1. Carter #2
“Don’t let the quiet fool you,” Mr. Valerio said, his voice echoing off the polished garage walls as he began to lead us back toward the main house.
“This is just the private collection—the personal playground. We use the private testing facility and garage twenty minutes north for the real work on the track. The data from Dominic’s last three races is already waiting in your office there.
I expect a full diagnostic of his technical failings by the time your settled in. ”
Dad nodded, his expression turning solemn, the polished version of himself returning on instinct. “I’ve already started reviewing the footage from Monaco, trying to get ahead before the new season starts. There’s a hesitation in his downshifts that wasn't there last season.”
“He’s losing his nerve,” Mr. Valerio said flatly, not even pausing as we stepped into a glass-walled elevator. “And in this sport, a driver without a nerve is just an expensive liability. I’m paying for you to find it and put it back.”
I felt something sharp flare in my chest. My dad wasn’t a lost-and-found bin for spoiled athletes. He was the person who had taught me how to listen to an engine’s heartbeat before I could even ride a bike.
“He’s lucky to have the best in the business, then,” I piped up, my tone just a fraction too sharp.
Mr. Valerio’s eyes drifted to mine in the reflection of the glass. He didn't look annoyed; he looked bored, as if my loyalty was a predictable, uninteresting variable. “We shall see. Now, I’ve had a meal prepared. I’m sure you’re both famished after such a… colorful journey.”
Dinner was a masterclass in architectural loneliness.
We sat at a long table in a dining room that belonged in a high-end editorial, with towering windows overlooking a pool lit up like a blue-tinted runway.
There was an extra place setting at the far end—napkin folded, silverware gleaming—that stayed untouched the entire night.
It sat there like an accusation, a reminder that the star of this show couldn't be bothered to show up for the people hired to save his career.
“Is it always this quiet?” I asked, the clink of my fork against the fine china sounding like a gunshot in the silence.
“Dominic prefers elsewhere when he’s in one of his… moods,” Mr. Valerio replied, barely touching his wine. “He finds the main house restrictive. I find his lack of discipline exhausting. It’s a stalemate.”
“Sounds like a healthy dynamic,” I muttered under my breath.
Dad gave my foot a firm nudge under the table.
“What?” I looked at him, seeing the dark circles under his eyes that a week of sleep wouldn't fix. “It’s a big house, Dad. Just wondering where all the life is. No photos of the family? No… anyone else?”
Mr. Valerio’s gaze didn’t flicker. “The walls are for achievements. Sentimentality doesn’t win championships. Your father knows that better than anyone.”
The air in the room turned arctic. It was a direct hit—a reminder of the night Dad’s career had vanished in a cloud of smoke and twisted metal.
It hadn't been a mechanical failure or a team error that cost him his seat and our lifestyle.
It had been his own hands on the wheel, his own recklessness that drove him into a corner he couldn't take. In this world, you were only as good as your last lap, and Dad’s last lap had been a masterclass in self-destruction.
Mr. Valerio wasn't just offering a job; he was reminding us that he owned the only person desperate enough to say yes.
While the men returned to reliving the "glory days"—the podiums, the near-misses, the season he was supposed to become a legend— I watched the parts of the room that never joined the laughter.
I noticed how they danced around the truth, carefully pruning the conversation to keep the thorns out.
There was no mention of the wreckage, the lawsuits, or the day the FIA pulled his super license.
They spoke in highlights, a curated reel of high-speed wins that made my father look like a hero rather than a cautionary tale.
In this room, the crash was a stain everyone could see but no one was allowed to name.
I played with my dessert, a decadent chocolate thing that tasted like sand, until we were finally shown to our quarters.
Calling it a pool house was a joke. The only reason this place looked small was because the main house behind it looked like something built for royalty.
It was a three-thousand-square-foot glass palace perched beside the water.
Inside, the decor was effortlessly perfect—until I spotted a bra.
It was lacy, glittery, and half-stuffed between a pillow and the couch.
I plucked it up with two fingers, dangling it like a biohazard, at the exact moment Mr. Valerio walked in behind us.
He snatched it from my hand, his mouth flattening into a line so severe it looked carved there.
“Dominic stays here when he wants… privacy,” he explained, smoothing the fabric with a practiced hand as if that erased the visual of his son’s revolving door of guests.
“But I’ve made it clear this is your space now.
He should be back in the main house. I hope this… suffices.”
Suffices. I looked at the marble waterfall island in the kitchen and the view of the glowing fireplace in the distance. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice dry.
Once we were alone, Dad collapsed into his room, jet lag winning the fight that his pride had been losing all day.
I unpacked slowly, my nerves humming like static.
My body was exhausted, but my brain was revving in neutral.
I stacked my accounting textbooks on the desk—a boring, stable security blanket in a world made of engines and arrogance.
I didn't want to be the girl waiting in the paddock, holding a clipboard and a fake smile while a person risked their life and a bank account for a trophy.
I wanted a degree with solid, measurable numbers that didn't depend on how fast someone could turn a corner or how many sponsors they could charm.
By 1:00 AM, I was finally under the covers. The sheets smelled like expensive detergent and the kind of wealth that doesn't care if you're comfortable or not. I was just drifting off when I heard it.
A moan. Low, breathy, and definitely not the house settling.
I rolled over, pressing my face into the pillow. Ignore it. It's the wind. It's a very sexual, rhythmic wind.
Another moan. Higher this time. Followed by a light, rhythmic thud against the wall directly behind my headboard.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I hissed into the dark.
The thuds became more enthusiastic, the wall vibrating with the force of whatever athletic performance was happening on the other side. The giggles turned into choked sounds of pleasure that had zero business being in my ears.
I curled my hand into a fist and hammered it against the wall. Thump-thump-thump. The universal code for "shut up or I'm calling a priest."
Everything paused for a heartbeat. I held my breath, waiting for the apology, the silence, the shred of human decency.
Then, the thrusting came back. Harder. Faster. Like the wall itself was a challenge for whoever was on the other side was determined to break.
“Oh God—yes—” the female voice wailed.
My face went nuclear. I didn't just lie there. I couldn't. I shoved my feet into my slippers, grabbed my robe, and marched into the kitchen. If I couldn't sleep, I was at least going to find some caffeine and wait for the performance to end so I could reclaim my peace.
I sat at the island, staring at the dark kitchen, the faint rhythm of the wall still mocking me from down the hall. I opened my laptop, the glow of a spreadsheet on "Advanced Tax Theory" acting as my only comfort.
Eventually, the symphony of bad decisions died down.
The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the soft hum of the refrigerator.
I didn't go back to bed. I stayed hunched over the marble island, finishing a chapter on liquidating distributions, the glow of the screen the only thing keeping the profile of this house at bay.
The universe wasn't just screaming at me anymore. It was mocking me.
I must have drifted off right there, my head resting on the surface of my laptop.
When I finally jolted awake, the morning sun was slicing through the floor-to-ceiling glass like a physical attack.
My neck was stiff, my brain felt like it was floating in lukewarm vinegar, and I had to wipe a stray bit of drool from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand.
I was a mess—groggy, disoriented, and desperate for caffeine.
The rhythmic thumping from the night before was a distant, fuzzy memory, shoved aside by the immediate need to function.
I stumbled toward the high-end espresso machine, fumbling with the buttons until the rich, bitter scent of coffee began to fill the air.
While the thing hissed, I dragged my feet toward the refrigerator, my eyes half-closed. I just needed creamer. One splash and I might actually remember my own name.
I swung the heavy door shut, clutching the carton to my chest—and my heart nearly exited my throat.
There was someone standing there. Not just in the kitchen, but right in my space, barely inches from the fridge door.
I gasped, stumbling back against the counter, the fog in my brain clearing instantly.
He was tall—ridiculously so—with broad shoulders and dark hair that was damp and pushed back from his forehead as if he’d just stepped out of a shower.
He wasn't wearing a shirt. He wasn't wearing anything but a white towel slung precariously low on his hips, water still tracing slow, deliberate paths down the deep, defined valleys of his abs.