Daughter of a fallen former Formula 1 pilot, Camila has had only one mission since her early childhood : to disappear from the public eye and the journalists who eagerly await to tear apart the last ties holding her family together. Torn between her...
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April 2003.
Seated at one of the many meeting tables at the Minardi racing team, I am focused on my drawing, searching for the perfect yellow crayon to color the sun I've drawn in the upper corner of my sheet.
"Camila?" comes my mother's voice. "Cam, darling, the race is about to start. Come on, let's go downstairs."
"But I'm not done with the drawing," I respond, frustrated.
"You can't stay up here alone, my dear, you're too young," my mother responds, gently caressing my shoulder. "You can finish your drawing later."
"But I want to finish it now!" I reply, raising my voice.
My mother shoots me a disapproving look and is about to respond when a soft voice rises from the back of the room.
"Don't worry, Isa. I'm staying here anyway, the little one is out like a light. I'll keep an eye on Camila, and we'll join you later."
My mother smiles at the woman and strokes my hair before walking towards the stairs.
"Thank you, Sophie. See you later."
•
September 2019.
Somehow, amidst the blinding lights and deafening music, I've lost track of my evening. Imani was the first to snap out of her daze upon seeing Carlos behind me, blurting a very loud "no way", heard by the whole table despite the deafening music. He, ever the perfect gentleman, took the time to greet each of the girls (who turned into blushing, giggling messes) before dragging me onto the dance floor. I think I heard the words "just like old times," being ushered, as if the "good old times" he referred to weren't just a few months ago.
Carlos and I dance for a while, swaying in the anonymity of a packed club where everyone seems too busy making out to pay any attention to us. Neither he nor I have really improved since our first dance, that night at the casino. Our movements are still uncertain, clumsy. But the spaniard seems to have downed enough drinks to no longer care about his skills, and I'm in dire need to let loose after my disastrous start to the evening.
"I didn't take you for the type of girl to hang out around here," the spaniard admits in my ear after some time, a smirk evident in his voice.
"Who did you take me for, then?" I respond, watching him through the veil of my lashes, swaying to the music.
"A discreet girl. A shy one," he responds, as a group heading to the smoking area passes between us, distancing me from him. A few seconds later, Carlos grabs my wrist, pulling me close to him once again.
Feeling the temperature slowly rise on the dance floor and having no desire to give any wrong ideas to the - admittedly, very charming - man in front of me, I try to steer the conversation in a different direction.
