Alaric
The Crimson Tide was right here in my home. I couldn't believe it as I stared at the painting for a moment.
The storm on the canvas was even more violent under the dim, recessed lighting of my foyer. The blood-red sky seemed to pulse with the same rhythm as the headache thumping behind my eyes.
I stared at it for a few seconds, trying to make sense of what was happening.
Why the hell would Nico spend half a million dollars just to send it to me? Was it a bribe? A taunt? Or was he truly just that unhinged? Or maybe he was trying to get on my nerves.
"What kind of…" I trailed off, unable to even find the words to describe Nicholas Park's brand of insanity.
I groaned, leaving the painting leaning against the wall. I couldn't look at it anymore.
Every brushstroke felt like Nico's smirk, every wave like the way he'd looked at me in that restroom.
"What is this fool even doing?" I groaned as I headed to my master suite, stripping off the tuxedo. I kicked the shoes aside and stepped into the walk-in shower, leaning my forehead against the cool tile as the warm water began to cascade over my shoulders.
I closed my eyes, but the darkness offered no peace. All I could hear was Bastien's screams.
"You ruined me! Everything is because of you!"
The hope I'd felt when he first spoke—the pure, childish joy of hearing my brother's voice again—had been decimated in seconds.
He hadn't spoken to me for years, and when he finally did, it was to tell me he wished I were the one in the grave instead of our father or the one in the wheelchair instead of him.
"Father… how do I solve this?" I murmured into the steam, my voice breaking.
I was returning to the track to save the De Villier name, to honor the man who had built our legacy.
But if my return only tore my family further apart, was it even a victory?
I stayed under the water until it turned cold, trying to wash away the scent of the gala and the sting of Bastien's words. But as I finally stepped out and caught my reflection in the steamed-up mirror, I saw the bruise forming on my knuckle.
It was a reminder of the punch I landed on Nico's face.
I realized then that I was fighting a war on two fronts: one at home against a past I couldn't change, and one on the track against a man who seemed determined to own my future.
A man who was bent on making living hell for me.
I stepped out of the bathroom, the steam trailing behind me like a shroud. I wrapped myself in a heavy charcoal robe and grabbed a towel to dry my hair.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated against the marble vanity.
I checked the screen. It was from Dorothy, my manager.
"Alaric, I'm so sorry to call this late," she started, her voice sounding rushed. "I completely forgot to mention—you have a mandatory appearance this Saturday. It's the Monaco Grand Prix Foundation Gala. It's the final big charity event before the teams fly out for pre-season testing."
I closed my eyes, a low groan vibrating in my chest. "Another gala? I just left one."
"This one is different. It's at the Prince's Palace. Every lead driver is required to be there for the official season launch photos. You can't skip it, Alaric. Especially not this year since you are returning back to the grid."
"Fine," I snapped, dropping the phone onto the bed. "I'll be there."
I walked back toward the living room, heading for the kitchen to find something to numb the ache in my head. But as I passed through the foyer, my eyes caught the glint of the gilded frame.
The Crimson Tide.
There it was, leaning against the wall of my multimillion-dollar penthouse like it owned the place.
I stopped in my tracks, staring at the chaotic red waves. I could practically hear Nico's voice whispering yeppeuni in my ear, whatever the word meant.
"Crazy bastard," I muttered, rolling my eyes so hard it hurt.
Why the hell did he buy it just to send it to me? It wasn't a gift; it was a mark. He wanted to make sure that even in my own home, in my private sanctuary, I couldn't escape him.
"Crazy ass man!" I cussed angrily as I poured myself a glass of aged scotch from my collection.
I walked back past the painting, pointedly looking at the ceiling instead of the canvas.
"Just one week," I whispered to the empty room, taking a sharp sip of the drink. "One week of peace. I hope I never see that man's face again until we're on the grid."
But deep down, a cold knot of intuition told me that Saturday was going to be a very long night.
I was just hoping that he wasn't there.