Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
My father called it juvenile indulgence, even though I didn’t pay a dime for it. Fast luxury cars are a perk at Crown Velocity and I’ll have a different one next year as part of my performance package. Even if they didn’t give me a fancy car, I’d have bought one for myself. I can afford a hundred of them with the twenty million dollars a year I get paid, not including bonuses.
People outside the racing world often can’t understand that type of salary for driving a car around a track, but when you think about it… there are only twenty people in the world who can do what I do. Ten teams, two drivers per. Only twenty slots to perform a job that could leave me maimed or dead. Some days I think my salary isn’t nearly enough.
I get out and the car door closes with a hushed, mechanical click. Gravel shifts under my boots as I walk toward the house. The morning is mild, pale light filtering through the thin English clouds, and I’m exhausted, having just flown in from Suzuka. I want nothing more than a hot shower and a long nap, but I have things to deal with first.
Most drivers live in Monaco. Tax havens and penthouses with views of nothing but water. However, I prefer to keep my primary residence in London because I like the city and the nightlife. When I need to be at Crown HQ for work, I stay here at my mother’s estate in a separate wing—it provides an added buffer.
The house looms ahead, three stories of Georgian stone and window boxes that garden staff keep filled with seasonally appropriate greenery. No one greets me when I let myself in and I’m hit with the scent of lilies and lemon polish. The front hall practically sparkles—gleaming floors, fresh flowers in a massive vase, and expensive artwork on the walls. But the deeper in I go, the more the cracks show.
A water ring stains the mahogany end table where she left a drink sweating overnight. Makeup smears the edge of an antique armchair. The air smells faintly of perfume and something stale beneath it—perhaps cigarettes?
The house is pristine where the staff have cleaned, and quietly decaying everywhere Vivienne Barnes lays her hands. Artificial calm over decay.
I find my mother in the sitting room, draped across a velvet chaise like she’s posing for an oil painting. Silk robe, mug of tea in one hand, and the other draped dramatically over the edge of the cushions. Her hair’s brushed but not styled. She hasn’t bothered with lipstick and that tells me she’s likely been drinking since she woke up.
“Darling,” she croons, offering me a wan smile. “This is a nice surprise. Are you in town to work?”
I cross the room, eyeing the silver tray on the side table. The usual—herbal tea, a half-empty pill bottle, and an empty highball glass that I know will smell of vodka if I lean in close to it.
“I came straight from Japan,” I say. “I had a race yesterday.”
She smiles faintly. “That was yesterday?”
No surprise there. I doubt she knows what month it is.
I study her carefully, noting a faint bruise to her temple. She stares back at me, a mildly confused expression on her face.
I take a seat on a Queen Anne chair and almost as if by magic, a maid appears no doubt to ask me if I’d like some tea. I wave her off before she can fully step foot in the room and she scurries away.
“You checked yourself out of treatment,” I say, propping my ankle on my knee and subconsciously gripping the armrests for the wild ride I’m about to take.
She makes a scoffing sound and waves a dramatic hand in the air. “Those fools… they don’t know what they’re doing. They’re all proclaiming that hot yoga and granola will cure me. Ridiculous.”
I hold back the long-suffering sigh I want to let out, choosing instead to keep my tone steady but firm. “It is one of the top-rated substance abuse clinics in England,” I point out. “I’m guessing they’ve seen success with hot yoga and granola.”
“It’s a waste of your money,” she insists. “And if you came running back here from Japan because of that, it’s a waste of your time.”
“You checked yourself out of rehab, wrecked a borrowed car, and sent Dad into full crisis mode. What did you think I’d do?”
She waves her hand again, lazily this time. “Crisis mode. Please. It was a fender bender in a car that drives like a toaster. And your father’s only upset because he has no control over me.” She takes a delicate sip of her tea. “Besides, he’s too busy with that woman he’s shagging to even care.”
She’s not wrong about that.
I don’t let up on her though. “He’s upset because you were high and drunk on a public road.”