Chapter 5
Ronan
The wheels on my Aston Martin Valour haven’t even come to a complete stop on the gravel driveway before I regret coming to see her.
I kill the engine and sit there a moment longer, eyes pinned on the oversized front door of the manor house where my mother lives when she’s not in rehab.
My father moved her to Woking when I signed with Crown Velocity as their headquarters are located here.
It ensured she’d be close enough that I could check in on her but far enough from London that my father never will.
Back in the city, he can keep his mistress who’s half his age.
The irony is he doesn’t care who knows about her but fears a scandal if he divorces my mother.
Instead, I think he rather likes her staying drunk or high because she stays out of his hair.
If he were truthful, he’d say, “It’s the cost of doing business. ”
And besides… he has a son who will come along and pick up the pieces of her broken life.
The engine ticks as it cools and I’d love nothing more than to start it again and drive the hell out of here.
This car is only one out of a hundred and ten made in the world—bespoke paintwork, carbon fiber trim, and a naturally aspirated V12 that sounds like war when unleashed. A symbol of my success.
My father called it juvenile indulgence, even though I didn’t pay a dime for it.
Fast luxury cars are a perk at Crown Velocity and I’ll have a different one next year as part of my performance package.
Even if they didn’t give me a fancy car, I’d have bought one for myself.
I can afford a hundred of them with the twenty million dollars a year I get paid, not including bonuses.
People outside the racing world often can’t understand that type of salary for driving a car around a track, but when you think about it…
there are only twenty people in the world who can do what I do.
Ten teams, two drivers per. Only twenty slots to perform a job that could leave me maimed or dead.
Some days I think my salary isn’t nearly enough.
I get out and the car door closes with a hushed, mechanical click.
Gravel shifts under my boots as I walk toward the house.
The morning is mild, pale light filtering through the thin English clouds, and I’m exhausted, having just flown in from Suzuka.
I want nothing more than a hot shower and a long nap, but I have things to deal with first.
Most drivers live in Monaco. Tax havens and penthouses with views of nothing but water.
However, I prefer to keep my primary residence in London because I like the city and the nightlife.
When I need to be at Crown HQ for work, I stay here at my mother’s estate in a separate wing—it provides an added buffer.
The house looms ahead, three stories of Georgian stone and window boxes that garden staff keep filled with seasonally appropriate greenery.
No one greets me when I let myself in and I’m hit with the scent of lilies and lemon polish.
The front hall practically sparkles—gleaming floors, fresh flowers in a massive vase, and expensive artwork on the walls.
But the deeper in I go, the more the cracks show.
A water ring stains the mahogany end table where she left a drink sweating overnight. Makeup smears the edge of an antique armchair. The air smells faintly of perfume and something stale beneath it—perhaps cigarettes?
The house is pristine where the staff have cleaned, and quietly decaying everywhere Vivienne Barnes lays her hands. Artificial calm over decay.
I find my mother in the sitting room, draped across a velvet chaise like she’s posing for an oil painting.
Silk robe, mug of tea in one hand, and the other draped dramatically over the edge of the cushions.
Her hair’s brushed but not styled. She hasn’t bothered with lipstick and that tells me she’s likely been drinking since she woke up.
“Darling,” she croons, offering me a wan smile. “This is a nice surprise. Are you in town to work?”
I cross the room, eyeing the silver tray on the side table. The usual—herbal tea, a half-empty pill bottle, and an empty highball glass that I know will smell of vodka if I lean in close to it.
“I came straight from Japan,” I say. “I had a race yesterday.”
She smiles faintly. “That was yesterday?”
No surprise there. I doubt she knows what month it is.
I study her carefully, noting a faint bruise to her temple. She stares back at me, a mildly confused expression on her face.
I take a seat on a Queen Anne chair and almost as if by magic, a maid appears no doubt to ask me if I’d like some tea. I wave her off before she can fully step foot in the room and she scurries away.
“You checked yourself out of treatment,” I say, propping my ankle on my knee and subconsciously gripping the armrests for the wild ride I’m about to take.
She makes a scoffing sound and waves a dramatic hand in the air. “Those fools… they don’t know what they’re doing. They’re all proclaiming that hot yoga and granola will cure me. Ridiculous.”
I hold back the long-suffering sigh I want to let out, choosing instead to keep my tone steady but firm. “It is one of the top-rated substance abuse clinics in England,” I point out. “I’m guessing they’ve seen success with hot yoga and granola.”
“It’s a waste of your money,” she insists. “And if you came running back here from Japan because of that, it’s a waste of your time.”
“You checked yourself out of rehab, wrecked a borrowed car, and sent Dad into full crisis mode. What did you think I’d do?”
She waves her hand again, lazily this time. “Crisis mode. Please. It was a fender bender in a car that drives like a toaster. And your father’s only upset because he has no control over me.” She takes a delicate sip of her tea. “Besides, he’s too busy with that woman he’s shagging to even care.”
She’s not wrong about that.
I don’t let up on her though. “He’s upset because you were high and drunk on a public road.”
“Not drunk. Buzzed.” Her smile widens, almost proud. “Besides, your father’s always looking for an excuse to be upset. Especially if it distracts from his midlife mistress and her tragic wardrobe.”
I press two fingers to the space between my eyes. “Vivienne.”
Not Mother. Not Mum. She’s only Vivienne to me.
“Don’t use that tone,” she chides. “You sound like your prep school headmaster.” She props herself up slightly and tucks an errant blond curl behind her ear. “You looked handsome on the telly. Even if you didn’t win.”
That surprises me. “You watched the race?”
“Mmm,” she hums, and I’m not sure if that’s a yes or no. It doesn’t matter one way or the other as Vivienne Barnes hasn’t been a true mother to me since… well, forever, I guess. “Will you stay for dinner?”
I don’t answer, instead rising from my chair to move to crack open the window. The air outside is damp and honest. In here, everything feels coated in perfume and denial.
“You should think about dating someone,” she says abruptly, as if we’re discussing weather or wallpaper.
I glance over my shoulder at her, one eyebrow raised, but she’s not finished.
“You’re twenty-six. Almost an old man in racing years.
Don’t want to end up like your father. All money and no one to spend it on except his tart du jour. ”
I don’t answer. I’m used to her ping-pong conversational pivots. I watch her closely, noting the slight tremor in her left hand, the hazy glaze still clinging to her eyes. She’s present in body, but not really in mind.
“That’s not an option for me,” I say dismissively. “Not with the life I’ve got.”
She tsks. “Nonsense. You’re a good-looking boy. Women love race car drivers. They practically throw themselves at you, don’t they?”
A bitter laugh pushes up my throat, but I swallow it down. This interest in my dating life isn’t real. It’s merely her mechanism to deflect from her addictions. She’s never asked why I don’t bring anyone home. And now that she has, the answer burns like a blade turned inward.
I think of Katherine. Eighteen. The only girl I ever liked enough to try. Bright-eyed, curious, genuinely sweet. I brought her home for Christmas break, stupidly proud to have someone who made me feel halfway normal.
Vivienne met us at the door with gin on her breath and a fur coat slipping off one shoulder.
She was horrible from the start, refusing to call her by her real name.
She was Emily, then Emma, and would apologize every time I would correct her, but I could tell she wasn’t sorry.
Not with that malicious, gin-fueled glint in her eye.
She ended up knocking over a bottle of Bordeaux onto Katherine’s lap and then shrieked at her for wasting the wine.
Katherine burst into tears, I took her home and we never spoke again.
That’s only one example of the ways my mother likes to maim from the inside out.
When I don’t answer, she keeps poking at me. “Really… why don’t you want your friends to know me? You know… I’ve always supported you.”
I stare at her.
She blinks.
My anger bubbles. “Really? Is that what you remember?” I ask, and a mean edge creeps into my voice before I can stop it.
“You supporting me? Because I remember you showing up to that junior kart final in Marbella so drunk they wouldn’t let you past the gate.
Or how about the time you fell asleep during my prep school awards banquet?
Or maybe it’s the time you made a scene at Ascot, trying to climb into a hospitality tent and screaming that you were my manager. Are those the ways you supported me?”
She flinches. It’s small, but I see it. “That was years ago,” she murmurs, flopping another dismissive wave at me.
My upper lip curls over her refusal to take responsibility. “You did it last year at a press event in London. Luckily, security stopped you before you could make a fool out of both of us.”