Page 106 of Until You Say Stay
He lied to me. Hefuckinglied to me.
When he told me about Monaco, he made it sound like he was this reluctant hero doing an uncomfortable favor for his friend. But this video shows he’s not even looking for Sofia in any of it.
And now I’m sitting here questioning if any of it was real. Was Sofia even at that party? He said Luca called him panicking, but what if that was all made up to make himself sound better to me, to his family?
I wish I had Luca’s number. I could just text him right now and ask if Sofia was really there, if Jack really helped her. But that would be insane. Texting my boyfriend’s teammate at midnight to verify whether my boyfriend lied to me about why he was at a party months ago before we were ever together? That’s a whole new level of spiral I’m not sure I’m ready to sink to.
Though apparently I’m already watching a video on repeat that my ex-husband sent me specifically to hurt me, so maybe the ship has sailed on the sanity front.
The thing is, if he left this much out about Monaco, what else has he left out? What other convenient omissions have there been that I just accepted because I wanted to believe him? Howmany other times has he told me a version of events that was technically true but missing all the parts that would’ve made me think twice?
I slide down onto the bathroom floor, staring at the paused frame of that woman leaning into Jack, her arms around his neck.
I shouldn’t even be pissed about the kiss. I know that logically. We weren’t together then. He wasn’t mine. I have absolutely zero right to be jealous about what he did or who he kissed before we were even a thing.
But watching it makes jealousy burn through me anyway. Hot and ugly and so humiliating I want to throw my phone across the room. Because that woman is exactly the type Jack dates. The type everyone expects him to date. Models and actresses and trust fund socialites who look perfect in photos and don’t have anxiety spirals about record label contracts while eating cookies on their couch at midnight.
I open Instagram before I can stop myself, searching for the video like I’m actively trying to hurt myself more. It’s everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. Posted and reposted with thousands of comments, millions of views. The comments make me feel physically sick.
Bet he’s cheating on that girlfriend lol
Ugh he’s so hot I wish that was me
Once a player always a player
His PR team working OVERTIME trying to clean this up
That poor girlfriend she probably thinks she’s special
Literally the hottest guy I’ve ever seen
Why does he even have a girlfriend when he could have anyone
I’m that girlfriend in the comments section. The woman who fell for the fuckboy’s lines and convinced herself she was different. That he’d changed for her. That she was special.
The tears start and I’m furious at myself for crying. I’m twenty-six years old. I survived Brandon. I spent two years in therapy rebuilding everything he systematically tore down, learning to trust my instincts again, learning to stand up for myself, learning that I’m enough exactly as I am.
And here I am sitting on my bathroom floor at midnight crying over a guy who makes women feel special until he gets bored and moves on to the next city, the next race, the next gorgeous woman who thinks she’s the exception.
All the warning signs were there from the beginning. The reputation that spans continents. The lifestyle of constant travel and parties and beautiful women throwing themselves at him. The fact that commitment-phobic Formula One drivers don’t suddenly transform into relationship material just because they met some bartender from a small town in Washington.
But I fell for him anyway. I believed him when he said I was different, when he said this was real, when he looked at me in that cabin in Banff and told me he loved me like it was the easiest truth in the world.
And now I’m on my bathroom floor at midnight, crying over a video my vindictive ex-husband sent me specifically to twist the knife.
I was such an idiot to think I was the exception to Jack Midnight’s pattern.
CHAPTER 26
JACK
The first-class seat is comfortable enough, the kind of luxury I’ve gotten used to over the years but still appreciate. I’m waiting for the flight to take off, sipping the whiskey I ordered as soon as I sat down, scrolling through my phone while the flight attendants do their safety demonstration that nobody pays attention to.
I’m fucking exhausted from the race weekend. Simulator work, dozens of media obligations, sponsor meetings, and watching Davis drive my car into P18 while Luca grabbed P3 in the identical machinery. P18. Eighteenth place. Driving a Ferrari I could be winning championships with.
I feel for the guy, but he’s in over his head. It took everything in me not towhoopwhen he crossed the finish line in that position, because at this rate I’ll be back in the seat before next year even starts. Hell, maybe even by the next race if Davis keeps fucking up so spectacularly.
My phone buzzes. Thomas calling. He’s on his way back to Europe while I’m heading to Dark River, different flights since we’re going opposite directions. We saw each other three hoursago at the track, said our goodbyes, so I can’t imagine what’s so urgent it can’t wait until we’re both on the ground.
