Chapter 39
DEFENSIVE LINE: POSITIONING THE CAR TO BLOCK AN OVERTAKE
Idon’t think I’ve ever watched someone choose the rest of their life in real time.
I’ve built entire systems around predicting outcomes. I’ve been in rooms where decisions make or break outcomes. But this?
There’s been nothing like it, and I’ve never been prouder to be a part of it.
Leo sits next to me at the dining table in the suite’s main room.
The phone sits between us, drawing all our attention.
His posture is rigid due to what this moment means.
Dario sits across from him, arms crossed, offering occasional levity.
My father leans on the table with his elbows, giving the appearance of simply listening while he absorbs every word from the solicitor who understands Leo’s request. I’m just trying to ground Leo as much as I can.
I feel Leo’s attention shift inward. “Walk me through it,” he says.
Heythrop speaks of the legal mechanics of stepping away from something most people would spend their lives trying to reach. Then he reminds Leo, “Once you disclaim the title, you are legally treated as though you never inherited it. The next eligible heir assumes the position.”
“There isn’t one,” Leo says flatly.
“That complicates matters,” Heythrop replies. “But it does not preclude the action.”
I know this isn’t just a legality. This is Leo cutting the last tie to something that hurt him so deeply it still shapes the way he sees himself.
“Timing?” Leo asks.
“It must be done within twelve months of succession,” Heythrop replies. “However, given the public nature of your situation, sooner is advisable.”
I’m not surprised. Everything about this is going to be publicly messy. Fodder for traditional news media and the internet.
Leo exhales slowly, his gaze dropping for a moment before lifting again. “Do you feel I should make a statement, given what my father has already done?”
“Yes,” Heythrop agrees. “A press conference would be appropriate.”
“I want to wait,” Leo adds. “Until after the funeral.”
“Understood,” Heythrop says. “That is a reasonable timeline. According to the news, your brother will be laid to rest in three days.”
Leo barks out a laugh that contains no humor. “I’m glad the news has that information before it was ever passed along to me.”
“I’m deeply sorry to be the one to tell you.” Heythrop is contrite.
Meanwhile, the number of days repeats in my head, along with what he’ll need to be ready to do. Leo has three days until he stands in front of his father again.
“Send me everything,” Leo says. “I want it ready. And George? Have PR prepare for a press conference two weeks after the funeral.”
“I will, Leo,” George confirms. I hear his fingers frantically typing.
“Leo? You know your father is going to react to the actions you are taking,” Heythrop warns.
Leo’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, it shores him up. “It won’t be anything new. None of my choices have ever escaped my father’s judgment.”
“Then, we’ll touch base soon.”
The call ends. No one speaks. Leo stares at the phone like it holds something more than answers.
Then, he looks at me and asks, “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”
The fact that he even questions his actions makes me fall in love with him even more. “I think the right thing to do is whatever makes you happy. No matter what you decide, I will support you.”
His gaze searches mine, not for validation of his actions, but for sincerity. I tell him, “I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me whether you’re Viscount Raleigh, Leo the F1 driver, or if you decide to chuck everything tomorrow and we move to Saratoga Springs.”
He reads the truth in my features before turning back to the table. “I’ve made my choice.”
Dario pushes back so his chair is resting on only two legs. “Then we prepare for the fallout.”
My father leans forward slightly, his presence grounding in a different way than Dario’s. “I’ll help Dario. He and I will manage the optics,” he adds. “But you need to be certain.”
“I am,” Leo says. “The only thing I’m more certain of is how grateful I am that you’re all here.”
The next three days are a blur that reminds me far too much of my mother’s death. Grief that isn’t loud, but constant. In the dark of night from our suite, Leo doesn’t say much, but I hear him anyway—the weight of being stuck in this place. The ghost of expectations he thought he’d banished.
I hate it. I hate that, for now, his father still believes he has that kind of hold on him.
“Are you okay?” I ask him the night before the funeral.
“Right now? No. But I will be,” he says.
I close my eyes, holding onto that.
Because it’s enough.
It has to be.