Page 82 of Full Throttle

Vance paused. “That’s not what I said.”

“I’m fourth in the championship.”

Vance set down the dessert menu. “You’re a clever girl, Juliette. I’m sure you’ve noticed that some of the male drivers make allowances for you. Your brother Capulet, Sebastian Moreno when he’s on track…” He waved a hand. “You’re a hell of a driver, but women can be a distraction. Just look at Ranya Silva.”

Blood pounded in Juliette’s ears. “What about her?”

Vance refilled his wine. “She was involved romantically with another driver. It ended badly for both of them. I’m fine with women having their own championship. In fact, I think they should. But mixing genders on track?” He shrugged. “That can become dangerous.”

Silence fell. Vance’s gaze flicked over her, as if she were a particularly uninteresting piece of furniture that he’d forgotten was in the room. And honestly? She’d had enough.

Juliette pushed back her chair. “I should go. I have an early flight tomorrow.” She forced a smile. “Thank you for dinner. And don’t worry about lending me your phone; I’ll just ask one of the waiters.”

She could feel Dominic’s gaze burning into her, and something bitter filled her. So he’d decided to finally look at her, had he? Well, too late.

She was already going.

Chapter 26

Losing Control

Dominic balled up his napkin.

His chair grated harshly on the stone floor. What was left of the chicken capsized into the sauce, skulking beneath soggy lemons, and something about it churned his stomach. Vance gave him a look that hovered somewhere between surprise and disapproval.

“Where are you going?”

Dominic’s voice was tight. “To check on her.”

“She’ll be fine,” Vance said.

His father turned back to flagging a waiter. Dominic gripped his chair, his pulse thundering. He was vaguely aware of fellow diners staring, although he no longer gave a shit. Bloody hell. Vance had been like this all night, hadn’t he? Spewing off all sorts of sexist bullshit. No wonder Juliette had left so abruptly. And Dominic had just sat there through all of it, not saying a word in her defense.

His stomach churned with acid.

Juliette would think him spineless. Subservient to his father. And worst of all, she’d be right. But some impulses were innate, he thought: Breathe in and out. Eat when hungry. Obey your father. There were things that couldn’t be changed.

Anyway, he hadn’t forgotten what Vance was capable of when he was angry. I’m doing this for you, his father had calmly said in Paris, and even years later, Dominic could recall the exact feeling of his heart being fed through a paper shredder.

Still.

He couldn’t sit here any longer. Not if it meant bottling things with Juliette all over again.

“Thank you for dinner,” Dominic said. “I’ll see you in Belgium.”

He threw down a stack of fifties, then turned for the door. He could feel his father watching his retreat. Anthony said something in a low voice, but Dominic was no longer paying attention; he stopped long enough to ask a passing waiter where Juliette had gone—the young man had no idea but pointed toward the exit—before jogging from the restaurant.

Cars whizzed by, sending rainbow sprays washing over the pavement. Dominic scanned both directions. No sign of a familiar brunette.

Shit.

A thousand thoughts sped through his mind, each more dizzying than the last. He should have never let Juliette sit down at that dinner table. He should have stood up for her. He should have done something.

But to go against his father…

Vance had given him everything. Cars, driving experience, a seat on the fastest team on the grid…He owed his entire racing career to his father. To defy Vance now would be to spit in his face.

“Hastings!” a voice called.