Abu Dhabi.
Aurélie Fraser—my fuckingwife—was leading the championship by ten points.
I exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over my jaw as I stood in front of the screens, my eyes flicking between the live telemetry, the timing sheet, and the onboard camera from her car.
It was always there.Always.
I monitored our own drivers, too, of course. Had been for the entire season, every session, every moment of this fucking wild first year in the paddock as a team owner. Speed Demons Racing had exceeded every expectation—a rebranded rookie team that had taken third in the Constructors’ standings in its debutseason. Our drivers were sitting fourth and fifth in the World Drivers’ Championship.
A strong fucking year, one that made me feel safe about our investment into our future.
But right now none of that mattered.
Auri was on track, and I wanted this for her more than I had ever wanted anything for myself.
She had clawed her way here. A woman in a sport that never wanted to make room for her. A rookie turned title contender. The only female driver on the grid.
And she was about to make history—again—as the first female champion in F1.
I clenched my jaw as I listened to her engineer. Fifteen laps to go. She was still leading. Marco was behind her. They were only ten points apart.
He had to win this race to have a shot at the title. And if he did? Auri had to finish second to secure it.
I glanced at the timing.
Kimi was third, but close behind. If he won this race, Auri finished third, and Marco second, then he would win the title.
The rarity of this being a three-way title possibility was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. And of course, my wife was making it lookeasy. God, she reminded me ofme.
I exhaled slowly, watching as the feed flicked between different angles.
Ferrari vs. Vanguard Racing.
Her scarlet red car against their black and red ones.
A fight between the woman I loved and the team I had built my entire career with. Marco, my former teammate and best friend, against Aurélie, my whole fucking world.
And here I was. Not behind the wheel. Not in the fight. Watching.
I thought it would kill me. I thought stepping away from racing would break me at some point.
But fuck—watching her race like this? Watching her push, her skill razor-sharp, her focus absolute, her talent undeniable, her confidence at its peak?
It felt better than winning ever had.
"Come on, baby," I murmured under my breath, my fingers gripping the headset.
Beckett Lachlan—one of the other two owners of Eclipse GP—was standing a few feet away with our attorney, Cade Saint, and Maverick Mercer watching our drivers. Our number one driver was in fourth place for the championship. Zayn Moreau.
The man I had fought to get into this sport.
He was fast. Arrogant. A fucking menace off the track. But when he was in a car? He was something else. A former IndyCar champion, a two-time Le Mans winner, and an absolute wildcard.
Zayn had been my top pick for Speed Demons, despite the media circus he came with.
And he was proving why.
But not at this very moment. Now, my eyes were locked on Auri. The woman who had wrecked me and turned my life upside down in every possible way.
