Page 68 of Red Flagged
“Next time,” I snapped, “don’t ask the man for permission before you let the woman drive a damn car.”
Before the valet could mutter another apology, the passenger door opened and Callum slid in beside me.
He was trying not to smile. Failing, but trying.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. “You terrify me.”
I dropped the clutch and shot him a glare. “Good.”
Then I peeled out of the hotel driveway like I had something to prove.
Which, frankly, I did.
The tires squealed as the car fishtailed slightly when I pulled onto the road. I corrected without thinking, because driving was second nature to me. I was practically born and raised in a car. I’d rebuilt them from the ground up. I studied them for a goddamn living to be faster and more aggressive.
And I was about to show this title-wielding man who thought he could control me outside the bedroom what I was really capable of behind the wheel. The true meaning ofhell hath no fury like a woman scornedwas about to become his reality.
The rage that had pounded through my bloodstream like motor oil on fire cooled to a simmer as my focus took over. The outskirts of Silverstone blurred past in wet streaks of white and grey, the kind of sleepy English town that wrapped itself in stone walls and crooked streets and rose-covered inns. We’d been staying at some sprawling countryside estate-turned-boutique hotel, all carved wood beams and gravel pathways and ivy climbing up the walls like it had something to prove. It looked like old money, quiet and grand.
But as we peeled out of the circular drive and onto the narrow lane that led through the surrounding hills, the storm swallowed the skyline. Clouds hung low, bloated with rain. The roads were slick with it, puddles pooling at the edges, and the faint haze of mist hugged the hedgerows like smoke. No streetlights. No cameras. Just the wild, winding backroads that twisted like a serpent around the edges of the estate.
My hands tightened on the wheel.
Focus narrowed. The rest of the world fell away. I felt the car more than I drove it. Through the wheel, through the floor, through the calibrated balance of clutch and gas as I shifted gears with muscle memory and venom. My feet knew exactly where to land. My fingers moved with precision. I saw the slick patches before the tires ever hit them. Adjusted with the flick of my wrist. I knew what to push and when. Where to break therules, where to toe the line. This wasn’t reckless. This was art. Controlled, calculated dominance over a machine that begged to be taken to the edge.
And when the road straightened?
I fucking floored it.
Our backs slammed into the seats with a satisfying jolt. I didn’t care where we were going anymore. Fuck the dinner. Let them wait. I’d show up fashionably late, saunter in with Callum Fraser in tow and my lipstick still perfect, and they’d listen to every goddamn word I said. No more being silenced. No more pretending I was just here for the optics. I was done shrinking for anyone. Including him.
I shifted again and felt the car purr beneath me like it liked it rough. Sleek. Responsive. Built for speed and sin. No wonder he liked this one so much. The drive was sensual—clean lines, tight handling, just enough give when I gripped hard enough. God, the thought of him behind the wheel in this thing was a fucking turn-on. That laser focus and precision to handle this car.
I remembered Monaco. Remembered how he’d pulled me out of my own spiral, drove me in this very car to the outskirts of Monte Carlo to bungee jump off a bridge. How he’d told me to fly, how I’d listened, how I’d trusted him even when I didn’t trust myself.
But that was then.
This was now.
Now it was my turn to drive. My turn to take the corners without warning. My turn to show him what it felt like to surrender control and pray the person in charge didn’t let go. I wanted him to squirm.
“Your sweet spot’s somewhere between third and fourth,” I said lightly, shifting smoothly, like I already knew every inch of her. “Clutch is tight. Probably because no one’s handled her properly in a while.” I didn’t need to look at him to feel thetension radiating off his body. The corner of my mouth curved. “Relax,baby. I know exactly when to pull back… and when to push harder.”
He didn’t respond right away.
I flicked a glance to the passenger seat. Half a second. That’s all I needed.
His shoulders were bunched up. One hand on the door, the other braced against the center console like he was preparing to be launched into orbit. Knuckles white, face pale in the fading daylight. His lips were parted slightly, but no sound came out. His eyes weren’t even on me; they were on the road, wide and unblinking.
And that’s when I realized… he was scared. Not of me. Ofthis. Of being in a machine he couldn’t control. Of the weather. Of the unfamiliar terrain. Of the reality that I was no longer sitting pretty in his passenger seat, letting him lead. He was just along for the ride now, and he didn’t know how to handle it.
Parfait.
Let him fuckingfeelit.
My grip on the wheel tightened. The speed climbed. We crested a blind bend just as a long slick of water snaked across the road. I felt the tires skim it, hydroplaning for a fraction of a second before I corrected with a quick, small twist of the wheel.
He flinched hard. His entire body jerked like we were about to slam into the tree line. He braced both hands now, breath catching.
