Seven laps to go.
She was still leading, but Marco was gaining two-tenths every lap.
His tires were newer, hers were on their last fucking leg. She fought for grip, but was losing speed. Her team was talking to her, telling her the gap between her and Marco, but she didn’t respond.
She was locked in, and her focus could not be broken right now.
My heart slammed against my ribs, but I didn’t move, let alone breathe.
Lap 54 of 58.
Marco was within MOM range—the replacement DRS system.
"Fuck," I muttered.
The Speed Demons garage was silent. The whole paddock waited with bated breath.
Even the broadcasters weren’t speaking.
I glanced toward the Ferrari pit wall. Étienne stood there, arms crossed, focused on the screens as he watched his twin sister in the fight of her life.
Lap 56.
Marco went for the overtake.
Auri covered him.
Lap 57.
He tried again.
She shut the door.
One more lap.
My grip on the edge of the counter was so tight I swore the metal was going to bend beneath my fingers. I could feel my wedding band squeezing my finger the harder I gripped.
I’d been here before. Fighting for a championship. Chasing the dream, the glory, in peak competitiveness.
Except this time, I wasn’t fighting for me. I was fighting for her. And God, I had never wanted to win more.
My pulse pounded.
She was still ahead.
"Come on, love, come on, come on," I whispered.
Final lap.
The lights of Abu Dhabi flashed overhead, the night sky a blur as she threw the car through the final few corners, her rear slipping, Marco right on her tail.
And then the checkered flag waved, and she crossed the finish line in P1.
Aurélie Fraser was the 2026 Formula 1 World Champion.
For a second, there was nothing.
And then carnage began.
