There are a few seconds of silence as the team principal tries to calm me down, speaking quietly. Then: “Oh, don’t give me that. Castellucci knewexactlywhat he was doing. He does that shit on purpose and enjoys it!”
There’s more of my ranting—very similar to Stella’s, actually—but the worst is still to come.
“Fuck him,” I spit as my tirade starts drawing to a close. “If he keeps driving like that, he’s going to get himself killed too. And you know what? I hope he does! I hope he dies. I hope the rest of us never have to worry about him again. He deserves the worst. Let the trash take itself out.”
There’s more background noise before the video cuts, but hearing the horrible things I said all over again has me nauseated. I was angry and hurting—literally, because I’d just pried myself out of my ruined car after Lorenzo forced me into the barriers—and lashing out. I didn’t mean any of it. But whoeverfilmed this either didn’t realize it or wanted to make me look as awful as possible.
I force myself to glance over at Stella when she presses my phone back into my hand. Shockingly, she doesn’t look as upset as I expected.
“That wasn’t cute,” she says. “But unless that guy actually died, this isn’t terrible. I mean, he nearly killedyou. I’d be pissed off too.”
I swallow hard and rub my jaw, eyes darting away.
“Oh shit,” she blurts, rocking forward so that I can’t avoid her gaze. “Did he actually die? Did you kill him? Oh my God, did I marry amurderer?”
“Jesus, no!” I drop my hand again, heat creeping up my neck and into my cheeks. “I didn’t have anything to do with it, but he—” I cut short as guilt burns through me. “He ended up having a terrible accident about a month after I said all of that. He lived, but now he’s paralyzed and everyone hates me because someone leaked this video of me behaving like an absolute twat.”
Stella leans back again and grimaces. “Okay, that’s not as bad as you killing him, but that’s still bad,” she amends. “And you don’t know who posted this?”
I shake my head. “I’m still trying to figure it out. I have a hard time believing anyone from the team would do this with all the NDAs we’ve signed. It was a huge risk to take.”
“Someone there must really hate you.”
That stings. I’ve always thought of myself as being well- liked, especially within the McMorris team. I spent two years with them as a junior driver before they bumped me up to being their test and reserve driver. Then, the next season, I was in one of the race seats, partnering—and often outpacing—their veteran driver. I’ve only signed multiyear contracts with them in the five years I’ve been in F1, and I’m hoping to re-sign for a fewmore years come the end of next season when my current contract is up. The money I bring to the team with my personal sponsorships doesn’t hurt either.
But this video has thrown a wrench in that plan, even though our team principal and CEO have assured me it hasn’t changed the way they feel about me. They could be lying straight to my face. And they probably are, considering several sponsors have reached out to express their concerns about my behavior. But no one has dropped me or the team yet, and I won’t know anything about my future at McMorris until that new contract comes across my agent’s desk.
More than anything, though, I wish I knewwhohates me this much.
“That’s my drama,” I finish. “I understand if this makes you want to run away from me screaming.”
Stella’s nose wrinkles. “I don’t run. I’m a Pilates girl.”
I’m in no mood to laugh, and yet her quip has a surprised huff leaving my lips.
She shifts to face me, tucking one long leg underneath her. The bronze silk of her dress pulls around her hips. My eyes are drawn to the dramatic curve, even though I know this isn’t the time to admire her, but it’s hard not to when she looks like a goddess. I nearly tripped when I spotted her in the church earlier, because somehow, she was more beautiful in the daylight than in dim club lighting. Even this morning, hungover with smudged makeup, she was gorgeous. But Stella all done up? I don’t know how anyone could keep their eyes off her.
“Look,” she says, leveling me with a stare. “It’s clear we’re both in less-than-ideal circumstances, with no room to judge each other. But do you really think staying married and making people think this wasn’t some drunken mistake is going to fix anything? Or that they’d even buy it?”
“Yes. I absolutely do.” I sound more confident than I feel, but I really think this could ease the uncomfortable situation we’re in. “It won’t be hard for people to buy. We can have our PR teams play up how hurt and abandoned you felt by your ex-fiancé and how I swept in at just the right moment.”
Stella snorts. “Wow, you really are Prince Charming,” she drawls, sarcasm dripping from every word. But there’s an upward tilt to her lips that’s far more genuine.
I hold her gaze and hope she can see how serious I am. “This will benefit us both. It’ll get Figgy and my parents off my back, and maybe it’ll even make me look better to my team.”
“And my board of directors won’t think I’m a damn fool who got married and divorced in the span of forty-eight hours,” Stella adds, and I can see the wheels turning in her head. “You might be right about this, Thomas.”
I know I am, but I certainly won’t say that. Stella has to come to her own conclusions without me pushing her into it.
“Anything else incriminating I need to know before I say yes?” she asks.
My heart leaps. “Not that I can think of, no.”
She makes a vague sound, then looks back down at her own phone, quickly typing something in and scrolling. I frown and shift closer so I can see what she’s doing.
“Are you googling me?”
Stella doesn’t acknowledge me, unabashedly reading. “Gotta know what I’m getting myself into.” Her brow knits, then she glances at me. “You’re a Libra?”
