Wyatt turned his head as the headset clicked into place. Julien stood at the far end of backstage, race suit zipped to his throat, arms loose at his sides like he'd forgotten they were attached. His eyes fixed somewhere on the floor—not at anything specific, just down.

Wyatt kept watching. Julien's jaw worked in that methodical way, tightening and releasing. His left hand opened and closed, fingers digging into palm.

Wyatt turned toward the venue entrance and pulled air through his nose, slow and measured, then adjusted the headset.

---

The stage lights blazed ahead. White flooring stretched across the platform under LED screens that pulsed with the Imperium logo—a golden Roman eagle, wings spread wide, talons sharp. The lighting was harsh, runway-style. Music pulsed through the floor, bass deep enough to feel in your chest.

Front rows packed with cameras, lenses aimed forward. Behind them stood sponsors in tailored suits, champagne flutes catching light as they clustered in small groups. One woman glanced at her watch, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

The car sat center stage under a spotlight so precise it looked painted on. Matte black fabric draped over it, shifting slightly along one edge.

---

The host stepped out in a black suit and gray tie, microphone close to his mouth. His energy was controlled but bright, practiced until it looked effortless. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Imperium Monaco Racing."

Applause rose and camera flashes erupted so fast they blurred into continuous white light.

Two attendants lifted the fabric in perfect sync. Black bodywork underneath, gold stripes catching light. The front wing gleamed, tiny channels carved for airflow.

The applause swelled before fading into the mechanical chorus of camera shutters. Someone's phone chimed and they silenced it fast.

---

Team principal Maximilian gave his speech—two sentences, nothing more. His voice was low but weighted, each word landing like fact, not opinion. "This year, we prove ourselves. Nothing else matters."

Brief, polite applause. Silence dropped back over the room. Maximilian descended and Vivienne stepped up, silver dress catching light when she walked. She lifted the microphone. "And now, our champions."

---

JULIEN LÉON ROUSSEAU entered from the right with measured steps, each one the exact same length. He raised his hand in a single wave—just a flick of his wrist—then turned to face the cameras with that professional smile settling into place, lips parted just enough to show teeth.

He reached the car and touched it with just his fingertips, barely any pressure, holding the pose while cameras exploded in continuous streams of flashes. His face didn't change, shoulders relaxed, but every line in his neck stood out sharp and visible.

Wyatt watched him look exactly the same as he had moments ago in the corridor. Blank. Focused. Performing himself.

Marco leaned close. "Your turn."

Wyatt nodded, breathed in through his nose and held it before letting it out slow, then stepped onto the stage from the left.

“WYATT QUINN FOSTER “

His smile came easier, wider, reaching his eyes. He scanned the room and picked out faces in the crowd, made brief eye contact with a journalist in the third row. Waved with both hands, open palms, loose wrists. The journalist grinned back and Wyatt dropped half a wink, quick enough to deny. A few people laughed. Vivienne's mouth tightened at the corners—acknowledgment, not quite approval.

Wyatt moved toward the car, weight shifting naturally, and slapped the bodywork with his palm. The sound rang out metallic and bright. A couple of people clapped.

---

He walked over to Julien and they both turned, shook hands for the cameras. Wyatt's palm met Julien's—heat first, then the contrast. His own hand warm, almost hot. Julien's cold. The contact lasted for a moment before Julien's fingers pulled back light and uncertain, like he'd touched something wrong.

"Big season," Wyatt said, voice low.

"Let's see." Flat tone, but Julien swallowed hard in a way that contradicted the casual words.

They stood side by side. Vivienne gestured—move closer. They both shifted and Wyatt slid right, maybe five centimeters. Their shoulders touched, race suit fabric against race suit fabric.

They smiled at the cameras without looking at each other, but Wyatt heard Julien's breathing, controlled and effortful.

The questions started.

"Julien, how does it feel to defend your position this year?"

Julien spoke in short clipped sentences. "We are ready. The car is strong. The team is strong." Every word hit with the same weight, monotone but professional.

"Wyatt, moving from Liberty to Imperium—big change?"

Wyatt answered, tone lighter, warmer. "Huge change. But good change. This team..." He paused, glanced at the car, then at Julien for half a second. "This team is special."

Something flickered across Julien's face before disappearing, but his jaw flexed.

---

"Will you two work together or compete?"

Wyatt answered first. "Both." He laughed and a few people in the audience laughed with him.

Julien added, "We race for the team." His voice came out harder, words bitten off. Wyatt glanced at him but Julien stared straight at the cameras, unblinking.

Applause rose. The lights shifted softer, signaling the end. Music continued its low pulse as the stage began to clear. Attendants folded fabric with practiced efficiency.

Sponsors approached. Handshakes began, photos followed in endless rotation.

Wyatt spoke to everyone, smiled, nodded, made eye contact. One man clapped him on the shoulder and Wyatt laughed, genuine and full.

Julien did the same things but it looked scripted, every movement measured to the millimeter. A woman asked him a question and he answered in two sentences. She applauded and he inclined his head, polite and exact.

But his eyes kept moving—jumping from the woman to a man beside her to the exit door to the car, never settling.

---

Vivienne lingered a few steps away with her head tilted in the posture of listening, except she wasn't listening. She was observing. Her gaze moved to Julien, then at Wyatt, back to Julien, before lifting her tablet and typing something with her thumb. She showed it to Claire.

Claire walked over, read whatever was written there, and nodded once.

Vivienne looked again—Wyatt laughing with a sponsor, Julien standing near Margaux. They weren't holding hands but stood close, bodies angled toward each other. Margaux said something and Julien nodded but didn't speak.

Vivienne's lips pressed into a thin line before she turned and walked away, heels clicking sharp against the floor.

---

Wyatt stood in the elevator with his eyes on his phone, messages coming in one after another. He answered each one, thumbs moving fast. When the elevator stopped and doors slid open, his footsteps on carpet made almost no sound.

He sat on the bed and leaned back against the headboard, staring at the flat white ceiling while the air conditioning hummed its low constant buzz.

Julien came into his mind. They'd stood side by side today, shoulders touching, but Julien hadn't looked at him. Hadn't spoken beyond what was required. Acted like they were strangers.

His mouth opened. "Interesting guy." The words came out rough, surprising him in the empty room.

Phone vibrated. Reminder: gala in one hour.

He changed into his tuxedo and left for the ballroom.

---

Crystal chandeliers refracted light through cut glass, sharp points scattering across marble. Jazz played low and smooth, barely audible under conversation that filled the space. Champagne glasses sat on tables, bubbles rising in slow streams. Men in tuxedos, women in long dresses. Whispers, laughter, the staccato click of high heels.

Wyatt scanned the room from the entrance. Vivienne stood in the corner speaking with someone, so he walked toward her. "Good evening."

She turned. "Wyatt. You look good."

"Thanks."

Her gaze held steady, assessing. "The press conference went well. The journalists liked you."

Wyatt nodded once, just a slight dip of his chin.

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. "But be careful. Monaco is different. Everyone is watching."

"I know."

She smiled—no warmth in it, just the shape—then turned and walked toward someone else. Conversation finished.

---

Wyatt headed for the bar. The bartender looked at him expectantly.

"Scotch. No ice."

Amber liquid filled the glass, the smell reaching him before he picked it up.

Marco and two engineers appeared nearby, so Wyatt joined them. "Hey."

"Wyatt!" Marco slapped his shoulder, grin wide. "How's it going?"

"It's fine." His eyes kept scanning the room even while he spoke.

Someone made a joke in Italian and another engineer laughed. Wyatt didn't understand the words but smiled anyway.

He took his first sip. The scotch burned going down, heat spreading through his chest. He scanned the room again and his attention snagged.

Julien stood in the far corner with Margaux beside him in a gold dress, arm linked through his. They talked to a sponsor, Julien wearing that same professional smile. Margaux said something and the sponsor laughed.

Wyatt looked away. A few people from the team approached and they talked about the season, the car, expectations. After a while his eyes drifted back and caught Julien staring. The moment stretched, held longer than it should have. Wyatt smiled slightly, his dark green eyes catching the light.

Julien turned his head away and faced Margaux with his full attention.

Wyatt's smile faded. He set his glass down harder than necessary. What the fuck.

"Wyatt!" Claire appeared beside him, tablet in hand. "Photo time. Sponsors are waiting."

He nodded, picked up his composure, and followed Claire to the center where three sponsors stood in expensive suits. The photographer gestured and Wyatt moved into position. Flashes erupted.

After the photos, he walked toward the restroom and looked at himself in the mirror, hands braced on the counter. "Few more hours," he muttered to his reflection before turning and walking back down the corridor.

Julien appeared, walking toward him from the opposite direction.

They approached each other and their eyes met. Julien nodded slightly. Wyatt nodded back. They passed without stopping or slowing, Wyatt keeping his eyes forward.

Asshole.