Prologue
The air in Abu Dhabi was thick with heat and anticipation, even inside the paddock, where the hum of generators, clipped radio chatter, and distant cheers blurred into a single, relentless pulse. Amelia Brookes stood just outside the Ashworth Racing garage, headset looped loosely around her neck, fingers worrying the edge of her credential badge until she forced them still.
Final race of the season.
Final chance.
One clean drive and Lucas Moreau would be Formula One World Champion.
Mia had told herself all weekend that she was calm. Professional. That she’d done this before — pressure weekends, tight margins, impossible questions shouted by men who wanted blood. She had learned, early on, how to keep her face neutral and her voice steady.
But this felt different. This felt personal.
She spotted him before he reached her. Lucas always had a way of cutting through the chaos, like the world instinctively made space for him. Race suit half-zipped, helmet tucked under his arm, curls damp with sweat. He looked infuriatingly at ease, as if today weren’t the culmination of a lifetime spent proving he belonged.
“Hey,” he said, stopping just in front of her.
She smiled automatically, the tightness between her shoulders easing despite herself. “You’re early.”
“Couldn’t sit still.” His eyes flicked over her face, sharp in a way most people missed. “You okay?”
The question was quiet. Unshowy. Familiar.
“I should be asking you that,” she said.
He shrugged. “I’m good. Weirdly good.” Then, after a beat, softer, “Better now.”
Her heart gave a traitorous lurch. She kept her expression level. They were good at this — skirting the edge of something neither of them named, both of them pretending it was easier that way.
She reached out before she could overthink it, straightening the collar of his suit. It was a practical gesture. Necessary. She’d done it a hundred times before. Still, her fingers lingered for half a second longer than required, resting briefly against the heat of him.
“I wanted to say something,” she said.
His mouth twitched. “That sounds dangerously like a speech.”
“Don’t ruin it.” She met his eyes, the humour falling away. “I’ve always believed in you. Not just the lap times or the talent. You. Even when things were messy. Even when you were… difficult.”
He huffed a laugh. “That narrows it down.”
“I always knew you could get here,” she continued. “Today was never a question to me.”
For once, he didn’t deflect straight away. His gaze searched her face, something unguarded slipping through the cracks of the persona he wore so easily.
“Careful,” he said quietly. “You’ll make me emotional before I put the helmet on.”
She smiled, warmth blooming low in her chest. “I mean it.”
The teasing glint returned, like armour snapping back into place. “Always believed, huh? Pretty sure that’s not how our story started.”
Her nose wrinkled. “You were intolerable.”
“Ah.” He nodded solemnly. “And you called me an ass.”
“Accurately,” she said, then added, “Eventually.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “Funny how that worked out.”
Too close. Too easy.
