Chapter 2

Alexandra

Chapter 2

I grip the sweat-slicked steering wheel, chest heaving with each ragged breath. The high-pitched whine of the engine spooling down is barely audible over the pounding in my ears. I blink hard, finally releasing the death grip on the wheel as the adrenaline ebbs.

My racing suit feels like a second skin, perspiration and brake dust mingling in the crease of my brow. God, that was too damn close. Slamming the car through that final chicane, Marco's ruby red machine filled my side mirrors, the duelling shrieks of our high-revving engines deafening.

One ill-timed twitch and our carbon fibre masterpieces would have danced a devastating tailslide's tango of interlocked metal. Even the thought has my hands clenching the wheel again, knuckles whitening.

But it also has my blood rushing hot for an entirely different reason.

Despite Marco's entitled bluster, the arrogance dripping from every pore, I can't deny the sheer bravado of his balls-to-the-wall driving style. The poetry of his high-wire racecraft. The undeniable skill that saw the slimmest margins constantly threaten to swallow us both at over 200 miles per hour.

I wrench myself free from the trance, disgusted at the hint of admiration for that pompous jackass' talents. Ripping off my helmet and gloves, I toss them onto the cockpit floor as I climb free of the idling car.

By the time my racing boots hit the sun-baked paddock, the sour taste of fresh humiliation had already flooded my mouth. Second place...again. Bitterness twists my gut as I stalk towards the garage, not bothering to look back at the now all-too-familiar sight of Marco holding court on the top podium step.

Daddy's overprivileged brat prince, basking in unapologetic revelry. Meanwhile, racers like me who've shed literal blood, sweat, and tears for this, get to settle for aluminium foil embraces once more.

I'm utterly sick of eating his tail fins.

As I fume, fresh images of my dearly departed father - the real racing royalty in my family - flood my mind unbidden. Memories of riding on his shoulders after rallying triumphs fade into the horror of that fateful day at Corsica. The choking plume of smoke. The crumpled wreckage...

By the time I reach the sanctuary of the team room, that relentless cycle has swallowed me whole again. Choking rage, wounded pride, soul-bracing determination to rise above - it's an old friend, an integral part of what drives me.

I'm so consumed by wrestling those demons, that I barely register Sophie's entrance.

"That was quite a show out there." My boss's familiar alto finally cuts through the spiral with surprising warmth. "I felt like I aged about five years just watching you two battle over those last kilometres."

I turn, lips pressed into a terse line as the rebuke I prepare withers under her bemused expression. "Sorry, Sophie. You know how I get after losing to..."

"Your arch-nemesis?" She grins conspiratorially. "Trust me, we all noticed. Though you seemed to be enjoying yourself out there far more than usual."

The barrage of sense memories instantly assaults me anew - the aggressive dicing for position, the testosterone-charged gamesmanship, the overpowering musk of sweat and fuel and competitors leaving every firing neuron on the scorching tarmac. Despite myself, I feel a reluctant flush creep up the back of my neck.

"I may have gotten...momentarily carried away in the heat of battle."

Sophie just arches an immaculately sculpted brow, her knowing smirk rendering any half-truth pathetically inert. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Well, teenage hormones or not, you're going to want to learn to play nicely with others from here on out."

The rebuke pulls me up short. What is she implying? Surely not that Marco and I are going to have to—

"Given the, ah, rather intense personal dynamics between you and our friendly Monegasque rival...we've arranged for some team bonding exercises moving forward."

Oh god, no. Not that. Anything but that.

"Starting with you and Bianchi partnering up for the Marrakech 10 Hour exhibition race next month."

The words detonate in the pit of my stomach. Me and Marco? Sharing a car for an entire day of gruelling wheel-to-wheel racing? Sophie might as well have said I've been assigned to tour Tartarus while pulling 6 Gs through the 9 circles of combustible hell.

My mouth instantly sets to work, forming the opening syllables of a vehement rebuttal. But one look at the set line of her jaw and it withers stillborn. This isn't a debate. Not with the tone of steel underlying her words. Besides, what excuse could I possibly give for rejecting a legitimate team-building experience?

With an exasperated whoosh of breath, my shoulders sag in resignation. I'm just going to have to endure whatever fresh torment Marco Bianchi's mere proximity inflicts.

"Fine. But if that insufferable ass tries to put me into the damned wall I can't be held accountable," I mutter.

Sophie chuckles, slinging one sinewy arm around my shoulders. "Oh, ye of little faith. Just try seeing this as an opportunity, hmm? You two might even find some untapped common ground, given enough forced bonding time."

I open my mouth to protest, but the words never materialize. Because for just an instant - likely heat stroke addling my synapses - the most intriguing thought has surfaced from the darkest recesses of my mind.

Common ground with Marco Bianchi?

Dear god, now I've seen it all.

I must have been hallucinating from the lack of oxygen finally catching up to my overworked brain. Common ground with Marco? The very idea was laughable at best.

Still, Sophie's words continued echoing through my head as I made my way back to my flat later that evening. I kicked off my boots, relishing the feeling of the plush carpet between my toes after being confined in a fiery metal coffin all day. Maybe she had a point about the team bonding exercise, as much as it pained me to admit it.

Marco and I clearly couldn't go on like this - the sniping, the mind games, the refusal to give each other an inch both on and off the track. It was becoming exhausting, even for me. Maybe a prolonged stretch of being chained together would force us to finally work through this toxic animosity.

I snorted at the thought as I padded into the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of wine. Yeah, and maybe spending every waking minute around that arrogant, arrogant ass would make me spontaneously combust. The man had an uncanny ability to get under my skin like no one else.

My mind drifted back to the final hot laps of today's battle. I could still feel the brutal vibrations juddering through the chassis as Marco and I had diced from apex to apex, pushing our machines and reactions to their absolute limits. Still smell the heady fusion of scorched rubber, burnt fuel, and our musky exertion hanging thick in the cockpit air.

Despite my best efforts, a small, unsolicited tremor rolled through me as I remembered the ferocious intensity flickering behind his mirrored visor in those breathless moments. The unapologetic aggression and precision with which he'd flung that crimson missile around the circuit, were utterly symbiotic with the hunk of metal and carbon fibre.

I was loath to admit it, but even through my filter of disdain for the man himself, I couldn't deny Marco's preternatural gifts behind the wheel. He wasn't just talented - he was a savant. A virtuoso of a calibre that perhaps only came along once in a generation. Recklessly chucking a multi-million dollar machine through corners at triple-digit speeds shouldn't be achieved with such elegant ease.

And yet Marco made it seem like the most natural act in the world. Like he and the car were two bodies synced in an intricately choreographed dance that I could only begin to comprehend.

The thought was...begrudgingly awe-inspiring. But also profoundly unsettling in a way I couldn't quite put my finger on. Was this the secret behind his perpetually smug aura of superiority? The unflappable confidence that he was operating on a plane I could never even hope to touch?

I drained my wineglass, scowling at having allowed my mind to wander down that treacherous path of internal admission yet again. Shaking my head briskly, I turned on my heel and retreated to the bathroom. A long, pounding shower was to scour away the clinging funk of today's exertions.

And maybe, just maybe, some of the more unpleasant intrusive thoughts they'd triggered as well.

As I let the scalding streams batter my shoulders, I tried to force Marco and his damnable driving prowess from my mind. But it was no use - the memories were quickly overwhelming me again. Those final laps played out on an endless loop, every heart-stopping passing attempt, every nip and tuck for position.

And increasingly, split-second visions of Marco himself began pervading the montage.

His arrogant smirk as I'd overtaken him around Massenet only for him to instantly repass with insulting ease. The achingly perfect racerback silhouette of his torso undulating through the chicane right before my desperate late-lapping dive. And then blurring everything in a disorienting kaleidoscope, his face filling my rearview mirror as he swept past for good - beautifully chiselled, glowingly virile, utterly suffused with the primal thrill of high-octane conquest.

My body's muscle memory reawakened instantly, nerves tingling with the phantom recollection of that mind-bending cocktail of terror and ecstasy—

I slammed a fist into the tiled wall, the stinging impact thankfully derailing my thoughts. "Get a grip, Dupont!" I growled, disgusted with myself. "It's just the damned adrenaline talking."

Wrapping the towel tightly around me, I stalked out of the steamy bathroom with as much indignation as I could muster.

Just my rotten luck. Not only was I stuck partnering with racing's world-class jackass for the foreseeable future, but some base part of my subconscious had also decided to take an ill-timed and extremely unhelpful interest as well.

I flopped back onto my bed, damp hair pooling onto the sheets as I glared upwards. Of course, Marco-Freaking-Bianchi would have that effect on people. The arrogant prick probably preened himself in the mirror while indulging those sorts of thought processes.

Well, I'd be damned if I let myself succumb. Whatever bizarre, hormone-addled temporary lapse of judgment my mind or body thought they were experiencing...this was going to be a very long, very cold shower of an awakening.

Whether he understood it yet or not, Marco Bianchi and I were destined to be nothing more than reluctant co-pilots in a labyrinthine excursion through the innermost circles of hell itself.

And I was going to make sure we both exited that fiery crucible just as alone and sworn to mutual enmity as when we'd embarked.