Marco let out a low whistle. “This is going to be a disaster. You know that, right?”
“Just keep her there.” I hung up before he could say anything else.
The club was a fucking fever dream. Bass pounding. Lightsstrobing.Bodies pressed so tight it felt as though the heat was a living thing in the air.
I could barely pay attention to any of it. Just pushed through the crowd, my focus locked on the elevated VIP section above.
And there she was.
My feet stopped working.
Standing at the rail. Cocktail in hand. Laughing. At something some fuck said with his mouth way too close to her ear.
The dress was even worse in person. So short it should have been illegal. She looked fucking unreal, and everyone here knew it.
Including me.
Especially me.
And then—that guy leaned in closer. Too fucking close. I didn't know if he was talking to her or just trying to get her attention. Didn't care. My body was already moving.
She walked away, disappearing into the VIP section, and the desperation to reach her peaked, clawing at my throat and roiling in my stomach. I pushed through the throngs of people, cutting through the mass of bodies.
I needed to get to her before someone else did, before she had the chance to slip through my fingers. Before I completely lost my fucking mind.
The VIP sectionwasn’t new to me. I’d been out clubbing with Étienne dozens of times, and back then, I’d only gotten through the velvet ropes because of him. But now I had a legacy of my own, and I waslovingthe special treatment–the endless drinks, the attention, the power of my status.
The Miami skyline stretched wide and glittering beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but I barely noticed. The mojito in my hand was cool and refreshing, but I barely tasted it beyond a slight mintiness.
Because my thoughts weren’t here.
They were on Callum.
I hadn’t expected him to reply to my Snapchat—at least not so quickly, not so desperately. He’d demanded to know where I was. I ignored him, let him suffer for a little while.
The problem was that now, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
Laughter erupted at the booth behind me. Probably Morel’s crew celebrating another P2 finish. Fuck him and his entire existence. He’d nearly run me off track today, blocked me in qualifying yesterday, and had been running his mouth all weekend. I didn’t care that he was a two-time world champion. If he tried it again, I’d put him in the goddamnwall.
I exhaled sharply, shaking the thought away. Kimi sat beside me, recounting a story to a group of engineers standing by our booth, his hands animated as he mimicked the sheer horror of his rookie season.
“I kid you not,” he said, raising his drink dramatically, “I thought the team was pranking me when they told me the engine mapping switch was reversed. Spent the first half of the session wondering why the car felt like a bloody go-kart.”
Laughter rang out. It was a normal night to unwind, to celebrate, to forget.
Marco appeared out of nowhere, sliding into the booth with a confident ease that made it clear he was used to this setting. “Ah, the famous Kimi Bertolli embarrassing stories,” he quipped, setting his drink down. “I’ve heard this one a few times. Gets better every retelling.”
Kimi grinned, raising his glass in mock acknowledgment. “What can I say? I aim to entertain.”
As the conversation flowed, Marco kept turning his head toward the entrance. His casual demeanor shifted as the group around our table finally dispersed..
“Looks like trouble’s here,” Marco murmured, his tone teasing.
I frowned, leaning out from the booth and following his gaze to the staircase leading to the VIP section. Callum was there, his tall frame cutting through the crowd with an effortless confidence that made the apex of my thighs ache. He scanned the room, eyes locking onto Marco briefly before they found me.
My stomach bottomed the fuck out.
Marco chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “If you ask me, he looks like a man on a mission.”
