Page 37 of Formula Dreams
Sighing, I follow, every step toward the front door heavier than the last.I punch in the security code, and the door unlocks with a quiet click, swinging open on silent hinges.
The entryway is as polished as always—gleaming parquet floors and antique mirrors hung in perfect symmetry down the corridor.A vase of fresh lilies sits on a marble console beneath the staircase, probably swapped out this morning by the house staff.Everything is tasteful yet impersonal, like a five-star hotel trying too hard to feel like a home.
Francesca steps inside, her boots clicking against the floor as she takes it all in.Her gaze sweeps over the crystal chandelier overhead, the oil paintings lining the hallway, the sheer size of the space.I know she’s not awed by this wealth, because she comes from money too.But if she’s as intuitive as I believe she is, I’m sure she can sense that something’s off.
“She might be asleep,” I say, hoping it’s true.The zeal to put Francesca in her place by throwing her to the wolves—my mother—is fading.
Francesca’s voice is quiet but firm.“You didn’t bring me here hoping she’d be asleep.You brought me here to explain things.”
“So be it,” I murmur and turn toward the sitting room.I open the door and Vivienne is draped across her chaise, just where I expected she’d be.Silk robe, cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other, she gives off movie star glam vibes.
Vivienne dramatically tilts her head our way and sighs as if the effort to offer greeting is too much to bear.“Well, well… my prodigal son returns.And he brought…” Her eyes narrow on Francesca.“Arm candy.This is new.”
Francesca steps forward before I can speak.“Hello, Mrs.Barnes.”
Vivienne eyes her up and down, her lipstick smeared.“What’s your name?”
“Francesca.”
“Francesca,” she repeats thickly.“Exotic.Are you one of those social media girls?You don’t sound British.”She gives her another disdainful once-over.“You certainly don’t look British.”
“I’m Italian.”
Vivienne squints, unimpressed.“Hmm.Italian.Good skin, terrible politics.I had a fling with a composer from Milan once.Terrible in bed, brilliant with his hands.”
“Vivienne,” I snap, heat rising in my neck, but Francesca shoots me a look, and it speaks volumes.
Leave it alone.She doesn’t offend me.
My mother ignores my presence entirely, her attention still pinned on Francesca like a cat toying with a bird.“So, what are you?”she asks, voice syrupy and sharp at once.“His girlfriend?Handler?PR stunt?”
“I’m a driver,” Francesca says coolly.“For Titans Racing.”
My mother’s laugh starts off sounding completely amused but then ends in a wheezing cackle.“Oh, darling.No, you’re not.That’s adorable.”
Francesca doesn’t blink.“You should come to the next race.I’ll wave from the podium.”
Vivienne narrows her eyes.“You’ve got a mouth on you.”
“She’s got more than that,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
Francesca glances at me—and to my surprise, shoots me a wink.It’s courageously defiant.And strangely grounding.
Vivienne leans back on the chaise with a sigh, swirling the clear liquid in her glass.“Well, she’s a change from your usual,” she muses, casting a slow, pointed glance at Francesca.“You always did have a weakness for the ones who strut around half-dressed and hollow, all pouty lips and platform heels, like thinking too hard might wrinkle their spray tan.”
I say nothing, staring at her because any attempt to defuse her will only make it worse.
Mum sips, eyes glittering.“Don’t look at me like that, darling.I read the headlines.Or at least, I skim them waiting for my pills to kick in.You’ve got a type—glamorous, empty-headed, disposable.I assume this one’s just more ambitious.”
Francesca cocks her head, studying my mother with fascination, but she doesn’t rise to the barbs.
Vivienne lazily looks back to me.“Does she know what she’s in for?The Barnes curse?We ruin everything we touch, you know.”Then she turns to Francesca, eyes narrowing with surprising precision given her obvious inebriation.“Though maybe you’re not worried.Girls like you usually have an endgame.”
Her tone sharpens, eyes gleaming.“Just remember, darling—he may let you in for now, but he’ll freeze you out before you realize you forgot to pack a coat.”
Francesca tucks her hands in her pockets, her relaxed posture quite impressive given the tension swirling through the air.She seems completely unfazed by my mother.
“I didn’t come here to judge,” she says to Vivienne.“But maybe you could pretend, just for ten minutes, to not enjoy humiliating your son in front of someone who actually gives a damn.”
