Chapter 40 Then…
Then…
Dominic found her by the nineteenth-century paintings.
He spotted the pink cowboy boots first. They stood out against the white trainers and brown Oxford shoes, a defiant scream in the low buzz of the Musée d’Orsay. She wore a jean skirt and an oversized blazer, sunglasses shoved on her head, tilting slightly as she studied a photograph.
“I like this one,” Juliette said without turning. “It’s more vivid than the others. Almost like you could be there.” A lump rose in Dominic’s throat, and she frowned. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s great,” Dominic said.
He hadn’t even looked at it. Juliette’s hand jumped to her neck, toying with a delicate chain. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I’m memorizing you, Dominic wanted to say. I’m committing every inch of you to memory, every scar and tiny freckle. He stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. He delivered the next words in a rush.
“I don’t want to do this.”
“The art gallery?” Juliette looked relieved, which would have been amusing if Dominic could bring himself to smile. “Thank god. Let’s go for a walk by the Seine. There’s a little market that I saw which has—”
“This. I can’t do this.”
She paused. “What do you mean?”
A gaggle of schoolchildren pushed through the gallery, waving paper and crayons, chattering excitedly in French. Gabriel—his bodyguard—eyed them warily but didn’t move from his post by the door. Dominic swallowed.
“You’re a junior driver.” He forced the words out. “I’m your instructor. It’s inappropriate.”
Juliette dropped the necklace. “You don’t teach at the academy anymore.”
“Even so. If the media found out…” And they did, he wanted to say. They had photographs. I saw them. “They’d write things about both of us. Horrible things. And everyone would assume that I gave you a leg up; you told me that yourself.”
Something hardened in Juliette’s expression. “Then I’d set the record straight. Anyway, I’m not worried about that anymore,” she said, taking his hand with such easy confidence that a lump swelled in his throat. “I don’t care what other people think. Not if it means that I get to have you.”
It had been everything he’d been waiting to hear.
Dominic looked at the painting. Danse à la Ville by Renoir.
One of the most famous works in the gallery, depicting a couple dancing in their evening finery.
His mother hated that painting. “It’s impossible to tell,” she’d once said, “if the woman is smiling or crying.”
“It’s better,” Dominic said, his voice leaden, “if we don’t see each other.”
Slowly, Juliette released his hand. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Just trust me.”
Juliette crossed her arms. “What’s going on? Be honest.”
Dominic turned back to the painting, studying those flat, painted eyes. I’m protecting your dreams. You’ve always been a dreamer. I can’t take that from you now. “I need to focus on my racing. My stats have been off, and I—”
“Bullshit,” Juliette cut in. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Her blue eyes were the hottest part of a flame, so intense they felt searing. “You’re adapting to the upgrades. I’ve helped you work on them myself.”
“I just need to concentrate.”
Juliette made a noise. “I don’t believe you.” She glanced at his bodyguard, then lowered her voice. “Be honest with me, Hastings. You owe me that much.”
Dominic watched as a child dropped her sandwich, stared, and then promptly burst into tears. Something acidic rose in his throat. Could he tell Juliette the truth? Confess that his father had threatened to bar her from the sport? She deserved that, surely. They could work through it together.
But no.
He knew Jules. She’d insist on going straight to his father, and Dominic knew how that would play out.
Vance loathed insubordination, and he despised being blindsided even more.
His father could crush careers like a cigarette butt beneath his shoe.
Dominic ought to know; he’d seen Vance do it countless times before.
Dominic looked at Juliette. Resignation settled in his chest like a lead weight. And even though it would kill him—even though Dominic knew, with a sudden certainty, that he would wake up in a cold sweat for years to come, his bedding tangled like winding sheets—he forced himself to say the words.
“Just let it go. Please.”
She raised her chin. “No.”
Her lip trembled. Such a small movement, but Dominic caught it, because he’d known to look for it. His chest felt like a cardboard box stamped down in a bin. And god help him, he couldn’t do it.
“I need to go,” Dominic said.
A hand caught his wrist. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Marchmont—”
“Sir?” Gabriel interrupted. His bodyguard’s shoulders were tense. “The paparazzi have arrived. We should move to a more discreet location.”
Dominic paused. Impossible to tell if Gabriel meant it or if the other man was throwing him a bone. “How long?”
“Two minutes.”
Dominic turned to Juliette. “We can’t be seen together.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Her grip tightened. “Not until you talk to me.”
Footsteps echoed down the gallery. There was the click of cameras, followed by wild shouts, and Dominic’s heart sped up. Ah. So Gabriel had been serious. How unfortunate.
Almost gently, Dominic disentangled himself. “It’s better this way. Trust me.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” Juliette demanded. “Just be honest. I deserve that much, at least.”
The shouts grew louder. The acid was a physical thing, burning Dominic’s throat.
It was so rare, he thought, to find something that you loved in this world; even rarer to find something you would give up the entire world for.
He knew that Juliette felt that way about racing; it was part of her genetic makeup, as inherent as her blood and bones.
He couldn’t take that away from her.
Dominic closed his eyes. To love someone was to know what would hurt them irreparably. He dug for those words now, like dredging poisoned water from a well. I’m sorry, he thought desperately. I’m so fucking sorry for this.
“You want honesty?” His voice was cold. “Fine. I’ll be honest. I’m embarrassed of you.”
Juliette paused. “What?”
“I’m embarrassed,” Dominic said evenly, though his heart was racing, “that you think you’ll make it to the paddock one day. I’m embarrassed that you genuinely think you have a shot at winning the championship.”
“You don’t mean that,” Juliette said slowly.
But she was unsure. He could tell by her voice. Dominic clung to that, like a drowning sailor clinging to the mast of a sinking ship.
“I mean it,” Dominic said, and the words tasted like iron. “I didn’t want to tell you before. But it’s true.”
“What are you saying?”
Dominic forced a smile with the barest edge of cruelty. “You really need it spelled out?”
The footsteps drew closer. They had twenty seconds, Dominic calculated. Maybe less. Juliette raised her chin; there was a slight tremble to it that nearly broke his resolve, although her blue eyes were steely.
“Say it.”
Dominic held her gaze. And then he found the words they couldn’t come back from. “You’re a woman. You’re not as strong as I am. Your reflexes aren’t as fast. You’ll never be able to compete with the men on the track. It’s not your fault; it’s just a biological difference.”
“A biological difference,” she repeated.
Dominic shrugged. “You wanted the truth.”
Her face was white. “Fuck you, Dominic Hastings. Fuck you.”
Something in Dominic’s chest tightened. Good, he thought dully. It’s easier if she hates me. He’d cut open a piece of her: Some people bled out from a wound like that, but not Juliette; she would scar and come back harder, with a thirst for vengeance. She’d always been good at channeling rage.
His bodyguard cleared his throat. “Sir?”
Dominic turned. “Yes?”
Gabriel shifted his weight. “We need to—”
“Go,” Juliette finished, and her gaze was hot enough to blister tires. “You’ve said what you had to say. Now go.”
Dominic swallowed. “Marchmont…”
Strange, he thought. He’d been desperate to leave, and now he couldn’t make himself do it. Juliette’s eyes were a vivid blue. So vivid that Dominic knew, with sudden certainty, that whatever she said next would haunt him forever.
“You know what’s funny?” She shook her head. “I never believed what the papers wrote about you, but now I know it’s true. All of it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her voice was flat. “You’re just a scared little boy who hides behind his father’s money.”
Dominic rocked back, the words like a slap.
He recalled the first words he’d overheard Juliette say at the academy: You know Hastings isn’t god’s gift to humanity, right?
He’s a nepo baby. He’d thought she’d seen past that, that she’d realized how much work he put in, the blood and sweat and endless training…
But maybe not.
Maybe, Dominic thought bitterly, it had felt good to think that somebody had finally seen him as he’d always hoped to be. Not Dominic Hastings, Prince of Racing, but Dom. A self-made racer. A cutthroat athlete. A man that could stand unapologetically outside of his father’s shadow.
Shouts echoed off the polished floor. The photographers had made it to the gallery next door, and Juliette took a step back. There was something terrible in her gaze, a sort of coldness he’d never seen before.
“Let me make something very clear,” she said. “I never want to see you again. Ever.”
The words stuck under his ribs like a blade. He felt suddenly winded. He couldn’t have responded if he’d wanted to.
“Sir?” Gabriel touched his earpiece. “We need to go.”
The paparazzi burst into the room. Gabriel ushered him outside, speaking low into an earpiece. Camera flashes exploded. Reporters shouted his name, a mixture of English and French. Juliette, Dominic thought suddenly—almost instinctively—and he turned in Gabriel’s grip, but it was too late.
Juliette was gone.
Years later, Dominic would think of this exact moment when he came across a painting in a Parisian gallery of a woman playing a harp, her hands dripping gold. Nous saignons pour ce que nous aimons.
We bleed for the things we love.