Lucas woke to pale desert light slipping through the curtains. The room was quiet. Too quiet.
He reached across the sheets instinctively. Cool. Empty.
Mia was gone.
No note. No lingering scent of her perfume on the pillow. Just the faint indentation where her body had been, already fading.
He lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, the ache settling somewhere deep and familiar. Not anger. Not even surprise. Just understanding.
She’d come to him last night—open, honest, giving everything she could in that moment. And she’d left before dawn because the morning would bring questions, complications, the weight of the final race pressing in. She needed space to breathe, to think, to keep her own narrative intact. He got it. He hated it, but he got it.
He sat up slowly, rubbed a hand over his face. The championship was still there—Abu Dhabi waiting, one clean race to seal it all. Top three. That was all he needed.
He wouldn’t lose hope. Not about the title. Not about her.
He’d race like he always had: focused, relentless, his own. And if she found her way back—if the silence between them ever broke again—he’d be ready.
For now, he had a car to prepare. A championship to win.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood, and started getting ready for the day.
The fight wasn’t over.
Neither was he.
???
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Lucas
The Yas Marina Circuit burned under the floodlights, the desert night thick with heat and the kind of tension that made every breath feel borrowed. On the grid, Lucas sat strapped into the cockpit, visor down, the world narrowed to the glow of the dash and the thud of his own pulse against his ribs.
Lights out.
He launched hard—clean, aggressive—slotting into P3 by Turn 1. The car responded like an extension of his will, every apex bitten off with precision, every straight devoured. But the field was ferocious tonight. His nearest competition swarmed like wolves, their DRS trains snapping at his mirrors. He defended Turn 4 with everything—brakes locked for a heartbeat, rear sliding wide, tyres howling protest—but he held it. Barely.
Inside the helmet, the noise was deafening—engine roar, tyre howl, radio clipped and calm—but his mind kept circling back to the garage before the formation lap.
Mia.
They hadn’t spoken since Vegas. Not a single message. Not a glance across the paddock. Days of silence that had carved hollows under his ribs, deeper than any crash scar. Then today, in the pre-race hush: her fingers on his collar, steadying the fabric, steadyinghim. Her voice low, almost breaking: “I’ve always believed in you. Not just the talent. You.”
The words had hit like a delayed impact, cracking somethingopen he’d kept locked. Hope—sharp, dangerous, almost painful—had bloomed in his chest. He hadn’t dared name it. Not with the title on the line. But it was there now, burning low and steady, fuelling every shift, every braking point. Or maybe it was fear. Fear that if he lost tonight, he’d lose that fragile thing too.
The media buildup had tried to drag him elsewhere. The split with Sienna had leaked mid-week—candid shots from New York, headlines sniffing for betrayal, for tears, for scandal. They’d cornered him in every pen: Was it ugly? Did she leave because of the championship pressure? Had she ever really loved him?
He’d kept his answers short, dignified. “Sienna and I grew apart. We’ve been separate for months. I wish her nothing but happiness with her new relationship, and I know she feels the same.” No drama. No fuel. But the questions had still landed like small cuts, reminding him how fragile everything was—reputations, relationships.
Lap 8: DRS open, he lunged past second place into the long straight, tyres screaming. The overtake stuck, but the tyres were already graining, heat building in the rears. Lap 12: another move on the outside of Turn 11, wheels kissing the white line, heart in his throat as the car twitched. By the end of the first stint he was leading, but the margin was razor-thin—tenths, not seconds. Every lap felt like walking a tightrope over glass.
Second stop: perfect undercut, but the out-lap was chaos—traffic, cold tyres, a near-miss at Turn 6 that left him cursing under his breath. Final stint: tyres fading fast, track rubbering in, the car loose and twitchy. The gap to second hovered at 1.2 seconds—close enough to taste the threat. He pushed harder, felt the rear step out again on Turn 9, corrected in a heartbeat, sweat stinging his eyes. No room for error. Not tonight. Not when everything he’d buried—the doubt, the anger, the desperate need to prove he was more than his grandfather’sshadow—was riding on this.
The radio crackled: “Push now, Lucas. You’ve got this.”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat was too tight.
Five laps to go. The second-place car closed to eight-tenths. He defended every corner like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Turn 16: a lock-up, smoke from the fronts, but he held the line. The crowd noise filtered through even in the cockpit—distant roar building.
