I shot him a glare. “Anything else?”
Marco hesitated. “Just one thing.” He stepped in front of me. “When you see her inImola, don’t do something stupid.”
My stomach tightened. “Like what?”
“I don't know, stare at her like she’s the only thing that matters.”
I didn’t respond, but Marco’s words hit the mark. I'd already done something stupid, and that was letting myself catch feelings for Aurélie Dubois. And, honestly? I was already in too deep to stop.
The walkaround theImolatrack was supposed to be routine—something every driver did before a race weekend. It was a chance to reacquaint yourself with every corner, every bump, every nuance of the asphalt. A ritual, arecalibration.
But Imola was no ordinary track.
It was a shrine to the beauty and brutality of racing.
Tamburelloloomed ahead, and the same weight I felt every year hung in the air.
Ayrton Senna.
His name echoed in my mind like a whispered prayer. The man who had inspired me to chase this impossible dream. Every time I walked this track, I thought of him—of the legacy he left behind, of the price he paid to carve his name into history.
I stopped atTamburello, the gravel crunching beneath my boots.
The corner didn’t look like it should hold so much significance, not anymore. The layout had changed. The gradual, unforgiving curve had been replaced with two sharper turns. But standing here,knowingwhat had happened, I felt the gravity of it anyway.
I remembered sneaking out of bed as a kid to watch Senna’s Monaco race on VHS. My father had recorded it years prior,and I wore that tape out, studying the way he made it look effortless. In his hands, the car wasn’t a machine. It was a live extension of him.
Then came the race that changed my life and the one that ended Senna's. His crash.
I was too young to understand at first—how something somagicalcould be gone in an instant. It made me question whether the dream was worth it. But in the end, it only strengthened my resolve. If I was going to chase this, I’d do it in a way that honored him.
A figure ahead caught my eye.
Her golden hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her posture was poised, arms crossed as she stared out at the track. She looked out of place among the solemnity—yet somehow, she belonged.
A modern driver, walking in the footsteps of legends.
Our last conversation left things up in the air between us. Me, ready to chase her to the ends of the earth, and her pulling back.
The way she’d said it in Miami—I can’t let a scandal happen—was clipped, clinical. Not what she meant, not with the way she’d tilted her head, searching for the right words and coming up short. She had more to say, but maybe she was too hungover to say it in English.
I’d watched her in that moment, not unlike how I watched her now, fascinated by her in every which way.
Andnow I couldn’t stop my brain from remembering the way she’d looked underneath me, sprawled and breathless, whimpering my name, begging me?—
Fuck.
Not. Now.
Please.
The scent of asphalt and freshly cut grass mingled in the warm breeze. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the worn tarmac, framingAurélielike a goddamn portrait. My feet carried me forward before I could second-guess myself.
She turned, hazel eyes unreadable. The wind dragged a strand of hair across her cheek, and she swatted it away with that same impatient flick I’d seen a dozen times. My fingers twitched at my sides,remembering the feel of her soft hair in my hands, itching to tilt her head back and claim her mouth, swallowing her sweet moans.
I swallowed, shoving the memory away. It wasn’t. Fucking. Helping.
“Fraser.”
