SAVANNAH

Because I was a professional, I'd shaken Dante's hand before he climbed into his car from the right side, keeping in line with his superstitions. I'd acted like all the other pit crew members, serious and eager to help the man poised to be the world's champion racer.

Of course, I had on my helmet, so he couldn't see my watery eyes or the way my bottom lip trembled when he was near. Dante patted me on the shoulder and it was all I could do not to crumple onto the track at his feet.

A pat on the shoulder. Like one of the guys. He was definitely through with me. He hadn't attempted to sneak to my room the previous night and instead sent a text.

This is it, Savannah. My final race. I'm going to gather all my energy and get to sleep early.

Sweet dreams, I'd texted as I sobbed.

And now that the race was underway, I did my job flawlessly. Because I was a fucking professional. I was like a ballet dancer again, graceful and quick as I used my wheel gun to detach and attach Dante's tire. After the second stop, it was apparent that Dante was so far in the lead and would win that everyone visibly relaxed. I could practically see the crew members' postures grow a little looser with each lap. The grins grew wider, too.

"Let's not get sloppy," Jack yelled. "It ain't over till it's over, mates."

When the checkered flag unfurled and the crowd went wild because Dante had not only won the race but also clenched his fifth championship, I let out a breath. A grin escaped my lips as I took off my helmet. I couldn't help but feel happy for him. Proud, too.

Tilting my head upward to a Jumbotron screen, I watched as Dante drove a victory lap, fist pumping and making the number one sign with his index finger the entire way as the crowd roared.

"A flawless final race for Dante Annunziata," the announcer boomed over a loudspeaker. "And a fifth championship has propelled him into the ranks of motorsport legends."

He was an incredible athlete, and I'd likely never see the likes of someone like him again. Professionally or personally.

Then, the feelings of being used and humiliated washed over me. I'd pushed them deep inside during the race, but now they crested. So I stole away to the ladies' room, away from the raucous celebration underway.

No one would notice. They were too busy cheering. And I didn't care about my future or the team because I didn't have one. Dante would be in the limelight, basking in the glow of being an even bigger celebrity.

Neither the team nor Dante had any use for me now.

There, in the calm of the team bathroom—there was a separate women's shower—I quickly washed and threw on a long black dress and a black headscarf. Also a pair of giant, black sunglasses.

From there I grabbed my passport and a carry-on bag, and wove through the crowds of jubilant racing fans and hailed a taxi to the airport. In the back seat of the cab, I teared up as I typed two texts. One was to Bronson. I wanted to be snarky and angry, but the only words that came out were kind and polite. I was a Southerner through and through.

There was no use in being mean now. I'd allowed myself to be used, by both Dante and the team. I should have walked away months ago and faced Bronson's wrath—or tried harder not to fall in love. Instead, I'd taken every scrap of affection Dante had thrown my way. I pulled up his number on my phone.

Congratulations on your win. You drove a perfect race. A perfect season. I wish you only the best in your post-race career. xo, Savannah

Thank God I'd saved money over the season, because the last-minute ticket back to America was insanely expensive, even for coach. I didn't want questions from my parents, so putting the ticket on their card was out of the question.

I handed my passport to the ticketing agent, who mentioned something about how I'd gotten the last seat on a flight to Berlin because someone cancelled.

"The passenger must be having too much fun at the Formula World race," the ticket agent said in dulcet tones.

I growled in response, and the woman reared back, surprised.

"Sorry," I whispered. "I'm going through a bad time right now." Jesus. I'd have to get a grip if I was going to survive this flight. At the gate, I positioned myself far from the TVs, which blared news of the race. I ended up sitting on the floor, facing a wall, so I didn't have to look at the scenes of jubilation happening not so far from the airport.

Mercifully, the flight boarded quickly. I shuffled down the aisle and threw myself into the seat, shucking off my sunglasses and headscarf. Minutes later, a flight attendant passed by.

"Magazine?"

Trying to distract my spinning mind, I nodded. Stuffing the magazine in the seat back pocket, I forgot about it as the plane lifted into the air. I was in the window seat and peered out at the Dubai skyline below, which shimmered in the sandy haze of the city. What was Dante doing at that moment? Probably celebrating. Giving interviews. Posing for photos with rich men and pretty women.

He'd almost certainly forgotten all about me. I sighed. It was going to take a long, long time to forget about him.

"Look," said the man seated next to me. "There's the Formula World track."

I looked down to see the course, set amidst the tan desert landscape.

I sniffed. "I couldn't care less about that sport."

Scowling at my seatmate to prevent further conversation, I grabbed the magazine out of the holder. It was a men's fashion magazine, and I wasn't sure why the flight attendant had given it to me. I didn't want to see men, much less read about them. Still, I thumbed through, trying to take my mind off my anxiety.

"Oh, look," my seatmate said.

Jesus, was he going to talk all the way to Berlin? He pointed at the magazine and I fought the urge to slap him away.

"It's the racing champion himself. The ladies love him, you know," said the man, tapping on the page with his index finger.

I looked down at the glossy pages on my lap. There was Dante.

It was a fashion spread for an Italian designer. The photos were raw, arresting, black-and-white. One was a close-up of his face, and he wore only a hoodie. His eyes were closed and his mouth was parted, and I recalled that he looked almost identical once when he was underneath me. Like he was in ecstasy.

I burst into tears because the full force of the truth slammed my senses.

That man had shattered my heart.

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