Chapter 1: Roses and Betrayal
Friday Morning
Sophie clutched a bouquet of red roses as she pushed open the terrace door.
She wore a green dress, her hair loose on her shoulders, her makeup done. She had wanted to surprise Luca——he said he had a meeting with “sponsors” at the hotel today. She thought she’d bring him flowers, give him a kiss, then head to open the shop.
On the terrace, Luca had his arms around another woman. They were kissing.
They both saw her at the same time.
Sophie froze.
She looked down at the roses in her hands. They were beautiful. She had spent twenty minutes picking them, every single one the best of the day.
She smiled. That kind of “so that’s how it is” smile.
Then she walked over and placed the roses on the table in front of them.
“For you,” she said. “You’re welcome.”
Luca let go of the woman, panicked. “Sophie, let me explain——”
Sophie raised a hand to stop him.
“Explain what? That it was a misunderstanding? I saw it with my own two eyes. How exactly are you going to misunderstand that?”
Luca opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
The woman——Sophie recognized her now, Nicole, a paddock journalist who had interviewed Luca last week——stepped back and tucked her hair behind her ear. A guilty gesture.
Sophie looked at Luca. She waited five seconds.
In those five seconds, he didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain. Didn’t chase after her. Just a caught-in-the-act expression. His eyes were dodging hers.
That was enough.
“We’re done.”
She turned and walked away.
Her heels clicked against the floor. One step. Another. Another.
She stopped in the hallway and took a deep breath.
Her hands were shaking. Not from heartbreak. From adrenaline.
She looked at herself in the mirror at the end of the hall. Her face——she hadn’t cried. Why would she cry? She wasn’t the one who cheated.
A woman pushing a cleaning cart walked by and said, “Bonjour.” Sophie nodded, the corner of her mouth even lifting a little.
That cleaning lady had no idea that thirty seconds ago, this woman had just caught her boyfriend cheating.
She kept walking.
The elevator doors opened. She stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. The numbers dropped from 7 to 1. Alone in the elevator, she finally let her shoulders slump.
Only for three seconds.
When the doors opened, her shoulders were straight again.
Sophie walked out of the hotel. The Monaco sun hit her face. June sky, unreasonably blue.
The roar of F1 engines came from the direction of the track, a low growl, like a beast breathing somewhere in the distance.
She stood at the hotel entrance, smoothing her windblown hair.
Then she started walking.
Fast.
Monaco’s streets are narrow, lined with limestone old buildings, geraniums on the balconies. She passed jewelry stores, cafés, the Casino Square. Tourists taking photos, luxury cars in line. Very Monaco.
She had grown up in this city. She had seen it all before.
But she had never felt so distant from it all.
It wasn’t about money. It was that she suddenly realized she had invested three years in this relationship, and Luca couldn’t even offer a proper explanation.
Not “I made a mistake.”
Not “I’m sorry.”
Nothing.
He just stood there and watched her leave.
Three years. He couldn’t even be bothered to lie.
She stopped when she reached the port.
The wind was strong, blowing her hair everywhere. She looked at the water in front of her, blindingly blue. Yachts lined up one after another, gleaming in the sun.
The F1 engines roared again. A car was flying down the track, the sound like a knife cutting through the air.
She glanced toward the circuit.
Sophie looked down at her left hand. On her ring finger was a thin silver band, no decoration. On the inside, a small inscription.
She knew what it said.
Toujours.
Always.
When Luca gave her this ring, he said, “It’s not an engagement. It’s a promise. I’ll always be with you.”
She had thought the word “always” sounded so beautiful back then.
Now, it was funny.
“Always” meant——until he met Nicole. Or until he met the next one. Or until he got bored.
She kept walking.
Her heels clicked against the cobblestones.
The wind blew her hair everywhere. She didn’t bother fixing it.
One sentence kept circling in her head, running lap after lap like that race car——
Fuck F1.
Fuck the engineer.
She said it in French. In her native language, it hit harder.
“Putain de F1. Putain d’ingénieur.”
