Page 8 of Break My Heart

“I’d love to hear it.”

I drag a hand down my face before admitting, “She means too much.”

“That’s the goal, Leo. That’s what letting another person into your life means!”

“Not for me.”

Dario’s incredulous expression turns sympathetic. I’m not certain what’s worse. I turn away from him. For a second, I consider not saying it—trying to keep the past buried where it belongs—but it’s already caused my world to implode. “You know about my past. Who I am.” I don’t add who I came from, but it’s implied.

His brow furrows. “Yeah.”

“You know I grew up knowing exactly where I stood—secondary. Dismissible.”

“Because, as I’ve said before, your parents were, and are, assholes.”

I wince. “Apparently, so am I.”

“That’s an understatement.”

My mind floods with how unwelcome I felt in the place I should have been able to call home. “Growing up, I can’t remember a time when I felt accepted. If it wasn’t people, it was events⁠—”

“Or your parents’ expectations?”

“Exactly. My brother was the center of it. Always. Tutors. Riding lessons. Dinners where he sat beside my father while I existed somewhere in the background, preferably out of sight.”

“Lots of families favor one child over the other,” Dario points out carefully.

“This wasn’t favoring. After a certain age, the only expectation was for me not to soil the family name. For all intents and purposes, they stopped being my parents. Until I could take care of myself, you know it was nannies and staff who ensured I went to school and that I ate. To my family, I didn’t exist.”

Dario knows more about my past than anyone else, but he’s still surprised by my blunt revelations. “Why didn’t you ever say anything before?”

“I was taught early on not to speak about my problems. Even with the people who ‘raised’ me. Then, it didn’t matter. I was no longer welcome there.”

“You’ve never answered this. After you left, did no one ever come looking for you?”

“No. Never.” I rub my hand across my heart. “What I said to you about Christin was the same bitter words they once directed at me.”

“What do you mean?” Dario asks, his remaining anger draining away.

I hesitate because saying it means it exists somewhere other than my memories. “There was one night—not too long before I left the estate and met you.”

“What happened?”

“Big dinner. Investors. People who mattered.”

Dario scoffs, “You handle those like a pro.”

The side of my lips curve. “I’d spent weeks learning everything I could about the deal. I thought if I knew enough, I’d show my value by contributing. I garnered my courage and offered an idea.” My head pounds as the memory surfaces.

“And?”

“My father didn’t even look at me. Just…flicked his hand at me before throwing me out of the room. I can hear him now, ‘Enough, Leo. You’re not wanted here.’”

“Jesus Christ!” The exclamation bursts from him, raw and furious.

“Every single guest heard it, yet they pretended they didn’t.” I regroup before rounding out the story. “I didn’t just leave the room, I checked out. It wasn’t long after that I left the house with a bag. Caught a train to London and ran into your team at a local pub right before you won the British Grand Prix. I’m eternally grateful one of the blokes—the American—recognized me from when he dated one of my nannies years past.”

“Let me get this straight, in the ten years we’ve been friends and working together, no one has reached out to you? Not even your parents’ servants?”