She turned. Lucas stood there in a black hoodie and jeans, hands in pockets, looking as surprised to see her as she was to see him.
“Mia.”
“Hi.” She managed a small smile. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
“Needed air.” He stepped closer, stopping a respectful distance away. “You?”
“Same.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the hum of Vegas distant below them.
“You okay?” she asked quietly. “With the pressure now? One race left.”
He exhaled, looked out at the lights. “I talked to my dad over the summer. Really talked. He told me everything—about my grandfather, the crash that took him, how he grew up with nothing but stories and a ghost to chase. How he thought pushing me was the only way to make it mean something. How scared he was in Barcelona, thinking history was repeating.” Lucas’s voice softened. “He said he was proud of me no matter what. That I didn’t owe anyone a title—not him, not my grandfather. If I win this, it’s because I want it. For me.”
She watched him, the city glow catching the lines of his face. “And do you? Want it?”
“Yeah.” He met her eyes. “I do. More than ever. I feel… certain now. Like I’m meant to be here. Not because of legacy. Because this is who I am.”
They talked racing then—easy, familiar. Tyre strategies in the heat, the way the Vegas surface evolved over the weekend, the small adjustments that had made the difference in the final stint. It felt like old times, before everything fractured.
Then she asked, almost casually, “Will Sienna be in Abu Dhabi?”
Lucas looked down at his hands.
“No. We’re done. Mutually. Clean break. The wedding’s off.”
Mia blinked. “I’m sorry.” “
Don’t be.” He gave a small, wry smile. “She met someone—a hockey player in New York. Said he fits her vibe better. ‘Hockey’s hot right now, don’t you know.’”
He shook his head. “No hard feelings. It was never real for either of us. Just… filling space. I never loved her, Mia.”
The words hung between them.
“I loved you,” he said quietly. Simple. Honest.
She swallowed. “I know.” The past tense landed in her gut like a stone. Loved. Past. Done. Her throat tightened; she felt the familiar burn behind her eyes, the one she’d learned to swallow.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For how I left. For cutting you out like that. The messages, the silence—I just… everything from Oxford came crashing back. The judgement, the headlines, the way people looked at me like I was the problem. I felt like I’d lost control of the story, and I couldn’t even fight to get it back. I was scared. I should have trusted you more. Trusted us.”
He stepped closer. “I understand why you needed space. I just wish I’d fought harder to keep you.”
She reached up, brushed her fingers lightly against his temple, then pressed a soft kiss there—gentle, lingering for a heartbeat. The warmth of his skin under her lips sent a tremor through her arm. She pulled back before it could spread.
“I should go.”
As she turned, his hand caught hers. Soft. Steady.
“Don’t go. Stay.”
She stopped. Her pulse hammered so hard she felt it in her fingertips, in her throat, behind her eyes. His arms slid around her waist from behind, cradling her against his chest. Warm. Familiar. Safe.
Too safe.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up—spine arching slightly into him, breath catching on a shaky inhale. Every nerve lit up at the press of him: solid, alive, smelling faintly of champagne and the track and the Lucas she’d once known better than anyone. Her hands trembled where they rested on his forearms. She should pull away. She should run.
“Come back to my room with me,” he murmured against her hair.
