Chapter 4 You’re early

~Valentina~

At 5:47 a.m., I was already regretting every decision that had led me to Blackthorn Racing.

It wasn't the hour, or the six o'clock training session, or even the night I'd spent staring at the ceiling, replaying the last time Joe Jevon looked me in the eye and promised everything would be fine. It was the cup of coffee in my hand, and how badly I wanted to pour it over his ridiculously expensive head.

He was late. Naturally.

I checked my watch. 5:48. One whole minute, and I was already planning his funeral.

Maybe I did need to work on my temper. Or maybe Joe needed to learn that if he expected me to follow his instructions, he could at least show up when he said he would. I took a sip of coffee and found it had gone cold, which seemed about right for the morning I was having.

"You're early."

His voice came from behind me, and I shut my eyes. For one lovely moment I considered pretending I hadn't heard. I could walk into the garage, climb into my car, and leave him talking to himself. But I needed this job more than I needed the satisfaction.

I turned around.

Joe stood a few feet away in black training gear, his dark hair damp as if he'd just stepped out of the shower, a tablet tucked under one arm. He wore the kind of relaxed expression that made me wonder if he'd ever had a stressful day in his life. His gaze dropped to my cup.

"You're drinking that before training?"

"Good morning to you too, Jevon."

"Coffee can affect your heart rate."

"And your face can affect my mood, but here we are."

His mouth twitched. I hated that I noticed, and I hated even more that I remembered what his smile used to do to me. Three years ago, I would have spent the whole morning trying to coax another one out of him. Now I wanted to be the reason it disappeared.

He glanced at his watch. "You're four minutes early."

"And you're exactly on time. Congratulations. Should we call the press?"

"Are you always this pleasant before sunrise?"

"Only when I'm forced to spend time with people I don't like."

"Good. Then we're both in for a productive morning."

He headed for the garage, and I followed, determined not to let him see how much his presence rattled me.

The training garage was enormous: polished floors, diagnostic screens glowing along the walls, spare tyres stacked in neat towers, engineers already moving between workstations. The air smelled of rubber and metal, with a faint chemical sharpness from the cleaning products. It was familiar in a way that felt almost like comfort, and for the first time since I'd signed my contract, something in my chest loosened.

This was where I belonged. Not in conference rooms, where men in expensive suits debated whether I was a worthwhile investment. Not in interviews, where journalists asked if a woman could handle the pressure of professional racing. Here, among machines that didn't care about my gender or my history, or about the three years I'd spent rebuilding a career everyone else had already buried.

A car sat in the centre of the garage, its black bodywork gleaming under the lights. My car.

A small, involuntary thrill ran through me as I walked towards it. For months I had imagined this moment: the noise, the speed, the pressure, the chance to prove that the crash hadn't taken everything. What I hadn't imagined was Joe Jevon standing next to me while it happened.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" he said.

I stopped at the driver's door. "Are you talking about the car or yourself?"

"The car."

"Good. I was worried about your ego."

This time he actually laughed. It was short and almost surprised, and it was so painfully familiar that I had to look away. I couldn't afford to remember the boy who had sat beside me on the pit wall after a disastrous qualifying session and shared his food because I'd been too nervous to eat. I couldn't afford to remember how he used to call after races, even when he'd won and I hadn't, because he knew I hated celebrating alone.

That Joe was gone. Or maybe he had never existed the way I remembered him. Either way, I wasn't here to find out.

I was here to win.

"Before we start," I said, turning to face him, "I want to establish something."

His expression turned guarded. "Of course you do."

"You are my trainer for this season. Nothing more."

"Understood."

"You don't make decisions about my contract, my position on the team, or my future."

"I don't have that authority."

"And you don't get to use this arrangement to make yourself feel better about what happened three years ago."