Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
That’s the worst part… it fucking worked.
Lex looked at me like maybe he didn’t hate me anymore and that should be a relief. It should feel good.
But it doesn’t.
It feels like exposure because Francesca stripped me bare for the world to see. It pisses me off and mixes up my insides. Is she really this nice and empathetic or is she simply looking to do a good deed for the day?
She says she wants to understand me and I’m going to let her choke on the truth of my life. She’ll soon realize I’m not just cold—I’m carved from a glacier.
The drive from Silvercrest to Woking winds through narrow country lanes and sleepy English villages, the late-March light slanting low through bare trees and hedgerows beginning to bud.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, the leather groaning beneath my hands. I don’t look at her when I say, “We’re almost there.”
Francesca doesn’t respond. She shifts in her seat and stares ahead as the iron gates come into view, the profile of her face incredibly beautiful.
I punch in the code. The gates groan open, slow and theatrical, like even they’re reluctant to let us in. I’m equally reluctant to enter, but it must be done.
The estate comes into view and from the outside, it looks like a home. Granted, a really fucking big home, but there’s a warmth to it.
All a facade though.
I park in front of the main entrance and kill the engine. The silence presses in again.
She turns her head toward me, brows lifted. “You live here?”
“No. This is my mum’s home. My dad bought it for her a few years ago. I’ve got a place in London, but I stay here sometimes when…” The words trail off because I’m not sure exactly what possesses me to stay.
“Your mum needs you?” she guesses, finishing my sentence for me.
“She always needs me,” I reply, unable to mask the bitterness. “But more so when I need to be at Crown Velocity to train or help evaluate upgrades. Since the Silvercrest Global Prix is in two weeks, I’ll be based out of here until then.”
She studies my face for a beat, then unbuckles her seat belt and gets out. No further questions. Definitely no fear and that makes me admire her a bit more.
Sighing, I follow, every step toward the front door heavier than the last. I punch in the security code, and the door unlocks with a quiet click, swinging open on silent hinges.
The entryway is as polished as always—gleaming parquet floors and antique mirrors hung in perfect symmetry down the corridor. A vase of fresh lilies sits on a marble console beneath the staircase, probably swapped out this morning by the house staff. Everything is tasteful yet impersonal, like a five-star hotel trying too hard to feel like a home.
Francesca steps inside, her boots clicking against the floor as she takes it all in. Her gaze sweeps over the crystal chandelier overhead, the oil paintings lining the hallway, the sheer size of the space. I know she’s not awed by this wealth, because she comes from money too. But if she’s as intuitive as I believe she is, I’m sure she can sense that something’s off.
“She might be asleep,” I say, hoping it’s true. The zeal to put Francesca in her place by throwing her to the wolves—my mother—is fading.
Francesca’s voice is quiet but firm. “You didn’t bring me here hoping she’d be asleep. You brought me here to explain things.”
“So be it,” I murmur and turn toward the sitting room. I open the door and Vivienne is draped across her chaise, just where I expected she’d be. Silk robe, cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other, she gives off movie star glam vibes.
Vivienne dramatically tilts her head our way and sighs as if the effort to offer greeting is too much to bear. “Well, well… my prodigal son returns. And he brought…” Her eyes narrow on Francesca. “Arm candy. This is new.”
Francesca steps forward before I can speak. “Hello, Mrs. Barnes.”
Vivienne eyes her up and down, her lipstick smeared. “What’s your name?”
“Francesca.”
“Francesca,” she repeats thickly. “Exotic. Are you one of those social media girls? You don’t sound British.” She gives her another disdainful once-over. “You certainly don’t look British.”
“I’m Italian.”
Vivienne squints, unimpressed. “Hmm. Italian. Good skin, terrible politics. I had a fling with a composer from Milan once. Terrible in bed, brilliant with his hands.”
“Vivienne,” I snap, heat rising in my neck, but Francesca shoots me a look, and it speaks volumes.
Leave it alone. She doesn’t offend me.
My mother ignores my presence entirely, her attention still pinned on Francesca like a cat toying with a bird. “So, what are you?” she asks, voice syrupy and sharp at once. “His girlfriend? Handler? PR stunt?”
“I’m a driver,” Francesca says coolly. “For Titans Racing.”