Page 40 of The Finish Line
“In the morning,” she repeated, gentler now.“Right now, we’re going to bed.And tomorrow, when you wake up, this will already feel smaller than it does right now.”
Luca appeared with a glass of water, setting it on the side table.“She’s right.Rennen’s PR team will handle it.That’s what they’re paid to do.”
I took the water, more for something to do with my shaking hands than actual thirst.“Okay,” I heard myself say.“Okay.”
Georgia guided me toward the guest room, her arm around my waist.“Well,”—she paused at the guest-room door with a wicked grin—“with any luck, hopefully the size of this ring will distract everyone from that shitty article.”
Despite everything, I choked out a snort.“You’d better flash that thing around tomorrow!”
She threw her arms in the air.“I fully intend to!”
Chapter Ten
Henri
Monaco was supposed to bemymoment.My home race and my chance to finally win the crown jewel of motorsport.The race that had eluded me since I became a Formula 1 driver.
Instead, every “journalist” who approached me wanted to talk about Lily’s hotel room.The photos of me entering her room were plastered across every tabloid, and the speculation was running wild.
And the worst part?I was to blame.
I shouldn’t have followed her, but after our moment in the elevator, I’d let my heart override any common sense.All because some part of me couldn’t let go.Now Monaco was consumed by speculation about a relationship that didn’t exist—had never existed, because I hadn’t let it.
Imagine if we’d decided to date after Las Vegas, I thought.What a nightmare this all would be.
Although, if I were being truthful, it felt like a nightmare anyway.
I looked out of the Hermes office and onto the harbor, where yachts crowded the water for the race weekend.Verhoeven cleared his throat as he tried to get my attention.He sat centered at the conference table in the Hermes briefing room, arms crossed.Ruth was to his right, a tablet likely full of news articles glowing in front of her.Michael took the last chair a fraction back from the table.His crossed arms did nothing to give me comfort.
Verhoeven’s voice cut through the silence as he held up his phone.“Of all the drivers on the grid, Henri.Of all the teams.”He shook his head, disgust clear on his face.“You were photographed leaving Lily’s room?The driver currently beating you in the championship.”His eyes flickered back down to his phone, clearly assessing the photo of me leaving her hotel room, before looking back up at me accusingly.“Is this why you were so unfocused in Montreal?”
I froze, pulse thudding in my ears.His words weren’t so much a question as a statement he clearly believed.I stared at the conference-room table, counting each dent in front of me.When Ruth rotated the tablet toward me with manicured fingers, I had no choice but to look.The headline shone bright on the screen.
Hermes F1’s Henri Dubois pictured entering hotel room withRennen’s Lily Blackwood after shocking Montreal loss.
I didn’t need to read the story to know exactly what was being said about me.F1’s “former” star had lost his edge because he was sneaking around with Lily Blackwood.Anger rose in my chest, but it became tangled with something worse: a humiliation that grew with every second I sat there silent.
“Nothing happened,” I managed.
“Then explain to me why you were in her hotel room.”Verhoeven’s voice was ice.
“We just talked.”
Verhoeven scoffed.“Youjusttalked.”
To be fair, when he said it out loud, I realized how ridiculous it sounded.In what world would anyone believe Lily and I were “just” talking at 1 a.m.after a race, and in her suite, no less?
I didn’t know what was worse: Verhoeven believing I was losing control because of a woman, or because driving in the rain filled me with panic.
Fuck.It needed to be neither.
He leaned back in his chair, slowly tapping the pen between his fingers as he watched me.“Your focusmustreturn before this weekend.This is not just any race.Our home hospitality is sold out.Your friends and family will be there.There will be eyes everywhere.”
He leaned forward, setting the pen down with careful precision.“Monaco is where we prove Hermes belongs at the top.”
Ruth shifted in her seat, her nail clicking against the tablet screen as she scrolled.“Starting tomorrow, we need you laser-focused on media appearances.We talk about the race only.”
“If they ask about the photos?”I heard myself say.
