Page 131 of Full Throttle
“Say it.”
Dominic held her gaze. And then he found the words they couldn’t come back from. “You’re a woman. You’re not as strong as I am. Your reflexes aren’t as fast. You’ll never be able to compete with the men on the track. It’s not your fault; it’s just a biological difference.”
“A biological difference,” she repeated.
Dominic shrugged. “You wanted the truth.”
Her face was white. “Fuck you, Dominic Hastings. Fuck you.”
Something in Dominic’s chest tightened. Good, he thought dully. It’s easier if she hates me. He’d cut open a piece of her: Some people bled out from a wound like that, but not Juliette; she would scar and come back harder, with a thirst for vengeance. She’d always been good at channeling rage.
His bodyguard cleared his throat. “Sir?”
Dominic turned. “Yes?”
Gabriel shifted his weight. “We need to—”
“Go,” Juliette finished, and her gaze was hot enough to blister tires. “You’ve said what you had to say. Now go.”
Dominic swallowed. “Marchmont…”
Strange, he thought. He’d been desperate to leave, and now he couldn’t make himself do it. Juliette’s eyes were a vivid blue. So vivid that Dominic knew, with sudden certainty, that whatever she said next would haunt him forever.
“You know what’s funny?” She shook her head. “I never believed what the papers wrote about you, but now I know it’s true. All of it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her voice was flat. “You’re just a scared little boy who hides behind his father’s money.”
Dominic rocked back, the words like a slap. He recalled the first words he’d overheard Juliette say at the academy: You know Hastings isn’t god’s gift to humanity, right? He’s a nepo baby. He’d thought she’d seen past that, that she’d realized how much work he put in, the blood and sweat and endless training…
But maybe not.
Maybe, Dominic thought bitterly, it had felt good to think that somebody had finally seen him as he’d always hoped to be. Not Dominic Hastings, Prince of Racing, but Dom. A self-made racer. A cutthroat athlete. A man that could stand unapologetically outside of his father’s shadow.
Shouts echoed off the polished floor. The photographers had made it to the gallery next door, and Juliette took a step back. There was something terrible in her gaze, a sort of coldness he’d never seen before.
“Let me make something very clear,” she said. “I never want to see you again. Ever.”
The words stuck under his ribs like a blade. He felt suddenly winded. He couldn’t have responded if he’d wanted to.
“Sir?” Gabriel touched his earpiece. “We need to go.”
The paparazzi burst into the room. Gabriel ushered him outside, speaking low into an earpiece. Camera flashes exploded. Reporters shouted his name, a mixture of English and French. Juliette, Dominic thought suddenly—almost instinctively—and he turned in Gabriel’s grip, but it was too late.
Juliette was gone.
Years later, Dominic would think of this exact moment when he came across a painting in a Parisian gallery of a woman playing a harp, her hands dripping gold. Nous saignons pour ce que nous aimons.
We bleed for the things we love.
Chapter 41
The Grand Finale
Now
Juliette couldn’t deny it was an awkward car journey. First, because Cap had failed to mention that Clyde had recently vomited, which meant the car reeked of regurgitated gravy bones, and second, because they hadn’t spoken a single word in five minutes. But at least he’d let her drive. So that was something.
