VIPER || Oscar Piastri

Chapter 61

[POV: Andreanna Saunterre]

Two hours.

We'd been doing this for two goddamn hours.

It was the kind of fighting where the words stopped meaning anything about twenty minutes in—just two sides trying to blame one another. Nothing productive. A lot of repetition. Some yelling, swearing, walking in circles. Saying shit just to land the hit. A lot of 'You know what your problem is?' talk. Some finger-jabbing, loaded insults and sarcastic remarks, too. Low blows. Maybe too low, sometimes; shit I didn't even mean, but said anyway.

And Lando gave it right back. Tried to spin it, deflect, talk over me.

He called me dramatic; That's when I really lost it. I'm not proud of everything I said—some of it came out too fast to catch. But I am proud of the way I handed his ass to him. I've never yelled at someone like that in my life. I don't think he even got a word in after that first "calm down."

He kept trying to change the subject. Kept trying to talk his way out of it.

And so, after he tried to bring up yet another irrelevant point—

I didn't give him the chance. I turned for the door, then threw the last grenade over my shoulder:

"It's hard to believe someone actually pays you to drive for a living. God knows I'd never sign you!!"

Then I slammed the door—I mean, like, a full-body thud. I stormed down the hallway, each step heavier, hitting the carpet like I was trying to wear holes in it as I made for the elevator. I was still hot—skin flushed, breathing too fast. My hand was shaking as I jammed the elevator button, jaw clenched so tight it started to ache.

I wasn't staying in his room one second longer.

The elevator doors opened, and I stepped in, pressing the ground floor button repeatedly like that'd force it to move faster. The second the doors dinged, I stormed in, arms folded tight across my chest to keep sane.

I still couldn't believe it.

He crashed my car. The one thing I asked him not to touch. And then—then!—he tries to pin it on Oscar like I'd just take his word for it.

Lando fucking Norris. World-class driver.

You'd think he could handle a curb? 

I dragged my hands down my face as I stepped out of the elevator, heading straight for the front doors. I'd been talking all this shit about the damage he'd done to my car and I hadn't even seen it properly. I was at a distance. God knows what it looks like up close.

The lobby lights were harsh—surgical, too clean—compared to the heavy dark waiting outside.

It was almost two in the morning.

Not that it mattered.

Sleep would be way too much effort now; it didn't even feel like a thing my body could do after all that yelling. It'd probably make everything worse; Think of all the impulsive thoughts my brain would cook up the second I closed my eyes.

I hadn't even gone back to my room yet, either. Oscar had been asleep for a few hours already— probably, hopefully, if the volume of mine and Lando's feud didn't carry up three floors. I don't want to know what that sounded like from the other side of the wall.

The car park was practically empty, the silence making the whole thing feel worse— like the universe was waiting to see how much louder I could scream.

Even just the thought of my car being wrecked was enough to make my fists curl and eyes burn; The thought of the front bumper being mangled. Left headlight shattered slightly. A long scrape cut jagged across the side like a claw mark. The paint—my perfect, pearlescent wrap—flaking off in chunks. I got that done in bloody Switzerland. Custom-made. One of one.