Kicked Out My Cheating Boyfriend and Chose the Champion

Dinner with Adrian took place in a restaurant with no sign, six tables, and a chef who greeted him by first name.

He stood when I arrived. His navy suit fit like someone had designed it specifically to make women forget their plans. I had chosen a modest black dress, then hated myself for caring whether he approved.

His eyes proved he did.

“You're sober,” he said.

“Disappointed?”

“Relieved.” He pulled out my chair. His fingers brushed the bare strip of my back, light enough to be accidental and slow enough not to be. “It means every bad decision tonight belongs to us.”

Dinner was nothing like I expected. Adrian did not brag about racing. He asked about my work and listened when I explained that modeling was less glamour than five a.m. call times, bruised feet, and being measured by strangers. When I asked why he had followed me from Blake's party, he turned his water glass once between his fingers.

“You looked like you might disappear if nobody saw you.”

The answer lodged beneath my ribs.

After dessert, he drove me home. At my door, I leaned against the frame and waited.

His gaze dropped to my mouth.

“Nothing else,” he reminded me.

“That was before dinner.”

“Revenge is still sitting between us.”

“She's getting bored.”

His laugh was low and surprised. He stepped close enough that my breasts brushed his jacket when I inhaled.

One hand settled beside my head on the doorframe. The other traced the edge of my jaw, not kissing me, making the absence feel like contact.

“When I kiss you again,” he said, “you won't be looking over my shoulder to see if Blake noticed.”

Then he left me shaking in my hallway.

Four days later, Blake called from an unknown number.

“I found your mother's necklace.”

I sat upright on my sofa. The small sapphire pendant was the only piece of jewelry my mother had left me before cancer took her. I had searched for it after the breakup and assumed it was lost during a campaign trip.

“Where?”

“In my locker bag.”

“Send it with Tessa.”

“She's coordinating practice. Come get it yourself.”

“I'll meet you somewhere public.”

“I'm at Falcon's training center until six. After that, it goes in the mail. Your choice.”

The line died.

I told myself I could walk into Falcon, take the necklace, and leave. I had been there dozens of times. Security knew me. I refused to let Blake hold my mother's memory hostage.

At five thirty, the main garage thundered with pneumatic tools and engines on test cycles. The Falcon complex smelled of hot rubber, metal, and the sharp synthetic oil Blake used to carry home on his skin.

A junior mechanic waved me through. “Mercer said you're expected.”

I found Blake beside his car with Chloe perched on a tool cabinet, scrolling through her phone. She wore white again. Perhaps innocence had a uniform.

Blake held out a velvet pouch.

I opened it. The sapphire caught the overhead lights.

Relief made my eyes sting.

Chloe looked up. “That's what she came for? I thought exes returned things through assistants.”

“So did I,” I said.

Blake leaned against the car. “I wanted to see whether she'd actually come running.”

I closed my fist around the pouch. “You used my dead mother's necklace to test me?”

His smile slipped, but Chloe gave a delicate laugh.

“He said you were intense.”

“And he said you were fresh. We both got reduced to marketing words.”

Her face tightened.

I turned to leave.

“Dinner with Vale?” Blake called after me. “Cute stunt.”

I stopped despite knowing better.

“He uses women for a week and forgets their names,” Blake said. “You think he wants my leftovers?”

My nails bit my palm around the necklace.

“No,” I said. “I think he wants a woman you were too stupid to keep.”

The words hit. I saw it.

I walked away before he could answer.

The usual corridor to reception had been closed for electrical work, so I followed a temporary sign through the development wing. Most bays were dark. At the far end, voices carried through a half-lowered garage door.

“Pressure spike is still outside Crown regulations,” someone said.

“Only if telemetry records it,” another replied.

I slowed.

Through the gap, I recognized Falcon technical director Martin Keene and two engineers bent over a silver cylinder mounted behind a practice chassis. A mechanic connected it to the hybrid control unit.

The dashboard display flashed: SECONDARY BOOST—ACTIVE.

I knew enough racing to understand. The Pacific Crown strictly limited stored-energy deployment. An unregistered bypass could feed extra power on straights, then erase the spike before official data capture.

Martin tapped the screen. “Mercer gets twelve seconds. No more. We trigger through the steering map and purge before inspection.”

My heel scraped concrete.

Three heads turned.

I ran.

Someone shouted. I cut through the parts corridor, slammed my shoulder into a shelf, and heard metal trays crash behind me. My handbag caught on a cart. I ripped it free and kept moving.

The lobby guard looked startled as I burst through the doors.

Outside, I did not stop until I reached my car.

My hands shook too badly to fit the key into the ignition.

I called Tessa.

She answered on the second ring. “Where are you?”

“Falcon. I saw something.”

Her voice changed. “What kind of something?”

I told her. Every detail—the cylinder, Martin, the telemetry purge, Blake's name.

For several seconds, I heard only her breathing.

“You can't tell anyone,” she said.

“They're cheating. I heard them say it.”

“Sienna, listen to me. Drive home. I'll check it quietly.”

“You believe me?”

“Of course. I'm your best friend.”

I closed my eyes, grateful enough to feel weak. “Thank you.”

At seven the next morning, my manager called so many times that the phone vibrated off my nightstand.

I answered half asleep.

“Do not say a word to anyone,” Celeste snapped.

My stomach dropped. “About what?”

She sent me a link.

FALCON MOTORSPORT ACCUSES BLAKE MERCER'S MODEL EX OF ATTEMPTED CORPORATE ESPIONAGE.

The article claimed I had used my former relationship to gain unauthorized access, photograph proprietary systems, and deliver secrets to a rival driver with whom I was “romantically entangled.”

Adrian.

A second call came through. Falcon's general manager.

Then a third. A reporter.

Then dozens more.

My name began trending before I finished reading.

#PitLaneThief.

#SiennaSpy.

Blake gave a statement by eight.

“I cared deeply for Sienna, but her recent behavior has become unstable. I will cooperate fully with investigators.”

Unstable.

The word spread faster than fire.

I called Tessa.

Straight to voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

A: Do not leave your apartment. I am coming.

Before I could answer, someone pounded on my door.

“Ms. Hart?” a man's voice called. “Falcon security. We need to ask about stolen property.”

I backed away, clutching my mother's necklace in one hand and my phone in the other.

I had been bait.