Redline

Welcome to hell

The crash never came.

Or at least, that's what Valentina thought at first, when the black Formula One car disappeared behind the corner, swallowed by a cloud of smoke.

Everything happened too fast.

The mechanics leaped into action.

Engineers barked orders into their headsets.

Every screen instantly switched to a red flag as the entire circuit seemed to hold its breath.

Valentina felt her heart slam against her ribs.

"What happened?"

No one answered.

The broadcast cut to the tunnel exit.

Dante's car sat motionless against the barriers, stranded sideways across the track.

For one endless second, nobody moved.

There was no fire.

No explosion.

Only smoke curling from the car while the entire paddock watched in absolute silence.

Then the driver's silhouette climbed out of the cockpit.

The collective exhale was almost audible.

A few mechanics broke into nervous applause as the medical team rushed toward him, but Dante ignored them completely.

He ripped off his helmet and looked around with such a dark expression that a chill ran down Valentina's spine.

He didn't look frightened.

He looked furious.

"Is he insane?" she muttered.

The mechanic beside her let out an uneasy laugh.

"No."

He shook his head.

"That would be easier."

The cameras were already surrounding Dante as he made his way back to the pit lane.

Reporters shouted over one another from every direction.

"Dante! What happened?"

"Was it a mechanical failure?"

"Did the car show any signs of trouble beforehand?"

He didn't answer.

He didn't even acknowledge them.

He just kept walking as if he wanted to kill the first person who crossed his path.

Then he looked up.

His eyes met Valentina's for only a second, but it was enough to make something inside her tighten.

There was something unsettling in that look.

Not fear.

Not relief.

Suspicion.

An hour later, the paddock was in complete chaos.

Rumors had already spread across the Monaco circuit, and social media was exploding with theories.

Mechanical failure.

Human error.

Sabotage.

Perfect.

Exactly the kind of crisis Valentina needed on her first day.

She followed Isabelle toward the media room while frantically checking the stream of messages flooding her phone.

The sponsors were panicking.

The press wanted answers.

Immediately.

"I'm going to need you to keep this under control," Isabelle said without slowing down.

"Do they know what happened yet?"

Isabelle took a little too long to answer.

"Not yet."

Valentina caught the lie instantly.

She was about to press further when the doors to the press room swung open, and the noise hit her head-on.

Dozens of journalists filled the seats while photographers and camera crews crowded in front of the stage, waiting for Dante to appear.

The giant screens behind the podium displayed the Moreau Racing logo alongside the number 7.

"This is going to be hell," Valentina muttered.

"Welcome to Formula One."

Camera flashes exploded the instant Dante walked into the room.

Silence followed.

He was back in his black team uniform, though now his sleeves were rolled up and his dark hair was still damp from the shower.

He looked untouched.

Far too untouched for someone who had just cheated death at over three hundred kilometers per hour.

He dropped into the chair behind the microphones with an expression of complete boredom, as though there was nowhere on Earth he'd rather be less.

"We'll begin the press conference now," the moderator announced.

The first question came immediately.

"Dante, what happened to the car?"

"I don't know."

Short.

Sharp.

Another reporter was already on his feet.

"Does the team suspect a mechanical failure?"

"Ask the engineers."

"Were you scared during the incident?"

Dante rested his forearms on the table and raised a single eyebrow.

"Is that really the important question?"

A few uneasy laughs rippled through the room.

Valentina closed her eyes for a second.

Perfect.

A complete disaster.

The questions kept coming.

And somehow, every answer made things worse.

"Do you believe the team can guarantee your safety?"

"No."

"Do you intend to race tomorrow?"

"Depends."

"Depends on what?"

Dante slowly lifted his eyes.

"On whether I feel like answering any more stupid questions."

The room erupted.

Journalists began shouting over one another, the tension snapping in an instant.

Then one reporter stood up.

His next question changed everything.

"Is it true this crash was similar to the one that killed Luca Bianchi?"

Silence crashed over the room.

Valentina felt it immediately.

Everyone froze.

And for the first time since the conference had begun, something pierced through Dante's icy expression.

Darkness.

Pure darkness.

"This press conference is over," one of the team executives cut in quickly.

Too late.

"Did Luca know something about the team before he died?"

"Was there sabotage two years ago?"

"Did Moreau Racing cover something up?"

Camera flashes exploded nonstop while reporters shouted from every direction.

Dante shot to his feet so abruptly that his chair crashed onto the floor behind him.

"Enough."

His voice was low.

Dangerously calm.

No one stopped.

"Do you think someone tried to kill you today?"

"Why have you never spoken about the accident?"

"Dante!"

His fist slammed onto the table hard enough to send several microphones crashing to the floor.

The sound echoed through the room.

"I SAID ENOUGH!"

The silence afterward was brutal.

A shiver ran through Valentina.

That wasn't just anger.

It was pain.

Real pain.

Dante stood there, breathing hard, staring at the press as though he wanted to tear the entire room apart.

Then, for the briefest moment...

His eyes found hers again.

Something happened.

Something she couldn't explain.

For a heartbeat, it felt as though he'd forgotten everyone else existed.

Then it was gone.

Dante yanked the microphone off the table and let it crash to the floor before stepping off the stage.

The room exploded once more with shouting, questions, and blinding flashes.

Valentina moved by instinct.

Before she could think better of it, she was already following him.

She caught up with him in one of the private paddock corridors, far from the cameras and reporters.

Dante strode down the hallway, adrenaline still radiating from him as he ripped his team earpiece out with an irritated jerk.

"Moreau!"

He kept walking as though he hadn't heard her.

"Dante!"

This time, he stopped.

He turned slowly.

Up close, the fury in his eyes was even more intimidating than it had been in front of the cameras.

His jaw was clenched.

His breathing was still uneven.

As if every ounce of rage he'd swallowed during the press conference was still searching for somewhere to land.

"What?" he snapped.

Valentina folded her arms, forcing herself to ignore the fact that her heartbeat was racing.

"You managed to create an international media crisis in under ten minutes. Congratulations."

A dry, humorless laugh escaped him.

"Did you come here to scold me, princesse de presse?"

"Someone has to."

"Clearly nobody else has the guts."

Dante took one step toward her.

The corridor suddenly felt much narrower.

Tall.

Still running on adrenaline.

Still carrying that dangerous energy that seemed to follow him everywhere.

"You don't know what happened in there."

"I know you just handed the press exactly what they wanted."

"Poor them. They must be devastated."

She held his gaze.

"Are you always this much of an asshole in front of the cameras, or was today a special occasion?"

For a split second, something resembling a smile touched Dante's mouth.

Small.

Dangerous.

"Do you always talk this much, or is it some kind of defense mechanism?"

"Only when I'm dealing with men who have serious ego problems."

He stepped even closer.

Close enough that she had to tilt her chin up just slightly to keep looking him in the eye.

"You should be careful around me."

His voice was quiet. Almost calm. Somehow, that made it worse.

Valentina didn't move.

"Does that usually work?"

His gray eyes narrowed as he studied her.

"Most people know when to stop pushing."

"Most people are probably afraid of you."

"And you're not."

She tilted her head.

"I haven't decided yet whether you're actually intimidating..."

"...or just insufferable."

This time, Dante laughed for real.

Brief.

Rough.

As though it had escaped without his permission.

"You won't last long here."

"You've already told me that."

"I still mean it."

"Good thing I don't need your approval to stay."

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

The tension between them no longer felt purely hostile.

There was something else beneath it.

Something electric.

Something unsettling that only seemed to grow stronger every time they stood too close.

Dante pressed his tongue lightly against the inside of his cheek, watching her with an intensity that was beginning to make even Valentina uneasy.

"You're too proud for this place."

A faint smile crossed her lips.

"And you're far too arrogant to scare me."

Something shifted in Dante's expression.

Barely noticeable.

As if, against his own will...

...he was starting to enjoy her.

Before he could answer, a man's voice echoed down the corridor.

"Dante."

They both turned.

A man in a dark suit stood at the far end of the hallway.

Elegant.

Older.

Cold.

The instant Dante saw him, every trace of expression disappeared from his face.

The change was immediate.

The tension in his jaw.

The hardness in his eyes.

The hatred.

"We need to talk," the man said.

Dante didn't answer right away.

He simply stared at him as though enduring his presence already required too much effort.

Then he glanced back at Valentina.

"Welcome to hell, princesse de presse."

And without waiting for a response, he walked away.