I woke up before six.
No alarm.
No noise.
Just... silence.
The kind of silence that made you question if anything in your life was loud enough to matter.
I pushed the blanket off my legs and sat up, eyes adjusting to the thin blade of light cutting through the blackout curtains.
It's too early for anything to happen, too late to fall back asleep.
The marble floors were cold beneath my feet as i walked past the long hallway, pausing for a second outside my parents' room.
Dark.
Still.
Not even a creak of movement from behind the expensive double doors.
Yesterday, I came home a winner.
Fourth national race victory.
Headlines.
TV spots.
An interview that trended for nine hours.
And still—nothing.
You'd think being part of the Araneta-Gutierrez line would come with applause.
My family owns Lueur Empire, Hospitals, Luxury hotels, Beauty conglomerates. High-end clinics from BGC to Seoul.
Even my brother Sebastian got surprise visits mid-tour from them.
Flights to Europe.
Custom PR packages.
Dinners with Michelin stars.
But me?
Nothing.
It's not even anger anymore.
Just a dull kind of ache that sits in your ribcage like smoke that won't clear.
-
I went downstairs and sat at the long dining table.
It stretched across the room like a runway no one ever used.
The coffee machine blinked blue when i touched it.
The beans weren't fresh.
Didn't matter.
I sipped in silence, the bitter taste anchoring me.
My eyes landed on the gallery wall across the kitchen, framed family milestones like curated museum pieces.
Sebastian holding his first platinum record.
My mom shaking hands with European royals.
Me in that champagne gown during my debut.
Pretty.
Empty.
All of it.
I didn't know what i wanted to feel anymore. Validation?
Attention?
Or just the decency of being noticed outside of a press release?
Either way, I had a briefing to attend.
At the Buenaventura Grand Circuit.
It's not just any circuit.
It's the one people don't talk about publicly, because it isn't just sponsored by the rich, it's owned by them.
The Buenaventuras are old money.
Real money.
Their family controls the entire motorsport industry across Southeast Asia.
Not just the circuits, but the training camps, the engineering pipelines, the private test fields hidden behind black gates and NDAs.
Multi-billion dollar holdings.
Jet fleets.
In-house Formula developers.
Private racers with last names that can buy countries.
And now, I'm being assigned to a new trainer.
Not that i cared.
They said he insisted, since Tito Ben can't no longer train me.
That caught my attention for about half a second.
No one insisted to train me.
Not unless they wanted something.
Whatever.
One briefing.
Then the usual drills.
I'd pretend to listen, they'd pretend to care.
-
I showed up early.
Of course i did.
One leg crossed over the other, arms folded.
Boot tapping faintly against the chrome leg of my chair.
Eyes fixed on the clock.
No smiles.
No interaction.
Just air-conditioning and awkward silences.
The room was full of logistics managers trying not to sweat.
PR heads muttering about brand alignments.
A few interns doing that thing where they look but pretend not to.
None of it mattered.
Until the door opened.
"Coach Lorenzo's here," someone said.
Too casually.
Like his name didn't mean anything.
And then—I saw him.
Black shirt.
Sleeves pushed up.
Wristwatch that probably cost more than my entire car.
The kind of jawline sculpted for tabloid covers, but carried like it didn't matter.
His walk wasn't loud, but people moved anyway.
He didn't need presence.
He was presence.
And God, he's familiar.
Too familiar.
I didn't breathe.
Just stared.
No!
No f*cking way!
But yes.
It was him.
From that night.
The one i buried.
The one i never named.
The man i left without a word, after hours of blurred choices and no regrets.
The one i didn't ask for details.
Didn't want to.
I told him i'd never see him again and now… he's here.
Standing in front of everyone like he owns the damn building which, knowing his last name, he probably does?
"Good morning," he said.
Voice low. Dry. No inflection.
No emotion.
No recognition.
Not even when our eyes met.
And i matched it.
Not a blink.
Not a twitch.
I looked at him the way i look at weak drivers on turn 3—bored, unimpressed, over it.
He didn't know me.
I didn't know him.
That's the story we were going with.
The meeting dragged on.
His voice, he's cold, calm, methodical—outlined the new structure.
Training hours.
Mental conditioning.
Precision laps. Recovery cycles.
I didn't speak.
Didn't nod.
Didn't move.
He didn't look at me again.
Until the end.
One of the PR heads leaned over to me, smiling like a fake friend.
"Atasha, you okay with this setup?"
I kept my voice flat. "Doesn't matter to me."
And it didn't.
Because i wouldn't let it.
He glanced once in my direction then.
Just briefly.
I looked past him like he was part of the furniture.
The room emptied.
Chatter.
Nervous laughs.
Someone made a joke about how intense "Coach Lorenzo" was.
Another intern whispered something i didn't catch.
But i caught his name.
"Lorenzo Juaquin Buenaventura," someone said with a tone of reverence. "Literal royalty."
My stomach turned.
So that was his name.
Of course.
Of course he wasn't just some nobody.
He's that Buenaventura.
The family that doesn't just run the circuit—they built it.
And i had him.
In my hands.
On that night.
With no idea who he was.
And now?
Now he's my trainer.
-
I walked out into the dull gray afternoon, the air thick with engine smoke and dust.
My phone buzzed.
I didn't check.
There was nothing i wanted to read.
What was i supposed to do now?
Act normal?
Pretend that night didn't exist?
Apparently, we both already were.
Maybe that's what cold people do best.
Forget.
Rewrite.
Erase.
I pulled my jacket tighter and kept walking.
Far away from the briefing room.
Far away from that voice.
Far away from the memory of a man i wasn't supposed to meet again—
much less reportto.
But here we are.
And something tells me this isn't going to stay cold for long.