Redline (Redline Duology #1)

1. Carter

Chapter one

Carter

The universe wasn’t just sending me a message; it was screaming at me in a language made of lightning and luggage delays. We weren’t supposed to be here.

That had been my primary thought when our flight was pushed back for the third time, thunderstorms clawing across the charcoal sky like some dramatic omen.

Most people would’ve been on a private jet if they were being recruited by the Valerio Empire, and the Valerios had certainly offered one.

But Dad—ever the strategist—had insisted we fly ourselves in.

He’d called it a "show of humility," a way to prove he was a team player who didn’t need to bleed the budget before he’d even arrived.

In reality, I knew he just couldn't stomach the idea of anyone seeing how we showed up like a charity case.

But "humility" felt a lot like a curse right now.

My father’s name, Landon Hayes, used to be synonymous with podiums and champagne showers in the Formula 1 circuit.

Now, it was a cautionary tale whispered in the back of pit garages.

Between the legal fees from the scandal and his stubborn habit of spending like a world champion even after the sponsors vanished, we’d traded first-class lounges for the back of a commercial cabin.

Then the luggage carousel jammed, groaning under the weight of a thousand tourist suitcases while mine stayed trapped in the mechanical bowels of the airport.

Then, the ultimate punchline: our rental car—the only one Dad could afford without dipping into the emergency survival fund—sputtered and died exactly two minutes from the wrought-iron gates of the Estate.

By the time security finally cleared us through and the massive, obsidian archway swallowed us whole, I’d decided that fate didn’t just hate me—it was actively plotting my demise.

But apparently, obscene amounts of money hated obeying fate even more.

The Valerio house—no, calling it a house felt like an insult to architecture—was a compound that sprawled across the hillside like a modern limestone palace designed specifically to intimidate lesser mortals.

It was all sleek lines and glass, illuminated by recessed lighting that made the sculpted hedges look like green velvet.

Those hedges probably cost more than my entire college tuition, a stark contrast to the peeling wallpaper and the sound of sirens that usually lulled me to sleep in our rundown apartment.

My dad’s hand squeezed my shoulder as we stepped out into the humid, heavy night air. I could feel the tremor in his fingers—not from age, but from the kind of hope that’s been crushed and rebuilt too many times.

“This is good, Carter,” he murmured, his voice sounding small against the backdrop of the mansion. “We need this. A fresh start.”

I nodded, though my stomach did a slow, nauseating somersault.

Fresh start. New college, new zip code, new everything.

All because a billionaire had decided his son was broken and my father—the man who had survived the most notorious crash in F1 history—seemed to be the only one with the right tools to fix him.

The world called it a miracle that he’d walked away from the wreckage, but the paddock knew the truth.

Dad hadn't just survived the crash; he’d caused it.

One split-second lapse in judgment, a desperate, illegal dive into a corner that didn't exist, and he’d taken half the grid down with him.

The fallout had been surgical. The sponsors didn't just pull their logos; they scrubbed his name from the history books, leaving us with a mountain of legal fees and a reputation that burned faster than the carbon fiber on the track.

For years, my father had been a pariah—blacklisted from every garage from Silverstone to Monaco.

He was the scandal the F1 world used to scare rookies.

We were drowning in the quiet of a life after fame until Mr. Valerio’s call had come out of nowhere.

Now, the only person willing to put Landon Hayes back in a garage was a guy whose son was just as reckless as my father had once been.

A man in a perfectly tailored suit appeared on the front steps, descending with the kind of practiced, effortless posture you only learn through decades of wielding enough power to move markets.

He had salt-and-pepper hair clipped close to his skull and a watch on his wrist that caught the light with a predatory glint.

“Mr. Valerio,” Dad greeted, stepping forward with a warmth I knew cost him a significant amount of pride. “Thank you again for bringing us out here. For the opportunity.”

“Landon,” Mr. Valerio returned, his voice like polished stone as he shook Dad’s hand. “I’m glad you made it despite the weather.” His gaze flicked to me, sharp and assessing. “And this must be the daughter. Carter?”

“That’s me,” I said, forcing a polite smile that felt tight across my cheeks. My suitcase wheel gave a pathetic, dying squeak behind me, echoing loudly against the pristine driveway.

His smile was gentleman-smooth but entirely detached, as if he were cataloging me as a logistical detail rather than a human being.

“Dominic was supposed to be here to welcome you, but…” His mouth twitched once at the corner, the only betrayal in his otherwise solid exterior.

“He’ll turn up when he decides the world revolves around something other than his own immediate whims.”

Spoiled. Predictable. Great.

Mr. Valerio ushered us inside, the massive glass doors gliding open on silent tracks.

The interior was a mausoleum of achievement: marble floors polished to a mirror finish, soaring ceilings, and walls lined with framed championship photos and glossy feature spreads.

Dominic Valerio was everywhere—the prodigy, the star, the headline that read unstoppable in bold, aggressive font.

Except, according to the news and the reason we were currently standing in his foyer, he had become very stoppable lately.

Or at least distracted—which was the exact word used in the headline of the magazine I’d found tucked into my seat pocket on the plane.

I’d read the first three sentences, promptly rolled my eyes, and handed the glossy pages to the teething toddler in the row in front of me to chew on.

At least someone was getting something useful out of the drama.

We passed a heavy door that led underground, and I felt the vibration before I heard it—a faint, rhythmic rumble of engines echoing through the floorboards.

“I want you to see the heart of this operation,” Mr. Valerio said, leading us down a wide, clinical corridor into a temperature-controlled garage that smelled like the only home I’d ever known: high-octane gasoline, burnt rubber, and the metallic tang of adrenaline.

A row of F1 cars gleamed beneath overhead LED strips.

I didn’t look at them with the awe of a fan; I looked at them with the weary familiarity of a girl who had spent her childhood napping in tire blankets.

These weren't just cars; they were multimillion-dollar egos on wheels. While I’d spent the last few years fixing industrial sewing machines and broken watches in a cramped repair shop to help pay the rent—jobs where the machines didn't talk back and no one died if a bolt was a millimeter off—seeing these open-wheel beasts again felt like staring at an old flame who had ruined your life.

Engineered perfection. Aerodynamics like sculpted glass. A single front wing that cost more than our last three addresses combined.

A team of mechanics in branded jumpsuits hovered over an open chassis. One glanced up, doing a double-take when he saw my father.

“No way—Landon Hayes?” He wiped his oil-streaked hands on a rag and stepped forward to clap Dad on the back. “I heard the rumors, but we didn't think you’d actually take the bait and show. Welcome to the team.”

Dad relaxed a fraction, his shoulders dropping an inch. “Well, they made me an offer I couldn’t exactly refuse.”

And that offer had included me. My future, my tuition at one of the top universities in the country covered in full, traded like a high-stakes pit stop bargain on top of my father’s new salary.

I drifted away from the men, my gaze gravitating toward a beast in matte black, its number decal a sharp, aggressive white: #2.

The front wing had been removed, exposing the intricate carbon fiber and the delicate sliver of the brake duct assembly.

I leaned in, my fingers itching to touch the metal.

The flap angles were adjusted for maximum downforce—a desperate move to find grip where there wasn't any—but as I traced the wear patterns on the discarded front tires, I frowned.

“He took turn eight too fast, didn’t he?” I asked quietly, not looking back. “The graining on the inside shoulder… he’s leaning on the fronts way too hard. He's overdriving the car to compensate for a nervous rear end.”

The head mechanic blinked, looking from the car at me in stunned silence. “How did you—?”

“She’s her father’s daughter,” Dad said, his voice a mix of pride and a silent warning for me to play nice.

Mr. Valerio’s eyes sharpened, reassessing me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t realized had teeth. He nodded once, approving or calculating—it was hard to tell with men who bought and sold people for breakfast.

“You’ll be attending the university, yes? It’s a short drive. Classes start Monday, and we’ll ensure you have a vehicle at your disposal.” He turned back to the mechanic, his tone cooling. “Where is my son, Marco?”

The mechanic suddenly found his scuffed boots fascinating. “Uh… he said he wasn’t feeling the 'meet and greet' vibe today, sir.”

So, the superstar driver was a ghost. Consequences optional, ego mandatory.

Awesome.