VIPER || Oscar Piastri

Chapter 143

[POV: Andreanna Saunterre]

I didn't know how else to do it.

It's not like there's a script for this kind of thing.

Though, I guess I did write one.

Well. A contract, technically, not a script. And in said contract — in neat bullet points under 'Phase Three: Success!' — it specifically states that if either person wants to back out, the other must be given two weeks' notice.

So this is me. Following my own, agreed-to, rules.

I planned for this. I planned for this, so— so why is my hand shaking like I'm signing my own death certificate instead of drafting a simple slip of paper?

It was in the plan for a reason, so... so I'm just... honoring that. Right?

Right.

This slip of paper I have in my hand, the one I drafted an embarrassing amount of times at the kitchen table with a pen clenched inside my fist, is protocol.

It's just procedure.

A notice.

It's like— it's no different from if we were, say, coworkers. And I'm filing for leave, except instead of HR it's Oscar, and instead of a neat signature at the bottom there's... a 'sorry,' and a 'don't call.'

I kept telling myself it was fine as I wrote it. This is what we agreed to. This is why we made the rules in the first place— so no one could get blindsided, so there'd be no messy endings, no frayed edges.

Seamless. Like I said, the less fuss, the better.

But now it's here, in my hand, and the question becomes: where do I even put it?

If I leave it on the kitchen counter, he'll see it the second he walks in, and I'll hear the front door click open, and I'll have to stand there and watch his face as he reads it, and figures out what it means. What if he crumples it? What if he laughs? What if he folds it in half and puts it in his pocket and pretends nothing happened until one day he forgets and then remembers and then— no, no, that's ridiculous.

But... if I slip it under his pillow, he'll find it later— quietly, privately— and then it'll feel like a sneak attack! He'll wake up and there'll be this tiny betrayal tucked against his ear. He'll read it with sleep in his eyes and then what, stumble into the bathroom and stare at himself in the mirror and try to remember when I stopped being the person who sat across from him at the table and started being someone who drafts warning notices?

And if I tape it to the door, it's public, theatrical, and if I do that then I'm making a scene, which we specifically said we wouldn't do, which is the whole point of seamless—seamless!—and the idea of him opening the door and seeing paper stuck there like a sticky note is humiliating!

I stared at the paper until the words blurred, until my handwriting looks like someone else's. Maybe it was.

So I fold the paper.

Before I could think any more, I shoved it into the back pocket of my trousers.

I'll... figure it out later.

My suitcase was already waiting behind the door, out of sight. I packed neatly, like I was going on a trip, (which technically I am), and when I pulled the zipper closed, and my hands don't shake anymore; they were too numb for that.

I packed enough for two weeks.

This was the plan. I'm just following the plan.

Still, the plan never accounted for this part.