security protocols held longer than expected. They breached the outer layers, but the core algorithms—the parts that actually make the system work—those are still secure.”
“Do we know who’s responsible?”
“Not yet.” Aivan’s jaw tightened. “But we have theories.”
He led Leonidas through the facility, past rooms full of engineers hunched over laptops, past servers blinking with activity, past whiteboards covered in equations that looked more like art than mathematics.
And as they walked, Aivan explained—the breach, the response, the ongoing efforts to fortify their defenses—but Leonidas found himself only half-listening.
Because everywhere he looked, he saw evidence of her.
Her notes in the margins of printed schematics.
Her handwriting on a whiteboard in the corner, a formula circled three times with the word YES!
! scrawled beside it. Her coffee mug—the one with the faded cartoon robot that she’d had since university—sitting on a desk like she’d just stepped away and would be back any moment.
“She’s been working remotely,” Aivan said, following his gaze. “Even after she filed for divorce, she never stopped. If anything, she increased her hours.”
Leonidas said nothing.
She had asked for a divorce.
And then she had kept working on the system that would bring him back to racing.
Why?
“There’s something else you should see.” Aivan’s voice had shifted, careful now in a way that made Leonidas’s instincts prickle.
“We’ve been compiling footage for investor presentations.
Testimonials, technical explanations, that sort of thing.
One of the files we recovered from the breach attempt was a recording your wife made. ”
They stopped before a smaller room, this one quieter than the others, with a single large monitor mounted on the wall.
“She doesn’t know we’re showing you this,” Aivan added. “It was meant for the technical committee, not for you. But I think you need to see it.”
He pressed Play.
And there she was.