Page 52 of Red Flagged
“Cal and Auri,” she repeated, waving a finger at the screen. “I don’t go by Auri. Literally no one calls me Auri except—” Her eyes locked on mine. “You.”
I blinked. “And no one calls me Cal exceptyou.”
We stared at each other.
The others started losing it.
“Oh my God,” Marco gasped. “Did you twosoft-launchyourselves in your sleep?”
Kimi was laughing so hard he wheezed. “The parasocial pipeline is getting stronger.”
“I’m going to die,” Aurélie muttered. “Actually die. I thoughtCalamariwas the worst part, but apparently the entire internet is tapping into our bedroom names now.”
“They’re not bedroom names,” I said, frowning.
Marco waggled his brows. “Theysoundlike bedroom names.”
I gave him the finger.
And suddenly, Ivy was clapping again. “Okay, okay! We spiral about the parasocial nicknames later. For now—suits. Shoes. Lipstick. Let’s go break some hearts.”
Ivy launched into a breakdown of the GPDA logistics. Marco, Kimi, and I all expected to attend, Aurélie tagging along as an official invitee, Ivy an unofficial plus one. I barely caught half of what Ivy said. I was too busy watching the way Aurélie’s thighs shifted under the fabric of her dress each time she moved. How her fingers curled around her water glass. How her spine straightened when she caught me staring and did nothing to stop it.
I took a sip of whiskey, let it sit on my tongue. Contemplated sweet talking her into the bedroom for a quickie before we had to leave. I was ravenous, needy and craving the sound of her falling apart underneath me, whispering my name like it was holy.
Then came the knock.
We all stilled.
I frowned. “Room service?”
Aurélie shook her head. “We didn’t order anything else.”
Marco sat up, face brightening like a kid about to get candy. “Maybe it’s a gift basket. I love a gift basket.”
Kimi stood, his brow creasing. “Who else knows you’re in this room?”
I walked to the door slowly, checked the peephole, and swore.
“What?” Aurélie asked, voice tight.
I just grimaced and opened the door.
Victor Reinhardt stood there, soaked to the bone in a tailored suit, looking like the goddamn angel of death. Rain clung to his salt-and-pepper hair in flattened strands, his shoulders heaving like he’d just climbed a mountain, not a staircase.
He swept the room with a glance, cold and unreadable.
“Good,” he said. “Your whole crew’s here.” Then, without waiting for permission, he stepped around me and inside like he paid the fucking hotel bill. I shut the door behind him, the sound resonating through the now-quiet room with a decisiveclick. I joined Aurélie’s side by the kitchen and turned to look at Reinhardt.
Water dripped from his cuffs onto the hardwood. His shoes squelched. “I’m glad I caught you before the GPDA dinner,” he said, spine straight and eyes like steel. “We need to talk.”
Victor Reinhardt,the FIA president of all people, wasin my hotel suite, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. His steel-blue gaze scanned our little band of rebels—me in my fuck-me funeral dress, Callum in that perfectly tailored button-down and brooding silence, Ivy mid-sip of her drink, Marco with trail mix halfway to his mouth, and Kimi frozen beside the minibar like this was a high-stakes poker game.
It kind of was.
But… what the fuck was this?
Oh God. Was this where he demanded all of us to back down or my career was over?
