by Nell Stark
“Will you be returning to your suite, ma’am?” Thankfully, Claude’s tone was entirely professional.
Alix had booked a room in the same hotel patronized by Formula One to keep up appearances, but she had spent every night of her stay in Thalia’s bed. Now, she was thankful to have her own space. But it wasn’t enough—she could easily run into Thalia in the hall or the lobby. Her mind leapt to how awful it would be to glimpse Thalia with another woman, someone who cared only about Thalia’s fame and wanted only her body. Someone who wouldn’t call her out when she was being self-destructive.
The urge to flee and lick her wounds in private was all-consuming. A choking sense of claustrophobia rose in her throat, and she braced herself against the wall to combat a wave of dizziness.
“Ma’am?” Claude, who had never touched her, rested one hand briefly on her shoulder. “I’d like to escort you to your room. Please.”
At his solicitous tone, Alix had to bite her lip to hold herself together. She still couldn’t look at him, but after a hard swallow and deep, shuddering breath, she forced herself to speak.
“That’s fine.” The words were steady. So far, so good. “And I’d like to leave tonight. Would you mind calling the airfield?”
“I’ll do so immediately.”
After another deep breath, she pushed off the wall and walked with measured steps toward the elevator. The effort required all her concentration. While she might be able to escape Thalia, she couldn’t give her own emotions the slip. The pressure built behind her eyes like a storm front, and Alix knew that once she was alone, she would no longer be able to contain it. For the first time since she had been a small child, she was going to break down and weep. It was going to be messy and protracted and melodramatic and useless. Turning into a blubbering mess wouldn’t help her process what had happened with Thalia. It wouldn’t make her a better person. It certainly wouldn’t help her prepare for tomorrow’s meeting.
If this was the price of falling in love with someone, she never wanted to pay it again.
Chapter Twenty-two
Alix sat in the barber’s chair at Camille’s favorite salon and watched as the hairdresser took up her scissors. She approached with obvious trepidation.
“Are you certain, Your Serene Highness?” she asked. “This is a significant change to make all at once. Perhaps you would like to do it in stages, just to be sure?”
Alix knew the woman was trying to be helpful, and to avoid risking royal ire, but she didn’t appreciate being second-guessed. “I’m certain,” she said, hoping she sounded confident and not testy.
Since her breakup with Thalia, she had found herself prone to irrational fits of temper. Even the smallest slight or inconvenience—like convincing her hairdresser that yes, she really did want a pixie cut—set her on edge. Had she absorbed some of Thalia’s impatience during their time together? If so, she needed to expunge it and become herself again, as soon as possible.
But as she watched the long, auburn strands fall to the floor, Alix knew she could never go back to the person she had been. That person hadn’t known how it felt to dance with Thalia in Buckingham Palace, or to watch her encourage a young child with cancer, or to make love with her to the sound of the Mediterranean’s lapping waves. That person had only seen the waste of Formula One, and not the good it could do through charity and sponsorship. She wasn’t that person anymore. She couldn’t go back. But moving on was proving to be just as impossible.
She was stuck.
Despite the finality of their parting, it had proven impossible for her to cut Thalia out of her life. She couldn’t help but continue to follow Thalia’s career: third place in Brazil, third in Canada, second in the United States. Finally, she was having a run of successful races. But it hurt not to be able to share in her victories. Every day, she wondered whether Thalia had found someone else, or whether she was back to her old philandering habits. In moments of weakness, she searched for news of her on the Internet. But uncharacteristically, photos of Thalia partying with grid girls didn’t rise to the surface. What did that mean? And why couldn’t she stop caring?
This weekend, Formula One returned to Europe. The German Grand Prix would be followed by the British Grand Prix, before the circuit moved to the final race in Abu Dhabi, which counted for double points. The Alps might separate Monaco from Germany, but it still seemed too close. When the vast expanse of the Atlantic had separated them, Alix had been resigned to Thalia’s distance. But now that they were back on the same continent, her nerves felt raw and exposed. She had purposefully scheduled this appointment to coincide with the beginning of the race in order to distract herself from it. Not that the plan was working very well.
Slowly, her face emerged from the curtain of hair that had framed it for years. It was a strong face—too distinctive to be called “beautiful” according to the current standard, but not, she reflected dispassionately, displeasing. There would be other women who would find her attractive enough. Or men.
Alix narrowed her eyes at her reflection. Was she bisexual? A lesbian? How could she tell, when the only person she wanted was Thalia?
When grief washed over her, she reminded herself to stay angry. Thalia had dumped her as unceremoniously as she might one of her flings. One argument, and they were over. That wasn’t the kind of relationship she wanted. The ease with which Thalia had broken it off spoke volumes about her level of commitment in the first place.
Commitment. Alix barely managed to keep herself from startling the hairdresser with ironical laughter. Thalia had never wanted more than the most superficial commitment. That was blatantly obvious in hindsight, and over the past several weeks, Alix had chastised herself more than once for being such a fool. Everyone went through something like this when they were inexperienced, she reminded herself. Her foolishness was just happening much later than normal.
The hairdresser (why could Alix not remember her name?) stepped back and smiled nervously into the mirror. “There you are, Your Serene Highness. What do you think?”
Alix inspected her new reflection. For once, her hair lay flat against her head, instead of frizzing and wisping in disobedience. True, the style emphasized the angularity of her jawline, but it also lent her a fresh, clean-cut look. Unburdened of her unruly tresses, she felt light and sharp and powerful.
“It’s perfect,” she said.
The relief on the woman’s face was out of proportion to both her task and Alix’s sentiment. “I’m so glad,” she enthused, the words tripping over themselves in her obvious relief.
Alix tipped her handsomely before stepping outside with Claude at her heels. As she paused to take stock, the sun emerged from behind a bank of dark clouds. The streets and buildings gleamed wetly, seeming clean and new after their impromptu shower. Unexpectedly, she felt a buoying sense of hope. Thalia had wounded her, but the wound would heal. It was all a matter of time, and she had that now. Her obligations to Formula One had ended, and she wouldn’t have to see Thalia again this season. And next season, Florestan would almost certainly want to reprise his role as the family’s F1 liaison.
Thankfully, she had her work. Over the next few months, Rising Sun would demand all the attention she could offer. And if some other person ever inspired the passion Thalia had awakened—well then, she would cross that bridge when it appeared.
But her resolve disappeared as they passed a pub advertising the German Grand Prix. Alix slowed, hating herself for her weakness. She only needed a moment—just a moment to see where Thalia stood. To ensure she was okay. If it had rained here, it might also be raining in Germany. And the last time it had rained…
She shook her head to disperse the ominous thought. “I’d like to stop here briefly,” she told Claude. “Just to watch the race for a few minutes.”
“Very well, ma’am.” He spoke softly into his wrist mic before leading the way inside.
It was a fairly upscale establishment, as it would have to be in this neighborhood—packe
d with what appeared to be a mix of young professionals and tourists. After Claude carved out a space for her along one wall, she turned her attention to the nearest television, where the race was just returning after a commercial break. An overhead camera showed the cars snaking along the course, and Alix squinted, trying to make out the leaders. Fortunately, the announcers chimed in with an update.
“During the break, Thalia d’Angelis continued to close the gap separating her from Lucas Mountjoy. With only five laps remaining, she’ll need to make her move soon to claim her first victory.”
Alix wanted to protest. Technically, that wasn’t true. Thalia had been declared the winner of the race in which Peter was killed. But no one, least of all Thalia herself, regarded that as a true victory. Wishing she had the strength to turn and walk out of the pub—to leave both Thalia and Formula One behind forever—Alix instead kept her gaze fixed to the screen. She didn’t know whether to hope Thalia tried to pass Lucas, or settled for what appeared to be a safe second place.
But Thalia wanted to win, and any place below first was a loss.
“There she goes!” the announcer enthused. “D’Angelis is making a move to catch Mountjoy for the lead!”
A chorus of groans greeted this news, reminding Alix that her own preferences were not shared by the majority of diehard Formula One fans. By and large, they wanted the sport to remain as it always had: ruled by men both on the track and off. But as she watched Thalia accelerate in order to pass Lucas on the outside, Alix felt her anger and resentment burn away in a rush of adrenaline. Pass him, she silently urged. Show these people just how good you are.
Lucas took the turn tightly, and Thalia went wide…but instead of curving back toward the inside of the track, her car kept moving on its original line. Alix’s jaw dropped in a silent scream as Thalia hurtled toward the barrier, crashing into it in a spray of water. Pieces of her car went flying like shrapnel. The announcers erupted in sounds of distress and attempts at explanation, but Alix couldn’t hear through the sudden ringing in her ears.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” Claude was gripping her arm. Alix stared at him numbly. Thalia had crashed at the height of her acceleration. She had probably been driving in excess of three hundred kilometers per hour when she hit the barricade. She turned to Claude and tried to focus despite the blurriness of her vision. Why couldn’t she see properly?
With his free hand, he proffered a handkerchief. “Use this, ma’am. Please. It’s clean.”
“Thank you,” she tried to say. Her lips felt numb.
“Would you like to go to Germany? I can make the arrangements.”
Alix looked between him and the screen, where ambulances were converging on Thalia’s car. Alix wanted to shout at them through the television—to admonish them to move her carefully, without jostling her spinal cord. But they were professionals. They knew.
And then she realized it didn’t matter what they knew. She needed to know. It didn’t matter that she and Thalia had broken up. She cared for her still. She needed to be there.
*
Thalia couldn’t get comfortable enough to sleep. The medication had helped her slip into a shallow doze, but the dosage wasn’t strong enough to put her out completely. If she twitched or shifted or breathed in too deeply, a spike of pain shattered her fragile rest.
She didn’t want to be awake. She didn’t want to replay the crash to the metronome of her heart monitor. She didn’t want to be trapped in this fragile body in this sterile room while the world turned outside and the clock continued ticking until the British Grand Prix.
“Absolutely out of the question,” her doctor had informed her when she had asked about her chances of racing. “Perhaps, if you remain very quiet and follow your rehabilitation program to the letter, you will be able to race at Abu Dhabi in one month’s time.”
The British Grand Prix, on her home turf, would be another DNF. Another opportunity for points, wasted. All her hard work in the Americas to close the gap between herself and Lucas would be for naught. Roderick had been racing well enough to keep them in contention for the Constructors’ Cup, but if she couldn’t do her part, it would slip through their fingers. She would be yet another disappointment to one more person.
Alistair and Carl had visited earlier in the day, bringing dark chocolate and telemetry data. Carl had initially been terrified to enter her presence, believing she held him accountable for the failure of her braking system that had caused her crash. And while the thought had occurred to her, Thalia had also had plenty of time to reflect on the nature of her sport: its sensitivity, its unreliability, its fickleness. In the service of her quest to catch Lucas, her engineers had made certain modifications to the car that involved tweaks to the brake-by-wire system. But because she had been driving in Lucas’s “bad air” for much of the race, the temperature of her brakes had risen beyond the point where the brake-by-wire would work automatically. Naturally, it had failed at the most critical moment.
She hated seeing Carl so cowed, so hangdog. She had put that fear in his mind, that expression on his face. He would have been apologetic and disappointed no matter what, but her patterns of volatility had led him to expect either verbal abuse or the cold shoulder. Never had she hated herself more than in the moment of that revelation. And he wasn’t the only one she had bullied.
The last time she had been in the hospital, Alix had come to her rescue. Now, Thalia had only her team members who felt obliged to stop in and check on her. Even her father hadn’t done more than call. She reached for her phone, thinking to send Alix a text. I’m sorry, it would say. Or perhaps more specific was better: I was cruel to you and I’m sorry. Or perhaps instead: I’ve thought of you every day since Sochi, but I confused apologizing for being cruel with apologizing for who I am. That was halfway decent…
A sound in the doorway interrupted her recrimination. She looked up expecting to see a nurse and ready to request a higher dose of pain meds, but instead found herself face-to-face with Alix. Thalia’s heart flip-flopped, and she felt her mouth open, then close.
Alix had cut her hair very short, and it suited her. She didn’t move into the room, but stood regarding Thalia with an impassivity she found frightening. But if Alix truly felt nothing, then why had she come?
“I’m so glad to see you,” she said brokenly.
“Are you?”
Discomfited by the monotone of her voice, Thalia hurried to explain. To apologize. To beg forgiveness. “Yes. I’ve missed you and—”
“You have an awfully strange way of showing it.” Alix entered as far as the foot of her bed and picked up her chart. “Two fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a concussion.”
Thalia knew she should remain apologetic, but the vague accusation in Alix’s tone raised her hackles. “Sustained because my brake system failed, not because of my driving skill.”
Alix returned her chart to its hook. “I never accused you of being a poor driver.”
“Everyone else has,” Thalia said bitterly. “Are you here to say ‘I told you so’? Because you would be well within your rights to do so.”
“No.” Alix took the seat next to her bedside. “I’m here to help you recover for Abu Dhabi.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Thalia sat on the patio of Villa Canella and watched the sun turn Lake Como to fire. The pain in her ribs had woken her before sunrise, but the chance to witness it offered some consolation. As she had slowly shuffled toward the French doors, one of Alix’s staff had offered assistance, but she had politely declined. This much, she could do herself.
It hadn’t been easy to make the lawn chair recline with only one good arm, but she had managed. It had been impossible to lower herself into the chair without her ribs screaming, but she had ignored their protests. Now, with a blanket tucked around her body, she breathed as deeply as she could, willing the pain to subside so she could enjoy the unparalleled view.
The mansion sat on the western edge of Lake Como and commande
d one of the best possible perspectives. Thalia watched as the scintillating light played across the sheer rock faces that dropped precipitously into the water the color of aquamarine. Farther off, the border of the lake gentled into green slopes dotted with homes, their terracotta roofs still plunged in shadow. Turning her face toward the dawn, she surrendered to the haze of fatigue and the seductive pull of her pain pill.
She woke with the sun in her eyes. Overheated, she reached for the blanket only to gasp in pain at the sudden movement. Muttering a curse, she forced herself to move more deliberately. After ineffectually patting the collar of her shirt, she cursed again. She had forgotten her sunglasses and would have to return inside.
“Good morning.” As she spoke, Alix stepped into her field of vision. She was dressed simply in jeans and a white Oxford shirt, and the sun backlit her hair, making it glow red. She was stunning. Thalia wanted to kiss her, but thanks to her own stupidity, that was no longer an option.
“Hi,” she said, her voice gritty from sleep. She wanted nothing more than to apologize properly, but they hadn’t been alone together since that brief interlude in the hospital. Someone—a security officer, the butler, a member of the villa’s housekeeping corps—was always hovering nearby, and Alix never asked them to leave. Thalia wasn’t about to speak honestly in front of a third party, and she suspected Alix was deliberately using her people as a shield.
Her suspicion was confirmed when Alix’s gaze shifted to something behind her. She spoke a string of Italian, presumably to a member of the staff, before moving to one side so Thalia wouldn’t have to blind herself.
“I would ask how you slept, but the evidence suggests not well,” Alix said. Her voice was carefully modulated, as it had been since they had left the hospital. All trace of the emotion she had betrayed in Thalia’s presence on the evening of her accident had utterly disappeared and had yet to return. But it was there, simmering below the surface, bound fast by mental lock and key until Alix could trust her again. Thalia had to believe that.