She heard them in the Junior Common room queue, in the library stacks, in the hallway outside tutorials.
“Did you hear? Mia came on to Henry at Emma’s party. Full-on threw herself at him.”
“Emma’s devastated. Can’t believe her best friend would do that.”
“She’s always been a bit… desperate, hasn’t she? Scholarship girl trying to fit in.”
No one asked her side. No one needed to. Henry’s version was clean, tidy, believable. Mia’s version was messy, inconvenient, impossible to prove. She tried, once—told a college welfare officer what she remembered. The woman listened politely, then said, “These things are complicated when alcohol’s involved. It’s your word against his. And he has witnesses.”
Mia stopped trying.
She changed her routines. Avoided the Common Room. Ate alone in her room. Stopped going to the seminars she shared with Emma’s friends. The isolation was immediate, surgical. People she’d laughed with two weeks earlier now looked through her in the quad. Someone scrawled “slut” on her door in black marker. The porter cleaned it off without comment.
She became invisible. She walked the halls like a ghost—head down, books clutched to her chest, avoiding eye contact. The whispers followed anyway: “There she is—the one who tried to steal Henry.” “Slut.” “Desperate.” She stopped eating in public, stopped speaking up in tutorials, stopped everything that made her visible. Her grades held—first-class marks, because the work was the only thing she could control—but she did it alone, in the library corners no one frequented, or locked in her room with the curtains drawn.
Emma never spoke to her again. Not directly. A few texts at first: “How could you?” “I thought we were friends.” Then nothing. The group chat she’d been in went silent. Invites dried up. She spent Christmas alone in her room, telling her parents the flights were too expensive. They worried over the phone, but she lied smoothly: “I’m fine. Just busy with essays.”
By the end of final year, she walked across the stage at graduation in a cap and gown that felt like borrowed armour. No family there—no cheers from the auditorium, no photos with friends. She collected her degree—first-class honours inEnglish—and left the hall without looking back. The train to London that afternoon carried her away from the spires and the shadows.
She told herself she would never again let someone else write her story.
* * *
In the Dubai media room, Mia set the eraser down. The board was clean now—blank, ready for whatever came next. She exhaled slowly, picked up her bag, and switched off the light.
Tomorrow was another session. Another chance to shape the story.
She just hoped this time, it wouldn’t shatter her.
* * *
Later that evening, Mia slipped into the hotel gym, telling herself she needed to move, to burn off the day. In reality, she just wanted somewhere quiet—away from corridors, away from the echo of Lucas’s retreating footsteps.
The gym was empty except for the low hum of air-con and the faint thump of a treadmill someone had left running. She dropped onto a bench near the free weights, head in her hands, elbows on knees.
Footsteps approached. Dana appeared in workout gear—leggings, tank, hair scraped back—clearly planning miles on the belt.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just sat beside Mia on the bench and offered a water bottle from the cooler.
Mia took it, twisting the cap without drinking. “I’m not doing a great job here, am I?”
Dana exhaled through her nose, a small, knowing sound. “You’re not supposed to fix the little shit, Mia. That’s not your job.”
“I know.” Mia stared at the floor. “But I’m supposed to make him look good. And right now he’s making that impossible.”
Dana gave a quiet laugh. “Sounds familiar. I spent years taping up Sir Edmund Hale’s shoulders after every crash, telling him the same thing. ‘You’re not invincible, you idiot.’ He’d just grin and keep going.”
Mia’s head lifted slightly. Eddie Hale—Sir Edmund Hale—was one of those names that still carried weight in the paddock. Three-time world champion, the last of the old-school drivers who raced like they had nothing to lose. Even now, semi-retired but still turning up at select races as a consultant or commentator, he commanded instant respect. Younger drivers studied his onboard footage; sponsors still fought for his name on merch.
“You worked with Eddie Hale?” Mia asked, curiosity cutting through the fatigue.
Dana shrugged, rolling her shoulders like she was shaking off old memories. “Yeah. Early days, when I was still the new girl everyone treated like the coffee runner. Eddie was the first one who actually listened when I told him his neck was fucked from bad posture in the car. Never once talked down to me. Just said, ‘Right, sort me out then.’ Three titles later, he still texts me when his back acts up.”
Mia nodded slowly. “That’s… rare.”
“Rare as hell,” Dana agreed. “He’s a stubborn bastard, but he’s decent. Doesn’t pretend he knows everything just because he’s won a few trophies.”
She stood, stretching her arms overhead. “Point is, you’re not the first person to try wrangling someone who thinks control means shutting everyone out. And you won’t be the last. If it gets too much, come find me. No lectures, no bullshit. Deal?”
