I nodded. “He’s quick,” I admitted. “But he doesn’t have the patience to play the long game. He’s been in the sport for twenty years, and with two titles under his belt, his ego will get the best of him.”
Marco chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s why he’s dangerous. He’ll risk it all just to get ahead, and someone else usually pays the price for it. Keep an eye on him tomorrow.”
“I plan to. Besides,” I added, “there’s a reason we earned a one-two lockout.”
He nodded as we touched knuckles. “Exactly. I don’t fucking trust him, though. He’s pushedDuboisoff the track a few times now and gotten her lap times deleted. I’d be fucking pissed if I were her.”
I frowned. This was a recurring issue? I was under the impression it had only happened once, and yet hearing that wasn’t the case didn’t sit right with me. The thought of Morel pushing her off again—blocking her dirty driving, risking her race, jeopardizing her fucking points—itched under my skin. But I pushed it down, buried it beneath the satisfaction of pole position. Right alongside our night together, because I couldn’t spend any more time thinking about that.
“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t want to be inDubois’sshoes tomorrow,” he continued. “Midfield chaos and Morel if she battles her way up? It’s going to be a bloodbath back there.”
My fingers flexed, but otherwise, I didn’t outwardly react.
My eyes drifted back toAurélie’sretreating figure as she disappeared into theLuminisgarage. If anyone could claw their way to the front of the grid, it was her. I could already imagine her relentless charge through the midfield, taking risks that would make even seasoned drivers hesitate. Part of me was frustrated for her. Another part couldn’twaitto see her do it.
I couldn’t focus on her for long, though, as people came up to congratulate me on my impressive final flying lap, and then I was herded over to the media to discuss the conditionsof the track, my strategy, and the car’s performance.
For now, though, I let myself have this. This moment. This win. Before everything else came crashing back in.
My fingers curledaround the edge of the pit wall as I stared out at the track. Cars lined the grid, engineers darting back and forth in a final flurry of checks after our warm up lap.
P11now. A growl threatened to tear free as I glanced up at the screen showing the starting positions. It wasn’t where I belonged, and I knew it. My lap time should’ve been quicker, but one mistake atRivazzaand a shove from Morel atVarianteAlta had cost me everything inQ3. I’d watched the stewards’ lack of intervention with gritted teeth, my jaw aching from how tightly I’d clenched it.
How was it that a man with two titles could get away with dirty tactics, and I got slapped with a two-place grid penalty because of him? It wasn’t fucking fair.
As ifP9wasn’t bad enough on its own.
I was on the verge of snapping. My car wasn’t responding the way I was used to. There was way too much fuckingoversteer, and something felt off when I was driving, but I couldn’t quite place it.
My head was a tangle of confusion just as it had been for weeks. I needed to focus on something other thanCallum, or those stupid kisses we shared, or the way my body had lit up in response to him in ways I’d never experienced before. The sex—monDieu—the sex was incredible.
I tried not to look at the Vanguard garage, but my eyes betrayed me.Callumemerged, chatting easily with Marco and their engineers, both wearing cooling vests as they prepped for the race.P1andP2. They belonged there, and they looked the part—untouchable and poised for dominance.
A flicker of something sharp twisted in my chest, akin to a knife. I tore my gaze from them; watching them wasn’t going to help me claw my way out of the midfield.
The beatsbefore the lights went out always felt like the calm before the storm. My visor was down, my gloves secured, and the world outside the cockpit narrowed to a singular focus: the track ahead.
“Radio check.”
“Loud and clear,” I replied, adjusting the brake bias.
These moments between the formation lap and the start of the race were meant to steady your nerves, to prepare you for what was about to come. For me, it was a reminder of how much ground I had to make up. It was going to be difficult, with every driver trying to get a jump on their starting positions. There would be no margin for hesitation.
The lights overhead began their sequence. One by one, they flickered on. Then they went out, and the roar of engines swallowed everything.
Turn 1 was carnage—locked tires, carbon fiber splintering through the air, one car late on the brakes and the rest scrambling to recover. I held my line, darting around the melee and managing to avoid contact while grappling for position. The car ahead of me—Morel, of course, who’d lost positions at the start—swerved aggressively, forcing me to back off just enough to maintain control.
“Keep your head down,” my engineer said calmly. “P7now. Four positions gained. Good start.”
I gritted my teeth, my eyes locking onto Morel’s car. I wasn’t done with him, not by a long shot. He’d get what was coming to him.
Lap after lap, I chipped away at the cars ahead despite theoversteerthat was making my life a living hell. I took opportunities where I could and held back when the risks outweighed the reward. The tires gripped like they were finally listening. The car was more responsive than it had been all weekend, and each pass filled me with a grim satisfaction. By lap 15, I was runningP5, and Morel was still in my sights.
The first sign of trouble came atVarianteAlta. The car stuttered on the exit, the engine note faltering for a split second before smoothing out again. My heart sank, but I pushed on, praying it was a one-off.
“Car feels off,” I reported over the radio, my voice tight. In French, I’d have five ways to describe this. In English? All I had wasoff.
“Copy that,” my engineer replied. “We’re monitoring.”
