Chapter 5 Then…
Then…
Something was different.
Juliette scanned the breakfast hall. On the surface, nothing appeared changed.
Students milled around long tables, poring over books or nursing cups of coffee.
Tables groaned under dishes of chai-spiced pancakes and buttered toast. Two boys were lobbing hashbrowns at each other.
“Liêm is the best driver,” one was saying, “and if you watched his performance at Silverstone, you’d see that… ”
“Lettie!”
Baz waved her over. He was drinking orange juice, speaking in low voices with three boys in their history class.
She hurried across the breakfast hall. Whispers chased each other, although she couldn’t catch any of the words.
Unsurprising, considering most were in foreign languages.
Baz raised an eyebrow as she approached.
“Interesting,” he observed dryly.
Juliette looked down at her ensemble: a skirt, a hole-filled T-shirt, and a lab coat. She patted her frizzy ponytail defensively. “I was up late last night.”
“Doing what?”
“Studying,” Juliette offered, which was partly true; she’d been watching old race footage, accompanied by a twelve-sleeve of biscuits.
She eyed Baz’s loose gym gear. “What are you wearing?” They had chemistry in an hour, and Professor Harding didn’t take kindly to people rocking up in what he deemed “extremely flammable clothing.”
Baz drained his juice. “You didn’t hear?” At her blank look, he continued. “Change of plans. We have a guest instructor.”
Juliette blinked. “Who?”
“Dominic Hastings.”
Juliette actually laughed. “Come off it.” They got some pretty big names at the academy, but that was like the prime minister rocking up at an Intro to Politics course.
At a primary school. On the moon. Every racer worth their petrol knew who Dominic Hastings was.
The Prince of Racing, as the papers called him, as if he needed any introduction.
“It’s true,” Nate cut in. “He arrived this morning.”
He was cutting into a stack of pancakes.
Nate was wearing the same cologne that he always did—an overwhelmingly masculine cloud of musk—and she wrinkled her nose.
Hard to believe that she’d found that scent sexy when they were dating.
Even harder to believe that she’d stuck around for another four months after Nate started floating the idea of filming a sex tape to put online, but there you go. Hindsight was twenty-twenty.
Juliette poured herself a tea. “How does everyone else know about Hastings?”
Nate gave her an odd look. “Headmaster Simmons told us last night.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.” Nate shrugged. “He came into the dormitories.”
Juliette stirred in her milk. She should have guessed. As the only occupant in the female dormitories—which were more of a closet—she was often forgotten about. Still. She would have expected an update from Baz. As if he could read her thoughts, Baz shot her a guilty look.
“Sorry. I should have texted you.”
Juliette waved him off. “I didn’t peg Dominic Hastings as the sort to like teaching.” She hadn’t pegged him as the sort to like people in general, let alone a throng of overzealous teenagers.
“He takes an interest in rookies,” Nate said.
“No,” Phil said smugly. “He takes an interest in wiping out the competition, dickhead. Everyone knows that.”
Nate smirked. “Guess you have nothing to worry about then.”
Phil threw a piece of toast, and Nate dodged. Baz frowned, as if still considering Juliette’s words. “Maybe someone volunteered him for the position.”
“Who?” Juliette asked.
“I don’t know. His father?”
Juliette considered this. Vance Hastings did seem like the type to court positive press, but not at the expense of taking his son—and his prized racer—away from training. “What’s he teaching?”
“Driving,” Frederick said, appearing by their table. “He’ll be taking over our lessons on track over the summer break. My father told me.” He plucked a piece of bacon from a younger boy’s plate, ignoring his shout of outrage. “Nice hair, Marchmont. Did you walk directly into a leaf blower?”
Juliette ignored this. It was, she had found, the most successful defense against Frederick’s particular brand of bullshit.
Nate braced his elbows against the table. “Your brother races with him, right?”
Juliette glanced at Baz. “They’re teammates. And they’ve been for dinner a few times.”
There. That felt like a fair way to sum up the fact that Cap had once asked Dominic if he fancied a round of golf, and Dominic had stared at him blankly and said, “What, like on our day off?” Dominic Hastings didn’t really do friends. Didn’t see the need for them, apparently.
Nate looked hopeful. “Do you reckon Dominic would give me an autograph?”
Jasper chucked an orange peel at Nate. “Fuck that. Do you know how many models Hastings knows? He’s dating this Brazilian one who does the lingerie shoots. Her friends are so fit.”
Nate rolled his eyes. “Like he’d introduce you.”
“Sod that,” Teddy, the final member of their table, announced. “I wouldn’t mind taking Hastings for a ride.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Don’t you think, Juliette?”
Frederick smirked. “Might be the only way she can get ahead. By giving head.”
Juliette’s voice was cool. “I don’t see how you’d know, Von Galen, considering you’re not getting any.” She turned back to Teddy. “I don’t give a fuck about Dominic Hastings. I’m here to drive. Not to make eyes at our guest instructors.”
Teddy sighed. “Spoilsport.”
Jasper looked incredulous. “You don’t mean that. I’m straight, and even I want to date the bloke. He’s offensively handsome. Not to mention a racing legend.”
Juliette took a sip of tea. “You know Hastings isn’t god’s gift to humanity, right? He’s just a guy. And also a nepo baby.”
Phil shrugged. “Aren’t we all?”
Juliette did her best not to look at Baz, who was fighting back a smile.
Philip Worthington came from a long dynasty of racers, just as most students at the academy did; it would have seemed impossible to Phil that Baz’s parents once had to sell their house to fund his karting, or that Juliette worked at an ice cream shop every summer to buy new race suits.
She could only imagine the horror on Phil’s face if she told him.
Why wouldn’t you just use your trust fund?
Formula 1 was a wealthy industry, which meant you had to come from a wealthy family to gain entry. Then you would accumulate even more wealth by racing, and give birth to the next generation of racers, who would inherit that wealth.
It was, as Cap had once said, “like Eton on steroids.”
Juliette hopped up on the table. “I still don’t get why Dominic’s coming here.”
Nate’s eyes lingered on where her skirt had ridden up. “Must have done something bad.”
“You think?” Jasper asked.
Phil smirked. “I heard he got caught smuggling drugs into a casino.”
Frederick leaned forward. “Well, I heard that the Brazilian model blew him in a race car and the paparazzi got pictures.”
“Interesting,” a male voice said mildly. “I’d love to know how the mechanics of that would work. Quite difficult to fit two people inside a race car.”
All five boys jumped.
Juliette spun. A young man surveyed them with bored amusement.
He wore gym shorts and a black hoodie, his dark curls escaping from a backward baseball cap.
Her first thought was that all of them were screwed.
Her second thought was that Jasper had been right: Dominic Hastings was offensively handsome.
Frederick’s face drained of blood. “Sir—I’m sorry, we didn’t—”
“Hear me?” Dominic cut in. “That much was evident.”
He folded his arms. He seemed to relish their discomfort, Juliette observed, or at least made no move to abate it. His dark eyes flicked to her. “You must be Cap’s sister. The only girl at the academy.”
Wariness filled her. “Woman.”
Dominic raised an eyebrow. “How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
His mouth curled up. “Just barely then.”
Juliette raised an eyebrow. “And how old are you?” He couldn’t have been much older than she was, and he was certainly younger than Nate, who was the oldest in the academy at twenty-five. “Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Oh,” Juliette said dryly. “Well then, please continue. I’m sure those three years make all the difference.”
Dominic tossed an apple into the air, catching it with irritating ease. “What’s your name?”
Every eye in the canteen was on them. Juliette raised her chin.
“Juliette Marchmont.”
“Juliette,” Dominic repeated, and his voice curled around the t, as if he were tasting it. “And what’s your theory as to why I’m here?”
Ah. Wasn’t that the question? Juliette leaned forward. “Because you’re fast. Because you’ve had seventy-one podiums, only four crashes, and your lap time is 0.2 seconds faster than the average driver.” She paused. “Sir.”
The boys stared at her as if she’d started speaking in Latin. Dominic tilted his head. There was something almost predatory in his dark gaze, she observed, something that made her think of a hawk circling a rabbit.
“Interesting,” Dominic said softly. “You seem remarkably well informed for someone who doesn’t give a fuck about me.”
He bit into the apple with a decisive crunch. Heat bloomed in her cheeks. So he’d heard that bit. Fantastic.
Juliette cleared her throat. “I do give a fuck about your racing.”
Dominic’s eyes remained on her. He pitched the apple core over his shoulder, and it landed squarely in a bin. “Come with me.”
He strode for the doors. Juliette scrambled to her feet.
“Where are we going?”
Dominic pushed open the doors. “Congratulations, Marchmont. You’re first on track.” His voice was a challenge. “Let’s see what you can do.”
She hesitated. “You’re not doing this just to…” Dominic raised an eyebrow, and heat crept into her cheeks. God. She already regretted speaking. “Is this a punishment? For what I said earlier?”
Nepo baby. The words hung between them. To her surprise, Dominic extended a hand.
“Let’s agree to something now, Marchmont. I won’t fuck you over if you agree to do the same for me. How does that sound?”
Months later, Juliette could recall staring warily at that hand.
Mutual respect. That’s what Dominic had been offering.
She’d shaken on it, and they’d gone down to the track, where she’d out-lapped every boy in her year.
At the time, she’d actually believed that she and Dominic might be friendly.
Or, if not friendly, then cordial, like colleagues who met at the coffee machine to exchange workplace gossip.
How wrong she’d been.