The second half of the season loomed like a storm front on the horizon—seven races left, points still to be carved out, and the championship mathematically alive despite everything. Mia heard the news in fragments: Lucas’s recovery was progressing, but the medical team had ruled him out for the first two post-break rounds. Spa and Monza would pass without him in the cockpit. The paddock buzzed with speculation—Ashworth would field a reserve, others whispered that the title fight was effectively over for Lucas. But the numbers didn’t lie.
He’d built a fortress of a lead before Barcelona. Wins in Miami, Imola, Monaco; poles stacked like trophies; consistent podiums even on the off weekends. The DNF in Catalunya had hurt, but not fatally. Even with two zeros incoming, the gap to the nearest challenger—Jax included—was still wide enough that a string of strong results could win it. The commentators kept saying it on the broadcasts Mia half-watched in the Ascari motorhome: “Mathematically possible. Difficult, but possible.” She didn’t need them to tell her. She ran the scenarios in her head during strategy meetings, late-night data reviews, coffee-fuelled mornings when the garage was still quiet. Lucas could come back and win this thing. If anyone could.
She threw herself into the work. Etienne was driving well—he was an impeccable student when it came to dealing with media. Debriefs with Etienne were calm, focused, productive.She kept her head down, kept the emotion locked behind professionalism. No one asked about Lucas.
Spa came and went. Etienne finished P8—respectable, but no fireworks. Monza followed: P6, another haul of points, but the championship gap had narrowed just enough to make the next race feel urgent. Zandvoort—the third race back after the break—was where Lucas would return.
* * *
Mia arrived early on Thursday, the Dutch dunes already whipping sand across the circuit. She avoided the Ashworth garage on purpose, sticking to Ascari’s awning, but the paddock was small. She caught glimpses anyway: mechanics wheeling his car out of the truck, the familiar livery gleaming under the lights; his race suit hanging in the pit box like a promise; his name on the timing screens again. Her stomach twisted, a mix of relief and something sharper she refused to name.
Practice 1: he was cautious at first, long runs, bedding in tyres, feeling the car after months away. Then he started pushing. Sector times dropped. The onboard showed clean, aggressive lines. Mia watched from the Ascari pit wall, tablet in hand, pretending to study Etienne’s data. But her eyes kept flicking to Lucas’s purple sectors. He was fast. Hungry. Back.
Practice 2 brought the scare. Turn 3, the banked Tarzan corner—he overcommitted on entry, the rear stepped out hard. The car spun across the track, kicking up a cloud of dust and rubber marbles. Mia’s breath caught; her fingers tightened on the edge of the monitor. No wall. No contact. He caught it, straightened, limped back to the pits with flat-spotted tyres and a radio message that was all clipped calm: “Lost the rear. All good now.” She felt the echo of Barcelona in her chest—the screech, the silence, the wait. But he climbed out, helmet off, jaw set. No shake in his hands. Just determination carved into every line of his face.
Qualifying was surgical. He took P5—strong, considering thetime away and the rust. Not pole, but close enough to stay in the fight. Mia watched the session from the back of the Ascari garage, arms folded, expression neutral. Inside, something uncoiled. He wasn’t just returning. He was arriving.
Race day: the grid hummed with tension. Lights out. Lucas held position through Turn 1, then began the hunt. Overtakes were clean, decisive—DRS into the final chicane on lap 12, then again on the outside of Turn 3 a few laps later. He carved through traffic like the track belonged to him again. Strategy calls came over the radio—two-stop, aggressive undercut—and he executed without hesitation. By lap 38 he was in the podium fight, pressuring the second-place car. The final stint was brutal: tyres degrading, track rubbering in, but he kept the pace ruthless. Crossed the line P3.
During the walk to the podium, Eddie fell into step beside Mia.
“Your old teammate’s looking sharp again,” he said, nodding toward the Ashworth garage. “That podium—clean, ruthless. Reminds me of me in ’09.”
Mia smiled faintly. “He’s determined.”
Eddie chuckled. “Determined’s one word for it. Dana says he’s been carrying his grandfather’s ghost for years. Looks like he’s finally outrunning it.”
Mia’s chest tightened. “She talks about him?” “She talks about everyone,” Eddie said. “But yeah—she worries. Always has. Good physio, better friend.”
Mia stood at the back, watching Lucas climb onto the third step, sweat-streaked, grinning that rare, unguarded grin. Champagne sprayed. The anthem played. He looked up toward the grandstands, then—briefly, almost imperceptibly—toward the garages.
She didn’t know if he saw her. Didn’t matter.
He was back.
And he meant business.
The championship wasn’t decided yet. But the fire was lit again, and Mia felt it across the paddock like heat from an open door. One driver who refused to settle.
She walked back to her media screens, exhaled slowly, and got back to work.
???
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Mia
The final stretch of the season flew like sparks on a fast burning fuse. Lucas returned from Zandvoort with fire in his veins, and he didn’t let it flicker. Singapore: pole, flawless lights-to-flag win, the night lights reflecting off the podium champagne bottles like stars. Qatar: P1, steady and ruthless. Each result chipped away at the gap until the lead was his again—narrow, but commanding.
Las Vegas was the penultimate act. The Strip glittered under floodlights, the circuit weaving through casinos and neon. Qualifying: Lucas took pole by three-tenths, the car dancing on the edge of grip. Race day: he led from the lights, defended hard against the undercut attempts, managed tyres through the long straights, and crossed the line first—arms pumping as the chequered flag dropped. The Ashworth garage erupted. Podium champagne sprayed under the Vegas sky. He stood on the top step, eyes distant for a moment, then lifted the trophy like the season already belonged to him.
Mathematically, it was simple now: finish in the top three in Abu Dhabi, and the championship was his. No more chasing. Just one clean race to seal it.
Mia watched the Vegas podium from the Ascari hospitality suite, the broadcast feed playing silently on a monitor while she typed up post-race quotes for Etienne (P7) and Eddie (P9). She kept her face neutral, her breathing even. But when Lucaslifted the trophy, something inside her shifted—relief, pride, a quiet ache she couldn’t name. She finished her notes, excused herself from the team dinner early, and slipped out into the cool desert night.
* * *
The hotel rooftop terrace was empty, the city lights sprawling below like scattered jewels. She leaned against the railing, letting the wind pull at her hair, needing the space to breathe. Footsteps behind her—soft, deliberate.
