Chapter 265
[ 995 words ]
Katia’s POV
“Something isn’t right about that husband of mine,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper as I began pacing the cold concrete floor. “Why now? Why would he wait seven years to show his face, only to do it at a press conference in London? Do you think he was the one who blocked my exit today? Do you think he was trying to force me to reveal myself p>
“It’s possible,” Sam said, shrugging her shoulders as she tucked her iPad under her arm. “Jude Wolfe plays a very dirty, very high-stakes game. But then, there is also that tall, arrogant little witch called Tessa Sterling. Personally, my money is on her. She’s probably still digging gravel out of her radiator after Turn Nine, and she is definitely the type to pay some thugs to pull your helmet off p>
She began walking toward the heavy metal exit door that led to the private elevator bay.
“Where are you going?” I called after her, my voice echoing in the empty garage. “The logistics reports aren’t finished. We still have to draft the response to the state attorney general about the backup server files p>
Sam stopped at the exit, her hand resting on the heavy brass doorknob. She slowly turned her head back toward me, her face splitting into a casual, entirely smug, and victorious grin.
“Well, since you asked,” Sam said, her voice dripping with a dry, wicked satisfaction, “I’m going to fuck Zane p>
I froze in the middle of the concrete floor. My brain completely stalled, the remaining adrenaline from the race instantly freezing in my veins.
“Zane?” I asked, my voice flat with sheer, absolute disbelief.
“And before you ask which one,” Sam said, her smirk widening into a victorious, wicked line that made her look like she had just won her own personal Grand Prix, “De Zane. The one you know. Julian’s best friend. The COO of the Windsor Empire Group p>
“You… you are fucking Zane?” I asked, my voice rising slightly as my brain tried and failed to calculate the absolute, catastrophic mess of our combined social circles. If Julian was sleeping with me, and Zane was sleeping with Sam, the corporate boundaries of our multi-billion-dollar partnership had not just been crossed—they had been completely vaporized.
Sam shrugged, her hand twisting the doorknob, the heavy metal door clicking open to reveal the brightly lit elevator corridor.
“Well,” Sam said, casting one last, utterly unbothered look over her shoulder. “At least you are not the only one eating some forbidden fruits p>
The elevator doors had barely slid open before I was pacing the hardwood of my penthouse living room.
I hadn’t changed out of my racing gear. The custom, sleek one-piece black leather racing jumpsuit was still hugged tight to my body like a second skin, carrying the faint, metallic scent of the track and my own sharp sweat. The adrenaline from the Grand Prix was still vibrating violently in my veins, but it had turned sour, curdling into a dark, restless anxiety that made my chest feel like it was trapped under a lead weight.
I walked straight to the bar. My hands were still trembling as I grabbed the heavy crystal decanter, pouring a double shot of neat scotch into a glass.
I drank it in one go.
The alcohol hit the back of my throat like liquid fire, burning its way down to my stomach, but it did nothing to quiet the rushing static in my head. I checked the time on my phone.
Where the hell was he?
He had told me he slept where I slept. He had claimed my space, my bed, and my body, and yet the penthouse was dead silent. I poured myself another drink, the amber liquid splashing over the rim of the glass. I gulped it down without breathing, the heat blossoming behind my ribs, but my eyes remained locked on the clock.
Was he with Delia? Was he currently in his own wing of the Windsor estate, pretending nothing had happened? Or was he running? Running because my “husband” had finally decided to show his face to the world?
Coward, I thought, my jaw clenching so hard my teeth ached.
I poured a third drink. Since the race had ended, I hadn’t been myself. I had been like a ghost in my own house, moving through the rooms with a numb, disjointed focus, unable to settle, unable to stop my mind from spinning out of control. Jude Wolfe’s British accent was still echoing in my head, a parasitic threat claiming a life that wasn’t his to touch, while Julian’s matching black McLaren was still burnt into my retinas.
I set the glass down with a sharp click. I couldn’t take the silence anymore. I picked up my phone and dialed his number.
The line connected.
“Where the fuck are you, Julian?” I demanded, my voice raw and biting.
“Right here p>
The low, familiar rumble of his voice didn’t come from the speaker of my phone. It came from directly behind me.
I spun around, the phone slipping from my fingers as Julian tossed his own device onto the leather cushions of the couch. He was standing in the shadows of the foyer, his dark coat unbuttoned, his collar slightly open, his eyes completely black as they locked onto mine. He looked dangerous, a massive, unyielding silhouette against the glass of the window, his chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm.
I didn’t ask how he got in. I didn’t care.
I ran to him.
My fingers scrambled for the zipper at my collar, ripping the front of the sleek black leather jumpsuit open and peeling the tight fabric down my shoulders, waist, and hips, kicking the leather away until I was completely naked under the dim lights of the ceiling. I threw myself into his chest, my mouth finding his in a collision of lips and teeth.
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