Saved by Brother's Best Friend (Marianna and Duane) novel Chapter 19

Marianna.

The digital cleanup begins with a vengeance.

Back in the guest room, illuminated only by the sterile blue glow of Duane’s cracked spare iPhone, I sit cross-legged on the edge of the mattress and launch into an operation I should have executed years ago. I am purging. I am tearing down every digital shrine, every secret altar, every pathetic little thread of parasocial attachment I’ve maintained to a man who looks at me like I’m an annoying bug on his windshield.

I tap open I*******m, navigating directly to the hidden burner account I made back in college—the one with a fake name and a profile picture of a golden retriever where I secretly followed every F1 fan page, meme account, and paddock insider blog just to catch blurred, geotagged glimpses of Duane walking into circuits. I go straight to his official handle. The blue checkmark mocks me. Without a second hesitation, I hit the three dots in the top right corner.

Block.

Block all new accounts they may create.

Confirm.

It feels like severing a nerve.

Done. He doesn't exist. I pull up T*****r, scrolling down my following list to purge every single Veloce Racing update, every driver tracker, every fan-edit video set to dramatic pop songs that had ever made my heart do a stupid little flutter. I block the team hashtags. I block the fan forums where people romanticize his cold, icy stare as "mysterious alpha energy."

Idiots. All of them. Especially past me.

To cement the execution, I open up a private, hyper-niche F1 gossip and fan group chat on Telegram where anonymous users dissect paddock drama under pseudonyms. My fingers fly across the virtual keyboard, driven by a surge of pure, unfiltered spite and adrenaline.

“I’m officially done,” I type out into the group chat, staring down at the glowing screen. “I’m so tired of putting up with arrogant, cold-hearted, emotionally stunted guys who think a scowl is a personality trait. Done letting a fast car and a jawline make me forget my own self-respect. I’ve decided to get my life back on track and cut the dead weight. Peace out, circus.”

Hit send.

Notifications pop up instantly from strangers replying with shock, supportive memes, and virtual popcorn, but I don't care. I swipe out of the app, delete the Telegram icon entirely from the home screen, and toss the phone onto the nightstand like it’s contaminated.

I’m breathing heavily, my chest rising and falling in short, sharp bursts, but beneath the adrenaline, there is a profound, terrifying lightness. It’s the feeling of a building finally collapsing after you’ve spent months watching the cracks spiderweb across the walls. The suspense is over. The worst-case scenario has happened, and I am still breathing.

I don't need him. I don't need his team, his apartment, his money, or his condescending, two-sentence verdicts on my worth. I have a second interview tomorrow morning with Dr. Margot Lindholm at Kinetic Performance Institute. I have a salary of $54,000 waiting for me if I don't screw it up. I have a future that doesn't involve being a footnote in a billionaire racing driver's life.

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