I didn’t talk to anyone. Not the team. Not the press. Not even Ivy.
That night, the city buzzed outside our hotel like nothing had happened—neon and music and celebration bleeding throughthe glass. Callum found me curled inward on the bed, still wrapped in the quiet.
It had been a good race for him. Another win, but he didn’t lead with that. He just crawled in beside me, pulled me close, like we’d done a thousand times before and he knew this was what I needed.
Later, when the world had gone soft around the edges, he flattened his palm over my stomach and murmured, “One race doesn’t define you.”
I didn’t answer. I just let him hold me until the words stopped feeling like pity and started feeling like truth.
And even then, the loss stayed with me.
Vanguard lockedout the front row. A one–two finish. It was bittersweet, knowing it could be that last time Marco and I celebrate that.
My wife brought it home in P3, right on our heels, and Circuit of the Americas—nearly half a million attendees—absolutely lost its collective mind. So did we.
I barely heard the radio over the roar of the crowd—cowboy hats, flags, bodies pressed against the fencing like this was church and we were preaching. Champagne soaked my hair, my suit, my skin, and when I turned, there my wife was—grinning, flushed, eyes bright with that wild spark that only showed up when she was happy and exhausted and high on adrenaline.
She shoved me off the podium, laughing, all adrenaline and mischief.
I caught her by the waist without thinking, hauled her back in, my hand fitting like it had always belonged there. The kiss was quick. Reckless. Entirely inappropriate for live television.
It didn’t seem to matter. The crowd went feral anyway.
“Above me, under me. Still winning both ways,” she murmured against my mouth, and I laughed, remembering when she texted me that and I about lost my goddamn mind.
Later—much later—when the noise had faded and the champagne had dried, she climbed into my lap and showed me the true meaning of winning.
Austin wasn’t just my win.
It wasours.
P2 off the line.I was climbing.
Callum sat a few places back in P3, managing the race, but this—this—was mine. The altitude, the crowd, the way the circuit punished hesitation. I felt untouchable.
Schrieber led early. The same man who’d once aligned himself with Morel, who’d made it his mission to rattle me, squeeze me, break me. I decided then that if I was going to take this win, it would be personal.
I stalked him for laps. Waited. Learned his habits.
Second-to-last lap, I made the move.
A perfect switchback—clean, ruthless, inevitable. Callum’s move. Fraser’s signature. One I’d stolen outright and made my own.
By the time I crossed the line in P1, the grandstands were shaking.
Three wins in my debut season. Not just beginner’s luck, but proof of a World Champion in the making. Because if I could beat the G. O. A. T., my husband, the revered Callum Fraser, then this sport couldn’t stop me from claiming my title.
The press swarmed, microphones shoved close, eyes hungry.
“Title contender next year?”
That was the biggest question.
I simply smiled. The truth was—I wasn’t chasing permission anymore. I’d proven I could outdrive every single fucking man on this grid. I’d kept my promise to Luminis when they signed me.
I owed them nothing now.
Not so bad for a rookie.
