Faking It With The Racing King

"Val, that lap time is insane! Three seconds faster than last month's record!" Ricardo, our chief technician, waved the stopwatch excitedly. "You just shattered every benchmark we had."

I pulled off my helmet, letting my hair fall loose.

This was it. The moment that changed everything.

Adrenaline still sang through my veins, making my hands tremble. Months of technical testing, proving myself over and over, and I'd finally broken through.

"Not bad for a Tuesday afternoon," I said, fighting to keep the grin off my face.

But damn, I was proud. Three years of clawing for every scrap of respect in this industry, and today I'd shown them exactly what I could do.

Slow clapping cut through the moment.

"Impressive." Preston's voice sliced across the pit area. "For someone with... let's say, natural limitations. But hey, that wasn't half bad."

The familiar heat flared in my chest. Three years, and he was still pulling this shit.

The crew went quiet. Ricardo shifted his weight, suddenly fascinated by his clipboard.

I turned. Preston Kingsley stood there like he owned the place—America's golden boy, all confidence and that shit-eating grin.

"Preston." I kept my voice even. "What brings you here?"

He shrugged, smirk firmly in place. "Just checking in on the field. Though honestly, there's a ceiling for female test drivers. Nature of the business."

'Same arrogant prick. Different day.'

"Actually," Preston cut off whatever I was about to say, "since we're all here, I've got some news to share."

Something cold slid down my spine.

"Everyone, gather up!" He clapped for attention. "You'll want to hear this."

The crew reluctantly formed a circle. That's when I saw Catalina walking over from the equipment tent, microphone already in hand.

Wait. Catalina was already here?

My stomach dropped as she approached Preston. Something was off—she moved too carefully, like she was performing.

Then I caught the look in her eyes. Guilt mixed with something worse.

Anticipation.

Preston's smile widened. "Catalina just agreed to marry me."

The words didn't land right at first.

Catalina? My Catalina? The girl who'd helped me practice interview responses in our dorm room, who knew exactly what Preston had put me through?

The betrayal hit like a fist to the gut. All those coffee runs, all the times she'd let me vent about this place, all her talk about how I deserved better...

She'd been playing me the entire time.

I stared, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for her to laugh and tell Preston to quit being an ass. Instead, that look on her face made my blood run cold.

She was savoring this.

"Congratulations," I heard myself say. My voice sounded far away.

Catalina squared her shoulders, slipping into reporter mode like flipping a switch. She raised the microphone between us as if we were strangers.

"Actually, Val, since I'm here covering for Channel 7 Sports," that practiced smile locked into place, "our viewers would love an update. Anything exciting happening with you lately?"

Unfuckingbelievable. Just announced her engagement to my ex, and now she wanted to interview me like we hadn't spent three years as best friends.

'You want a show? I'll give you a show.'

"Actually," I heard myself say before my brain caught up, "I'm getting married next month."

The lie came out smooth. Too smooth.

Preston's expression cracked. Catalina's smile flickered.

'Yeah. Choke on that.'

"That's... that's wonderful news," Catalina managed, her voice tight. "I'm sure our audience would love to know more about this mystery man."

Preston laughed, short and sharp. "Come on, Val. Really?" He shook his head, all mock concern. "After everything that went down, what kind of guy would actually—"

"Preston." Catalina's warning came too late.

"No, I'm serious. Who'd be desperate enough to—"

"Marry someone like me?" I kept my tone dead calm.

Preston's grin widened. "You said it. Not me."

Something in me cracked wide open. Months of keeping my head down, letting people think whatever they wanted. Fuck that.

"Lorenzo Vitali," I said clearly, my voice carrying across the entire pit area. "That's his name. He's in racing."

Preston's confidence faltered. "Vitali? Like... Italian circuit Vitali?"

"That's the one."

For half a second, Preston looked genuinely confused. Then I watched it hit him, watched the color drain from his face.

He recovered fast, smile turning vicious. "Speaking of mysteries—how about that three grand, Val? Still living off your little... settlement?"

The settlement. The money they'd paid me to keep my mouth shut about what really happened three years ago. Everyone here thought I'd taken it because I was guilty.

Catalina was staring at her shoes. Not defending me. Not saying a goddamn word.

'Of course. She knew about this too. They planned this whole thing.'

"You know what?" Preston's voice dripped false sympathy.

"Catalina's been such a good friend. Keeping me updated on everything. Every test run, every small victory." He paused for effect. "Funny what girls tell each other over lattes, right?"

Every conversation. Every time I'd complained about a bad day, vented about pressure from management, celebrated a small win. She'd been feeding him everything like I was her assignment.

'Three fucking years of friendship. And it meant nothing.'

"You've been spying on me." The words came out flat.

Catalina finally looked up. No apology in those eyes. Just cold calculation. "I'm a journalist, Val. It's what I do."

'It's what I do.' Not even an excuse. Just fact.

Preston's laugh cut through again, sharp and cruel. "Face it—losers lose. Some people just can't handle pressure when it counts."

That's when I saw Lorenzo walking over from the main building.

The effect was immediate. Preston shut his mouth. Catalina took a step back. Even Ricardo stopped pretending to read his clipboard.

But what struck me wasn't just relief. It was the way Lorenzo moved—that quiet confidence, the precision in those dark eyes. Something dangerous that made my pulse kick up.

"Preston," he said, his accent making the single word sound like a verdict. "This is a workplace."

Not a suggestion. A statement of fact.

Preston's whole demeanor shifted, voice going bright with forced enthusiasm. "Lorenzo! Didn't expect to see you here. What brings you to Miami?"

"Business," Lorenzo said simply, those dark eyes taking in the scene—Preston's arm around Catalina, her microphone, my barely controlled fury.

When his gaze met mine, something passed between us. Some unspoken understanding that steadied the chaos inside me.

Preston's smile was back, cocky as ever. "Actually, perfect timing. You'll get a kick out of this."

He gestured at me like I was the punchline.

"Val just announced she's getting married. Won't even tell us who the poor bastard is. Just 'some guy named Lorenzo Vitali.'" He made exaggerated air quotes. "Says he's in racing too."

Lorenzo's expression didn't shift, but something deadly quiet entered his voice. "Lorenzo Vitali."

Preston kept going, oblivious. "Yeah, probably some nobody mechanic or something. I mean honestly, after the whole scandal, what actual racer would want to—"

"My name," Lorenzo said, each word cut clean and sharp, "is Lorenzo Vitali."

The silence that followed was absolute. Preston froze.

I watched comprehension dawn across both their faces—Preston's going white, Catalina's eyes widening in something close to panic.

For the first time in three years, something like victory unfurled in my chest.

'How do you like that, assholes?'

Twenty minutes later, Lorenzo and I crossed the parking lot, my brain still buzzing from what had just happened.

"Thank you," I said. "For backing me up back there."

Lorenzo slowed, hands sliding into his pockets. "We're getting married. You could have just told them that."