Chapter 10 #2
His brow arched. “What, sitting in silence with wine?”
“No. Being decent.”
“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I’m always decent.”
“Debatable.”
His smirk softened as his gaze roamed over me. “I do have a bit of a pre-race routine, though.”
I frowned, curiosity piqued despite myself. “Oh?”
“Before every race, I sit in the car, close my eyes, and run the whole circuit in my head. Every turn, every braking zone, every place I can push harder. I visualize the entire thing, start to finish.”
“You do that every time?”
“Every time.” He shuffled lower on the sofa, stretching out even more. “It started when I was a kid. My dad told me if I wanted to be fast, I needed to see it first. So I’d lie in bed at night picturing the track, memorizing every detail.”
“Sounds intense.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Everything about racing is intense.”
I rolled my wine glass between my fingers. “What happens if you can’t see it?”
“Then I’m not ready.”
I hadn’t pegged him for the superstitious type. He always acted so invincible. Men like that didn’t need rituals.
“What’s your post-race ritual?”
Griffin smirked. “Depends on how the race goes. If I win, it usually involves champagne and regrettable decisions.”
“And if you don’t win?”
He hesitated, his grip tightening just slightly on his glass. “Then it’s a long shower and getting my ass chewed out by my father.”
Julian did the same thing. He had a knack for framing criticism as helpful analysis. Every conversation came with a reminder that I wasn’t enough.
“What’s that about?” He circled his finger, pointing at my face.
“Nothing.”
“You made a face.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did. Like you wanted to say something.”
I shrugged. “Just thinking your dad sounds exhausting.”
He laughed. “That’s one word for it. Be glad your situation’s different. Julian actually supports you.”
The irony nearly choked me.
I took a sip of wine, saying nothing.
I wanted to tell him. Wanted to explain that Julian was the master of the ‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed’ speech. That every conversation was a post-mortem of my failures.
But I couldn’t.
So I smiled and took another sip of wine.
“Even when I win, it’s never enough. He’ll shake my hand, make a joke to the press, tell me good job.” He scowled at the ceiling. “Then, the second we’re alone, it’s a breakdown of everything that could have been better.”
I nodded. “Even when you get something right, there’s still room for improvement.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Griffin glanced at me, his brows rising. “Exactly. How did you—” He stopped, then laughed again. Awkward. Uncomfortable. “But that’s different for you. Julian’s tough, sure, but he’s proud of you. I’ve seen the way he talks about you.”
Proud. Right.
“Do you ever think about walking away?”
“From what?”
From Julian? Only every single day.
“Your career. Your life. Whatever it is you’re doing that isn’t making you happy.”
I frowned. “Why would you think I’m not happy?”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.” He shrugged. “But hypothetically, would you?”
I opened my mouth, seconds away from telling him everything. How I’d spent years building toward exactly that with my degree, my internship, and a career path that would finally get me out from under his control.
But what was the point? He’d already decided who I was.
“I’m fine.”
He held my gaze for a long moment, then shrugged. “Fair enough.”
I should go upstairs. Should end this before I said something I’d regret.
But I didn’t move.
“Have you thought about walking away?”
“From racing?” He pursed his lips. “I used to. When I was a teenager. I’d sit in my room, thinking about what it’d be like to quit.” He smiled, but there was nothing happy about it. “But then I’d imagine my dad’s reaction, and quitting didn’t feel like an option.”
I knew that feeling all too well.
Except I was going to do it anyway. The second I had my degree and enough money saved, I’d walk away from Julian and never look back.
I’d be free.
“If quitting wasn’t an option, what made you keep going?”
“At first? Spite.”
I laughed. “That tracks.”
He smirked. “I wanted to prove to him I could do it. That I could win without his constant micromanaging. But after a while, it stopped being about him. I realized I wanted it.”
“The racing?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re lucky.”
He stared at me. “Lucky?”
“That you found something you love enough to fight for.” I stared at my wine glass. “Not everyone gets that.”
I’d chosen psychology to escape Julian’s world, not because I loved it. Sure, I was good at it but, really it was the only path that got me out. And maybe that was enough.
Griffin studied me. “Are you saying you don’t love what you do?”
“Sometimes you do things because you have to. Not because you want to.”
He laughed and I almost cringed at the dismissive sound. “Come on, Violet. You’re not some tragic figure stuck in a life you didn’t choose. You and Julian—” He waved his hand. “You’ve got a good thing.”
“Right.” I bit down hard on my cheek. “Of course.”
“You’re lucky.” He leaned back against the cushions. “Some of us actually had to fight for scraps of support.”
Like I hadn’t spent years fighting for every scrap of freedom I had.
“You know what? I’m done.” I stood and headed for the kitchen.
Griffin blinked. “What?”
“I’m done. Goodnight, Griffin.”
“Wait. Did I say something?”
I didn’t answer and he scrambled to follow me. I ignored him and just rinsed my glass in the sink, trying not to give in to that totally reckless urge to smash it.
“What the hell just happened, Princess?”
“Nothing.” I dried my hands, not looking at him. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
“You’re pissed.”
“I’m not pissed.”
“You’re definitely pissed.” He leaned against the doorframe. “What did I do?”
I turned, meeting his eyes. “You didn’t do anything, Griffin. That’s the problem.”
His brow furrowed. “I don’t—”
“Of course you don’t.” I pushed past him toward the stairs. “You never do.”
“Violet—”
But I was already taking the stairs two at a time.
I didn’t look back.
Let him stand there confused. Let him wonder what he’d said wrong.
Because explaining would mean admitting things I couldn’t admit. And Griffin had made it perfectly clear he wouldn’t believe me anyway.
I closed my bedroom door and leaned against it.
Jesus. What did I think was going to happen if I opened up to Griffin Michaels? The man who thought he had my entire life figured out based on what? A few interactions at the track over the years? A few staged photo-ops?
I’d slipped up. Multiple times. And every single time he’d dismissed it. Why had I even tried?
Four days alone with a newborn. That was the only explanation for my momentary lapse in judgment.