Maybe that was the real problem. I wasn’t afraid of Julian ruining my career, I was afraid of realizing I didn’t owe him a damn thing.
I’d bled for this team. Pushed through injuries, media storms, near-misses. I’d built my name under the Aedris banner, but I was the one who made it worth something. Julian Carter might run the show, but he didn’t own me.
And if I left? If I walked away from the man who spent years making me believe I was lucky to be here? The sport would keep turning. I’d keep winning.
Aedris would be the ones scrambling to fill the gap.
Liam’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a hell of a realization to have over a girl.”
“It’s not just about her.” I released a breath, rolling the tension from my shoulders. “But yeah. She’s part of it.”
Liam stared at me. Then laughed. “Oh, you’re fucked.”
“Thanks for the insight.”
“No, I mean—” He shook his head, still grinning. “You’ve actually got it bad. I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Scared.”
“I’m not?—”
“Mate.” He crossed his arms. “When’s the last time you gave a shit if someone turned you down?”
Never. The answer was never.
“Exactly.” Liam’s grin turned knowing. “So either you grow a pair and ask her, or you spend the next three months making yourself crazy over it.”
“Those are my options?”
“Yep.” He grabbed his tablet. “Now go shower. You reek.”
“Fuck off.”
“And Griff?” He didn’t look up. “Wait until after the race. Please. I don’t need Julian trying to murder you in the paddock. Or worse, you crashing because you’re distracted and ending up in the wall like half the grid does here.”
I snorted. “Noted.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
GRIFFIN
“Pace is shocking, mate. You driving that thing or taking it for a bloody cruise?” The race engineer’s voice crackled in my earpiece, thick with disapproval.
I gritted my teeth and pushed harder. The Singapore night blurred past, neon lights streaking across my visor, but the car felt stiff, stubborn beneath me. Not responsive the way it should be. Like it was working against me rather than with me.
Final run of Q3. My last shot to salvage something from this mess of a session.
Q2 had been interrupted twice. First for a red flag when Mendes kissed the wall at Turn 19, then a five-minute delay while marshals chased a monitor lizard off the track at Turn 7. Only in fucking Singapore.
“Rear’s loose in sector three,” I muttered, adjusting the wheel, trying to coax more grip out of the tires.
“Yeah, we noticed,” Al said, his tone deadpan. “Might help if you stopped lighting them up on the corner exit.”
I gritted my teeth. The last three days had been brutal. Early morning, cycling in the humidity to acclimatize, followed by team meetings, and enough press obligations to make my head spin. When I wasn’t sweating my ass off in training, I was up to my elbows in nappies, trying to work out how a human that small could produce such an ungodly amount of mess.
Despite the business of the last few days, I’d gotten some great quality time with my girl. Violet spent every moment pretending she was nothing more than Hazel’s caretaker, completely unaffected by the fact we were living together.
