Cameron

The final laps of Monaco always separated the pretenders from the gods.

Cameron's hands were steady on the wheel, Mercedes engine screaming behind him as he took the tunnel at 290 kilometers per hour. The barriers were close enough to hit. Close enough to kill. His engineer's voice crackled through the radio, something about tire degradation and gap management, but Cameron wasn't listening. He never really listened when the blood was singing in his veins like this.

Lap 76 of 78. He had a 3.2 second lead on the Red Bull behind him, but that meant nothing in Monaco. One mistake, one moment of hesitation, and it all disappeared.

The crowd was a blur of color through the harbor section. Yachts lined the circuit, champagne already flowing for people who hadn't earned a damn thing. Cameron downshifted hard into Sainte Devote, the rear end stepping out just slightly. Perfect. The Ferrari responded like a beast, all 900 horsepower begging to be unleashed on the impossibly narrow streets.

His spotter was yelling something about the gap closing. 2.8 seconds now. Cameron smiled inside his helmet.

Good. Let them try.

He took the hill up to Casino Square faster than his engineer wanted, the car bottoming out over the crest with a shower of sparks that probably looked spectacular for the cameras. The steering wheel bucked in his hands, alive and furious. This was the only place he ever felt completely present. Completely himself.

Turn 8, the Mirabeau hairpin. This was where races died. He braked impossibly late, the Ferrari's nose diving as the rear threatened to come around. For a split second he was sliding, the barrier filling his peripheral vision. Then the tires bit and he was through, accelerating out while the crowd lost their collective minds.

His engineer: "Cameron, that was too close. We need you to bring it home."

Cameron clicked the radio. "I am bringing it home."

Just not safely. Cameron didn't do safe.

Two more corners. The swimming pool section rose up to meet him, the barriers so close he could see the sponsor logos clearly. Left. Right. Left again. The car danced on the absolute edge of adhesion, and Cameron rode that edge like he'd been born to it. Because he had been. This was the only thing he'd ever been good at. The only thing that mattered.

Final corner. Antony Noghes. He could see the checkered flag stand now, could feel the weight of what was about to happen settling into his chest. Monaco. The crown jewel. The one race every driver sold their soul to win.

He'd sold his soul years ago for much less.

The Ferrari crossed the line and the radio exploded. His engineer was screaming. The team was screaming. Cameron eased off the throttle and felt the adrenaline start to ebb, leaving behind that hollow feeling that always came after. The comedown. The moment when winning stopped being enough and became just another thing he'd done.

"Cameron Rhodes wins the Monaco Grand Prix! An absolutely stunning drive from the Ferrari man!"

He did the cool down lap on autopilot, one hand raised in acknowledgment of the crowd. They loved him here. They loved him everywhere. Cameron Rhodes, the guy who drove like he had a death wish and looked like sin doing it. Six seasons in F1 and he still couldn't believe they paid him to do this.

He couldn't believe he'd made it here at all.

The barriers in Parc Fermé were packed with team members, all of them reaching for him as he climbed out of the car. His race suit was soaked through with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead when he pulled the helmet off. Someone shoved a Ferrari cap on his head for the cameras. The flash of photographers was blinding.

His team principal grabbed him in a bear hug, shouting something in Italian that Cameron didn't catch. Didn't matter. He was grinning now.

On the podium, the Italian anthem played and Cameron stared out at the harbor, at the impossibly blue water and the yachts and the old money dripping from every surface of this principality. He'd fought his way here from nothing. From a shithole town where the biggest dream anyone had was making it to Friday with the lights still on.

The champagne came next. He shook the bottle and sprayed it over everyone in reach, letting them soak him in return. It was sticky and excessive and exactly the kind of stupid ritual that made no sense until you were standing up there, having just threaded a 200 million dollar car through the eye of a needle for 78 laps without blinking.

His race engineer was crying. Cameron pulled him in, let the man have his moment. The engineer had been with him since his second season, had seen him grow from a talented hothead into... well, into a talented hothead with better reflexes.

"You're insane," the engineer said, half laughing, half sobbing. "That move at Mirabeau, you took ten years off my life."

"You've got plenty to spare," Cameron said. His grin never faltered.

The interviews were a blur. He said the right things about the team, about Ferrari, about the incredible strategy that had put him in position to win. All lies. He'd won because he was willing to go faster than anyone else. Because when the gap between life and death narrowed to inches, he didn't flinch.

That was the only truth that mattered.

By the time he made it to the after party that night, Monaco was absolutely losing its mind.

The venue was one of those absurdly exclusive spots that didn't have a name, just a location that everyone who mattered knew about. Overlooking the harbor, strung with lights that reflected off the water, packed with exactly the kind of people Cameron had spent his whole life wanting to become.

Celebrities. Old money. New money. The kind of wealth that didn't need to announce itself because everyone already knew.

He was still riding the high, adrenaline humming through his veins even hours later. His team was scattered throughout the party, already three drinks deep and getting louder by the minute. Someone had started a chant of his name earlier and the staff had politely asked them to keep it down. They hadn't.

Cameron loved them for it.

He worked the room on instinct, shaking hands and accepting congratulations from people he'd never met and would never remember. A movie star. Some tech billionaire. A prince from somewhere.

He was heading toward the bar, thinking about his second drink, when he saw them.

Two men, standing slightly apart from the crowd in a way that marked them as different. The first thing Cameron noticed was the height. Both of them tall, but the one on the left was taller. Six four, maybe six five. Dark hair. Face full of scars that looked deliberate, like someone had taken their time. And his eyes. Different colors. One pale, one dark. Heterochromia. Cameron had seen it before but never like this, never on someone who wore it like a weapon.

The other one was blonde, blue eyed, shorter by a few inches but still tall enough. Pretty in a way that probably got him whatever he wanted. But there was something off about the smile, something calculated.

Cameron had grown up in a place where you learned to read danger or you didn't grow up at all. The blonde one liked games. Probably got off on watching people squirm.

The scarred one was a killer.

Not metaphorically. Actually.

Cameron must have stared too long because the mismatched eyes shifted and locked onto him. For a second neither of them moved. Then the scarred one said something to his companion and started walking over.

Most people approached Cameron with some version of awe or eagerness. This guy moved like he was doing Cameron a favor by acknowledging his existence.

"Congratulations on the win." The voice was completely devoid of warmth.

Cameron nodded. "Thanks."

"Silas Kingsley." He didn't offer his hand.

Ah. That explained it.

Kingsley. As in Kingsley Conglomerate. As in the kind of old money that made Monaco's billionaires look like they were playing dress up. Cameron had heard the name thrown around in sponsor meetings. The teams were courting them hard, trying to get Kingsley money into F1.

"Cameron Rhodes," he said, even though obviously this guy knew exactly who he was.

"I know." Silas's expression didn't change. "Impressive driving. That move at Mirabeau was either brilliant or suicidal."

"Both."

The corner of Silas's mouth might have twitched. Might have. "I can respect that."

Before Cameron could figure out what the hell to say to that, Silas's phone rang. He glanced at it, then back at Cameron. "Excuse me."

He walked away without waiting for a response, the blonde following. Cameron watched them go and tried to shake off the feeling that he'd just been weighed and measured by someone who didn't give a damn about F1 or Monaco or any of this.

He turned back to the bar, flagged down the bartender, and was about to order when he caught movement in his peripheral vision. Someone stepping away from the main crowd, heading toward one of the quieter terraces that overlooked the water.

The crowd shifted and he saw her profile.

Everything stopped.

No. No, that wasn't possible. His mind was playing tricks on him. Too much adrenaline, too much champagne, too many years of successfully not thinking about things he'd left behind.

But his feet were already moving, following her through the press of bodies, out toward the terrace where the music was quieter.

He found her standing at the railing, looking out at the harbor. The lights caught her hair, her shoulders, the line of her spine. He knew that silhouette. He'd know it blind.

"So it's really you." He said.

He watched her turn and time did something complicated in his chest. Nine years. Maybe ten. He'd stopped counting after the first few, when the guilt had finally calcified into something he could live with.

{{user}}.

He moved closer, trying to catalogue all the ways she'd changed while his brain was still trying to process the fact that she was here at all. In Monaco. At this party. In his life again after he'd spent a decade making sure she wouldn't be.

"How many years has it been?" He kept his voice casual, easy. Like they were old friends catching up. Like he hadn't ghosted her so completely she might as well have died. "Nine? Ten?"

"It's been a while," he continued, because apparently his mouth was operating independent of his brain now. "How are you?"

When he saw her walking away, something sharp twisted in his chest. He reached out without thinking, fingers closing around her wrist. "{{user}}, wait." He needed to say something. Anything. He couldn't just let her walk away again, not when she was right here in front of him after all this time.

But then he saw it.

The bruise on her arm. Dark purple, almost black in places. Fresh. Maybe a day old, maybe less.

Ice slid down his spine.

He pushed the sleeve up before he could stop himself, revealing more. The bruise wrapped around her arm like someone had grabbed her hard enough to leave an imprint. Hard enough to hurt.

"What the hell is this?" His voice came out rougher than he meant it to. "Who the fuck did this to you?"