Chapter 6
Nina
The garage stood empty.
After Liam's footsteps faded completely beyond the door, my taut nerves finally snapped.
I slid down the cold workbench to the floor, hands pressed hard against my face.
He'd left.
He hadn't called security to throw me out. Hadn't torn up that million-dollar contract.
He was still as kind as he'd been three years ago.
Even after I'd trampled his sincerity underfoot, after I'd humiliated him with the vilest words, he'd still shown me restraint.
I stared at the blood-soaked gauze on my palm. My heart felt gripped by an invisible fist, the pain suffocating.
Someone this good—I'd thrown him away with my own hands.
I deserved to rot in that slum. Deserved to be hounded by loan sharks. This was my karma.
Los Angeles rarely saw weather this brutal.
After nightfall, gales drove the rain against the guest room's floor-to-ceiling windows.
I lay in bed, body frigid, teeth chattering beyond my control.
That afternoon in the garage when I'd slipped, the wound in the webbing of my thumb had torn wide open.
Combined with days of exhaustion and relentless mental strain, my body finally gave out.
The fever struck without warning.
My head felt filled with lead. Even opening my eyes took effort.
Around midnight, a deafening crack of thunder yanked me from semiconsciousness.
Lightning flooded the pitch-black room for an instant.
I gasped for air, vision blurred, and looked toward the bedside.
A silhouette stood there.
Tall. Broad-shouldered.
The air carried a faint cedarwood cologne mixed with the bitter edge of tobacco.
Liam.
Backlit by the dim glow from the window, his face was hidden. All I felt was that familiar oppressive presence.
Feverish and disoriented, I couldn't tell reality from dream.
In my dreams, he always watched me like this—silent, without the daytime cruelty or mockery.
I struggled to reach out from under the covers, fingertips trembling toward the shadow.
"Liam…" My voice came out parched and broken.
I wanted to touch him. To tell him how much I regretted everything.
But halfway there, a violent wave of vertigo slammed into the back of my skull.
My hand dropped limply over the edge of the bed as I sank into a lightless abyss.
When I came to, the rain had stopped.
Sunlight stabbed through gaps in the curtains.
Something cool pressed against my forehead.
I snapped my eyes open and instinctively recoiled.
Someone was standing by the bed.
"Miss Nina, you're awake."
It was the middle-aged maid who'd shown me to the guest room yesterday.
She wore a crisp black-and-white uniform, a freshly wrung towel in hand.
I stared at her for a few seconds before my racing pulse began to settle.
That shadow last night—just a fever-induced hallucination.
He hated me. Why would he come check on me in the middle of the night?
"Sorry for startling you." The maid set the towel on a nearby tray, tone businesslike. "The young master asked me to fetch you to the garage. He said the championship is coming up fast. Since you've taken his money, it's time you got to work."
I braced myself against the mattress and sat up. My head throbbed, but my temperature had dropped considerably.
"I knocked, but you didn't answer. When I came in, I found you burning up." The maid gestured toward the nightstand. "I gave you a cold compress. That's fever medicine."
I followed her gesture.
On the nightstand sat a glass of warm water and two white pills.
Beside them, a silver tray.
When I saw what was on it, I froze.
A steaming Philly cheesesteak sandwich.
No onions. Extra black pepper.
Next to it, a black coffee over ice.
This was exactly what I used to eat after pulling all-nighters at the salvage yard, modifying cars.
The old man at that food cart in the slums could make it with his eyes closed.
I looked up at the maid, throat tight. "This is…"
"Standard breakfast from the kitchen." Her expression didn't flicker. "The young master said once you've eaten, get to work immediately. No excuses."
I lowered my head. Didn't contradict her.
A top-tier chef at Cranston Manor wouldn't serve slum street food as a standard breakfast.
I picked up the glass and swallowed the pills.
Then I grabbed the sandwich and took a large bite.
Rich cheese and sharp black pepper flooded my mouth—exactly as I remembered.
My eyes stung with heat. I chewed hard, swallowing the bitterness along with the food.
The maid collected the tray once I'd finished and left.
After a shower and a change into the racing coveralls from the closet, I felt considerably better.
The fever medicine had kicked in. Aside from lingering weakness, my mind was clear.
I pushed open the guest room door and headed straight for the garage.
The deep blue LaFerrari sat motionless in the center.
I pulled on heavy-duty work gloves, grabbed the tablet from the workbench, and called up the car's schematics.
The aerodynamic package was fine. The problem lay in the chassis weight distribution and suspension tuning.
I picked up a flashlight and a socket wrench, lay down on a wheeled creeper, and kicked off, sliding beneath the car.
The space under the chassis was cramped.
I switched on the flashlight. The beam illuminated a tangle of wiring and carbon fiber underbody.
Light scuff marks on the V12's oil pan—the previous suspension setup had been too low, compromising body attitude through corners.
I clamped the flashlight between my teeth, gripped the wrench with both hands, and started adjusting the damper settings.
The smell of motor oil mingled with cold metal—a scent that brought back a long-lost sense of security.
As long as I had tools in my hands, I was still that unstoppable mechanic.
Time dissolved. I lost myself completely in the machinery.
After tightening the last bolt, I spat out the flashlight and let out a long breath.
Initial chassis tuning: complete.
Next step: data testing.
I set down the tools, gripped the chassis edge, and gave the creeper a push.
It glided smoothly out from under the car.
Harsh light flooded back into my vision. I was about to sit up when I froze.
A pair of custom black dress shoes stood less than half a meter from my head.
I followed the sharp crease of tailored trousers upward and found Liam.
I didn't know when he'd arrived.
He'd changed out of yesterday's racing suit into an impeccably cut charcoal bespoke suit that made him look even more austere and imposing.
Hands in his pockets, he looked down at me from above. Those moss-green eyes—unfathomable.
Our gazes locked.
The air in the garage went still.
I lay on the wheeled creeper, hands still on the chassis edge, staring up along those sharp suit trousers into Liam's bottomless green eyes.
Dead silence in the garage, broken only by the occasional faint metallic tick of the LaFerrari's cooling engine.
I released my grip and kicked off hard with both legs, sliding all the way out.
Still weak from the fever, my movements were sluggish. As I tried to stand, my vision went black for a second.
