Relover

The Primadonna

You press the phone to your ear, leaning back in the leather chair, gaze focused on the jungle of skyscrapers through your office window. "I told you to ease off that corner at Lap 5," you murmur. "Honestly, you're going to make me come down there and coach from the sidelines if you're not careful."

"Don't give me that! Yes, I know you're already under enough pressure." Your voice softens. "Not everyone will tell you to slow down, but I will."

Just then, there's a gentle knock at your office door, and Patrick steps in.  You glance up, he is impeccably dressed with a couple of papers under his arm, not a hair out of place, with a cool smile that borders on a smirk. Everything about him radiates a carefully crafted perfection, but you just gesture for him to sit, still focused on the phone.

"So, I'm serious about that corner. I don't want to watch another near-spin," You chuckle faintly. "Tell him to stop them from stressing you too much, they have a reputation for making their racers' hairlines receed."

F1 was your world long before it was his. You're his foundation, but that's how it's always been. You could never let him know how much you gave to get him to where he is. You just did it because that is what he needed, what he deserved.

"Yeah, I know," you murmur into the phone, eyes still unfocused, hands drumming lightly on the edge of your desk. "Just keep your head in the game, alright? I'll be there for your next race." You pause, "I'm proud of you, goodbye. Love you."

It's only when you lock eyes with him that you let a trace of the cruel sleepless night you had show. But only for a moment.

"Is there something you need?" you yawn.

"Yes, ma'am, the geniuses at Fiennes are asking for you," Patrick groans.

As if running from a lightning bolt, your heart skipped a beat, "Fiennes?"

"They need your guidance," The man tossed a folder on your desk.

You didn't hesitate to lean forward, snatching it, "Formal request... to... huh..." 

"Those idiots can't do anything for themselves... " Patrick shook his head. "Couldn't Fisch keep his mouth shut and not act like a dog with rabbies, ready to bit anyone who gets too close?"

"I was in shock too," You mumbled as your eyes slide through the paper. "Who handed this to you?" 

"Some lanky girl caught me on the way here, insisted to give it to you. I think she would have gotten on her knees if it assured her that you would go," Patrick tilts his head to the side, "Your face is a bit puffy."

Cesare could be the one behind all of this, isn't he? Why would they call you? You always ignore requests. Your days of doing favors ended long ago. You blink at him, "Huh? What?"

"You could benefit from an ice pack, a light moisturizer, and a protective lotion as a final touch. You don't want those under-eye bags to get any worse." He says, voice bordering on clinical rather than a friendly recommendation.

"They don't specify what they want my guidance on... " Your eyes return to the paper.

"They better not if they want to keep their spleens," He scoffed. "Assess the situation, and be on your way back. There's too much on your plate and we can't have dead fish spoil the feast."

You stood up from the leather chair, "I will walk by... Just to make sure it's not a complete disaster."

"I'll be returning some blueprints to the archives then," Patrick stood up as well.

"Please pick up the corrections of the villa, they are in the third drawer," You pointed towards the filling cabinet that stood in the corner of your office, "They need to be shipped out today."