Chapter 1

He said she was just his best friend. He said it on her birthday. On their anniversary. In the ER waiting room.

He said it one too many times. So I left.

While his life spiraled into regret and ruin, I already returned to the racing world and became the champion I was always meant to be.

......

The seventh candle burned down to its base.

Wax dripped down the stainless steel cake stand and pooled on the oak table of my small Silver Lake apartment—a small, scar‑like puddle of waxy white.

In front of me sat a chocolate cake, delivered fresh that morning from Magnolia Bakery. I had cut seven slices myself. One for every hour Jude hadn’t shown up.

At 1:23 a.m., an Instagram notification lit up.

@JudeKane posted a carousel.

I tapped it.

First slide: Sunrise over Mulholland. Mia Vance wrapped in his black jacket, holding Red Roses.

Second slide: She sat on the hood of his Porsche 911, laughing carelessly.

Third slide: Their silhouettes. He was tucking her hair behind her ear.

The caption took me three reads to believe I wasn’t seeing things:

> *"Every guy needs a ride‑or‑die. Thanks for being mine. "*

The comments had already passed four hundred.

> **@racewithryan**: Bro, your girl will jealous?

> **@miaonthegas**: Don’t say that, Cleo won’t mind~ We’re just friends

I stared at the screen. My fingertip hovered above the glass for three full seconds.

Then I tapped *like.*

Slowly, I typed:

> **@cleo.ward**: Hope you two ride forever.

Send.

I put the phone down and slid the ring off my finger—the one I had worn for three years.

There was a faint red mark around my skin. Like a rope that had been tied too long and finally loosened.

It turned out some things weren't impossible to take off.

I had just never been willing to pull hard enough.

......

I looked at the seven cakes on the table and remembered a night three months ago.

> *"Cleo, you're my girlfriend. Don't go picking fights with my best friend."*

That was the first time Jude said it.

> Three months ago · Emergency Room

>

> My stomach hurt so badly I couldn’t stand straight. I called an Uber to hospital myself.

> At 2 a.m., I curled up on a plastic chair and texted him: **“Where are you?”**

> Twenty minutes later, he answered: **“Babe, Mia’s car got a flat tire. I’m driving out to pick her up. I’ll make you pancakes in the morning.”**

> I stared at that message. My stomach felt like someone had clenched it and let go.

> Two months ago · Beach House

>

> An Airbnb I'd booked a month in advance. He canceled it.

> *“Too tired, babe. How about next weekend?”*

> The next day, Mia posted an IG story: **“Camping guide unlocked! Thanks Jude for planning the whole thing.”**

> I texted him: **“What about our weekend?”**

> He replied: **“Cleo, don’t be dramatic.”**

> Last month · Our third anniversary

>

> Dinner reservation at 7 p.m.

> I waited until 9:45. The waiter came to refill my water for the third time.

>He called. *"Cleo, Mia got into it with someone at the car meet, I gotta go handle it. Just eat without me, okay?"*

> I had said: **Jude. Do you even know what today is?**

> He had paused for one second. Then he had laughed. *"Babe. Not now."*

Every time, I had asked.

Every time, a *don't be dramatic* had pushed me back into place.

I had thought I was fighting with him.

It took me too long to realize — I had been talking to a wall with his name painted on it.

......

I opened my phone again and scrolled to an email buried deep in my inbox.

Sender: **Coach Lena Marquez**, Head of Driver Development, Formula Regional European Championship.

She had invited me back for three years in a row. Every year, I gave her the same answer:

*“I’m not ready.”*

I hadn't been ready to hold a steering wheel again. Not ready to go back to the kind of road that had taken my parents from me.

I opened a nail salon on a quiet corner and pretended to be just a girl who did nails and didn’t race.

But sitting there, with seven slices of cake going stale in front of me, I finally understood-

The pain of staying with Jude had grown bigger than the crash I had been afraid of my whole life.

My fingertips hovered over the keyboard. In the end, I typed two words.

> **I’m ready.**

Send.

Right above it, Jude’s IG lit up with another comment.

> **@racewithryan**: Dude, your girlfriend’s comment *“hope you two ride forever”* — that's got teeth in it.

I looked at it, powered off the phone, and threw it into the deepest drawer, next to the ring.

That night, my birthday wish was simple.

**Leave him.**