Rival Hearts - Chapter #7 - by itsvlada

[Soren’s POV]

Two races and four mediocre finishes later, we arrive at Monaco for what Henrik calls a "high-profile opportunity to not embarrass ourselves."

The sponsor party is mandatory attendance, which means I get to dust off my favorite role—charming golden boy who makes middle-aged executives feel like they're part of something glamorous instead of just burning money on cars that go in circles.

The superyacht is peak Monaco excess: white surfaces and champagne towers, the kind of excess that screams we have money to burn and drivers to impress.

I work the main deck with practiced efficiency, flirting with a marketing executive's daughter—Mila, I think—who laughs at my jokes like I'm the funniest person she's ever met.

"So there I was," I'm saying, deploying Charming Anecdote #47 from my extensive repertoire, "apex-clipping distance from the barrier, and this absolute maniac decides it's the perfect moment to dive-bomb into turn five—"

"No." She touches my arm, leaning in close enough that I can feel the softness of her huge tits against my arm. "What did you do?"

"What any sane person would do. I held the line, missed him by centimetres, and then screamed into my radio so loud my engineer probably needs hearing aids now" I flash her my best grin. "Very brave. Very professional."

She laughs—bright, easy, uncomplicated. The sound of someone who's never had to question whether people like her for herself or her father's net worth.

"You don't seem like the screaming type," she says, and God, the innocence in that statement could power the Monaco grid.

"You'd be surprised. I contain multitudes."

She laughs again, and I should be charmed. Should be enjoying this—the easy banter, the obvious interest, the way she looks at me like I'm some combination of movie star and adrenaline junkie.

Anything else instead of a guy whose biggest achievement this season is not putting his car in the harbor.

And I am enjoying it. Mostly.

Until I catch sight of something across the deck that makes me lose my train of thought mid-sentence like someone just yanked the plug on my brain.

Fuck.

She follows my gaze, curious. "PR photo op?"

"Something like that." I watch as two coordinators position Nico for photos with rainbow-flag cocktail napkins, arranging him like furniture in their diversity display.

His expression is polished neutral—that carefully blank mask he wears when he's being paraded around as Apex's diversity initiative rather than the man who's won more races in inferior cars than I've managed in superior ones.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

Definitely not having a strange feeling about watching Nico get turned into a marketing prop.

"That's Almeida, right?" Mila's studying my face with the kind of attention that suggests I'm not hiding my reaction as well as I think I am. "Your new teammate? Must be weird, having him in your garage."

"Weird's one word for it."

Something about the scene makes my chest tighten in a way I refuse to examine. I force my attention back to Mila, who's moved on to asking about my training routine, but the words come out mechanical now.

Autopilot charm. The performance without the conviction.

"Sorry," I say, draining my glass. "I need some air. Engine fumes and champagne—bad combination."

"You're on a yacht. There are no engine fumes." her thin brows fly up her face.

"And yet." I touch her elbow—light, apologetic, the exact gesture of a man who's charming even when he's leaving. "I'll find you later?"

"You won't," she says, but she's smiling.

Smart girl.

The side deck is quieter, the Monaco harbor glittering below like someone scattered diamonds across black velvet, as I lean against the railing, letting the night air cool the performance out of my skin.

Nico is already here. Clearly several drinks past sober, his usual rigid control softened around the edges. Of course he's here. The universe has a very specific sense of humor when it comes to the two of us.

"Does it ever get exhausting?" His voice cuts through the quiet. "Playing the part?"

I don't turn around. "What part?"

"The charming playboy who can't keep his hands off the nearest woman with daddy's credit card." There's something sharp in his voice, something that makes my spine straighten. "Does your face ever hurt from smiling that much?"

Ouch. Direct hit.

"At least I'm not being used as a literal prop for rainbow capitalism," I counter, finally turning to face him. "How many photos did they take tonight? Seventy? Eighty?"

"Careful, Lindqvist." His laugh is bitter. "Almost sounds like you care."

"I don't." The words come out too quick, too defensive, which is basically a confession wrapped in denial.

"No?" He takes a step closer, and I can see the way the yacht's lights reflect in his dark eyes. "Then why were you watching me all night? Every time I looked up, there you were. Like you couldn't quite figure out if you wanted to punch me or…"

"Or what?" I straighten and we're closer now, close enough that I can see the way his pupils have dilated.

"You tell me," he says softly, voice dropping to something that's barely above a whisper. "What is it you want, Soren? Because I'm getting some very mixed signals here."

The question hangs between us like a live wire, loaded with eleven years of history and hurt and something else that I'm definitely not ready to name or acknowledge or think about because thinking about it would mean…

"Ah, the Apex boys!"

Jesus fucking Christ.

Julien Marchand appears with a small entourage, all of them loose with alcohol and post-podium energy, completely oblivious to the moment they just detonated with the subtlety of a nuclear bomb.

Nico steps back so fast he nearly trips, that mask of professional neutrality clicking into place so smoothly it's like watching a master class in emotional suppression.

I force a smile and shove everything—whatever everything was—down into the vault where I keep all the feelings I'm not allowed to have.

Excellent timing, Julien. Really. Perfect.

The group settles on the deck like they own it—Julien and two drivers from rival teams, who look like they’d rather be anywhere else. He produces another bottle of champagne because apparently we weren't drunk enough yet.

"So, Julien," I say, while he’s wrestling with the cork, "four wins in five races. You making deals with the devil, or what?"

"Better." he fills the glasses with theatrical gravity. "I've perfected my pre-race… ritual."

"If you say ice baths, I'm throwing you overboard."

"Nothing so boring." Julien's grin could power the entire Monaco grid. "I sleep with someone the night before every race. Every. Single. Time. Clears the head, releases tension, resets everything. Next morning—calm, focused, fast."

Another driver stares at him like he just claimed he could fly. "You're not serious."

"Four wins, five races." Julien spreads his hands. "The data speaks for itself, non?"

"That's the most ridiculous superstition I've ever heard," another driver says, but he's grinning.

"Is it superstition if it works?" Julien turns his attention to Nico and me then. "Meanwhile, our Apex friends have been driving like they're trying to murder each other. Four races, zero podiums, maximum chaos."

Thanks for the recap, asshole.

"Maybe you two need some... unconventional methods," he continues. "Your conventional approach clearly isn't working."

The group erupts in laughter and crude commentary about tension release and lucky charms, and the innuendo hangs in the air like smoke from a particularly dirty fire.

I can feel Nico go rigid beside me, can practically see him calculating escape routes.

"I'll stick to my current routine, thanks," I say, keeping it light. "No questionable superstitions required."

"Suit yourself." Julien shrugs with magnificent French indifference. "But don't come crying when you're scraping points and I'm spraying champagne."

The conversation drifts—technical regulations, whether the new floor changes will actually close up the field or just shuffle the deck chairs on the Titanic of motorsport inequality.

I participate enough to seem present, laughing in the right places, offering the occasional quip that lands well enough to maintain the illusion of engagement.

But my attention keeps drifting to Nico—silent beside me, jaw tight, staring at the harbor lights like they hold answers to questions he hasn't asked yet. He hasn't spoken a word since Julien arrived.

Just stands there with that careful stillness that reveals nothing and somehow communicates everything.

Julien's words loop through my head—unconventional methods, tension release.

Absurd. Ridiculous. The kind of thing you dismiss immediately and forget by morning.

Except I can't dismiss it. Can't stop being aware of Nico six feet away, can't stop my body tracking his presence like a radar system I never installed and can't shut off.

Someone refills my glass and I drain it without tasting as the party continues, but all I can focus on is the space between us and the growing, uncomfortable suspicion that destruction isn't the only thing simmering there anymore.