Imani dropped into a velvet chair, already commandeering a glass of something sparkling. “If this is what you call work, I’ve been doing it wrong.”
“Don’t get used to it.” I tugged Hazel’s little socks straight, nerves prickling every time a new wave of guests swept in. “Most weekends, you’re lucky if they remember to feed you.”
Cleo eyed the massive video wall and the stack of timing screens. “So, what are we actually looking for?”
I pointed to the leaderboard, Griffin’s number three blinking in yellow. “That’s the grid. Stefano’s on pole, Nico Kraus’s P2, Sebastian Ritter’s P3, then my—” I caught myself, “—Griffin’s in fourth, and Callaghan’s starting in P10.”
“Jesse,” Imani muttered, mood darkening. “The one who nearly punted him off track yesterday?”
“That’s the one.” I kept my voice even, but my grip on Hazel tightened.
He’d qualified in P2 but the stewards handed him an eight-place grid drop for dangerous driving. I thought he deserved more of a punishment, honestly.
“He’s lucky he’s even racing,” I muttered.
Imani’s attention drifted to the balcony, where a cluster of VIPs pressed against the glass for the grid walk. “Is Griffin alright? After all that?”
I didn’t answer straight away. The last twenty-four hours had been a blur—team meetings, sponsor dinners, Griffin’s jaw clenched tight whenever anyone brought up Callaghan’s name.
“He’ll be fine once the race starts.”
A sudden burst of cheers drew our attention to the track. The drivers’ parade had started. Cleo rushed to the balcony for a better view.
From above, the cars looked almost delicate, lined up for the formation lap. Every seat was packed and the collective thrum of anticipation built as the grid filled.
Hazel squirmed, restless, so I bounced her gently and let the noise wash over us.
Imani leaned closer and whispered, “Are you alright?”
I swallowed, trying to force down the nervous energy I’d refused to acknowledge. “Ask me again when the checkered flag drops.”
Cleo returned, face flushed, waving a programme. “This is wild. I think I’ve seen three film stars and a minor royal already.”
“Welcome to the paddock club.” I tried to sound casual, but my stomach tightened as the lights on the gantry blinked on, one by one.
“I’m serious though. Isn’t that Prince Raffaele of Valmonta?”
I hummed in some semblance of agreement but I couldn’t look. Every instinct screamed at me to look for Griffin, even though I couldn’t see his helmet from here. My hands curled tighter around Hazel. The revs built. Everything in me stilled.
The lights went out.
Twenty cars shot forward, engines screaming, and the crowd leaped to its feet. Even in the VIP section, champagne flutes rattled on glass tables and the noise punched straight through my chest.
“Holy shit,” Cleo breathed, clutching Imani’s arm. “How do you watch this without having a heart attack?”
“Who says I don’t?” My eyes were glued to Griffin’s car as he slotted in behind Sebastian, gaining a position.
Hazel blinked, unimpressed. I envied her oblivion.
For the next hour, I bounced between explaining the basics—DRS, pit windows, why the tires mattered so much—and biting my tongue every time Griffin’s car showed up in a replay.
Hazel slept through most of it while Cleo and Imani leaned into the spectacle.
Imani shook her head, lips twitching. “You’re the calmest disaster I’ve ever seen, Vi.”
I shrugged, dragging my gaze back to the timing screen. Griffin was closing on Sebastian. Too close. My heart stuttered.
When he finally made a clean pass with none of the drama the commentators wanted, the VIP area erupted.
