Chapter 1 #3
I’m used to her bailing early or canceling our plans completely because of her job, but my stomach still sinks.
There’s always some kind of drama going down in the hotel business, and it’s been even more dramatic since her father overlooked her for a much-deserved promotion to CEO of their family’s company after years of practically running the place herself.
He picked her completely useless older brother, Andrew, instead, but after recovering from the initial shock of it all, Edith decided not to take that as a final answer.
‘More Andrew chaos?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘Staging a coup really is so much work,’ she says airily, but there’s a steel to it too. ‘You can come with me if you’d like, but I don’t think you really want to watch me ream him and a bunch of solicitors into the wee hours of the morning.’
‘While I’m sure that will be entertaining, I think I’ll stick around.’ I touch her wrist in gratitude. ‘Thanks again for letting me crash at your flat this week. I wasn’t sure if staying with my dad for that long was a good idea.’
‘Someone might as well inhabit that place while we move into the new house.’ She shoots me a wink, then sobers. ‘Please don’t trip over any more boxes. I really don’t want you ending up in hospital. But feel free to pack a few. That shit’s never-ending.’
‘Oh, I’m aware. At least you only moved across the city and not the Atlantic.’
I hauled ass back to the US after getting fired, partially because my UK residency was tied to a work visa, but also because I wanted – honestly, needed – a fresh start. Unfortunately, I’m still unpacking everything I accumulated over ten years in England and I fear it may never end.
‘And whose fault is that, babe?’ She leans in for an air-kiss. ‘We’re still on for breakfast tomorrow, I promise. I’m going to make the most of my last day with you before you fuck off back across the pond.’
I smile, air-kissing her other cheek. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘And if you don’t, it’s because I’m in jail for fratricide.’
She knocks back the rest of her champagne, hands the glass off to a waiter, and then she’s gone.
It leaves me to turn my attention back to the stage, where my father is animatedly discussing Specter Energy’s confident outlook for the season.
As he speaks, I’m reminded of all the speeches he gave at the end of team meetings, how they’d meander and seemingly veer wildly off-topic yet always circle back around and end with a poignant question to consider.
I used to walk away either dazed, confused, or truly inspired and usually found myself huddled up with the rest of Specter’s marketing and social media teams, who were also trying to figure out what the hell he was on about.
It’s an odd thing to miss, but listening to him tonight makes the ache of what I lost hurt a little more.
My father gives a reserved wave to the crowd as they wrap up the segment, and I sip my champagne while they depart the stage, half listening as the host cracks more terrible jokes. Without Edith by my side, this is decidedly less fun. Especially with all the eyes that are suddenly upon me.
I’m nowhere near conceited enough to think everyone here knows who I am, but plenty of them do – and plenty of them are staring.
Part of me expected this, to be looked at and whispered about, but another part was more optimistic.
Surely there’s better gossip to dwell on.
The talk should be about Lorenzo Castellucci’s tell-all interview that dropped a few days ago and shook the world of F1 with some of its revelations – like the teammate sabotage at McMorris or him taking full responsibility for the crash that nearly killed him and two other drivers in Singapore.
More attention travels my way when the host announces that Mascort is the next team to take the stage, and it quickly becomes obvious that nope, there isn’t better gossip tonight.
God, I should have gone home to my cats after the wedding. At least their judgmental stares are cute.
With Edith’s invitation tonight, I hoped I could dip my toe back into this world, maybe find a way to keep wading until I was immersed again.
So far, all I’ve proven to myself is that I was right to move on.
I was right to focus on building a version of my life that I could be equally excited about.
Except I’m still stuck digging the foundation of that new life.
It’s been a year and a half since I left Specter.
Eight months of fruitless IUI after saving up and fighting to get it covered by my crappy self-employed insurance.
Too long spent wanting and waiting and wishing for things to happen that just don’t seem to want to come to fruition.
And yet every day I make myself open the metaphorical curtains and feel the sun on my face, because I’ve seen how dark life can be, how grief can steal away the light, and I’m determined not to let it drag me back to the shadows.
Taking a cue from Edith, I down my drink and slip through the crowd until I reach the back of the room, wanting to hide for a bit, at least until this part is over.
But when the applause starts and reaches a near-deafening level, I can’t help but glance over my shoulder, looking back toward the stage.
And there he is. Zaid Yousef, the face of Formula 1 – and the reason I can never come back.