Mia
Later that afternoon, Mia met Dana in the team cafeteria. The place was quiet—post-lunch lull, only a few mechanics grabbing late coffees and the low hum of the fridge. Dana slid into the booth opposite her with two mugs, ponytail still tight from morning sessions, sleeves faintly dusted with arnica gel. She pushed one toward Mia without preamble.
“You look like absolute shit,” Dana said, voice low and rough. “And don’t give me that ‘pre-season stress’ bollocks. I saw his fucking Instagram first thing this morning—that cosy little shot with Sienna Vale, captioned like it was nothing. I texted you the second I clocked it so you weren’t blindsided in that bloody meeting.”
Mia wrapped both hands around the mug. The heat seeped through her palms but didn’t touch the cold knot in her chest.
“I saw the notification buzz in right as Claire started,” she said quietly. “Didn’t check it. Then she just… said it. Out loud.”
Dana’s jaw clenched so hard Mia could see the muscle jump. “Fuck. I’m so fucking sorry. I nearly dropped my phone when that post popped up. Thought—shit, Mia’s about to walk into a room full of people chatting about it like it’s the fucking weather. Tried to warn you.”
Mia stared into the black coffee. Steam curled up between them.
“It’s official now,” she said. “Everywhere.”
Dana exhaled sharply through her nose. “Yeah. And I’m fucking livid. I’ve spent a whole year patching that bastard up—listening to his moaning, watching him actually try to pull his head out of his arse off-track, seeing him start to act like a human being for once. Then he kisses you—properly, like it fucking meant something—and ghosts you for months. No call, no text, fuck all. Then he slaps her all over his feed like it wipes the slate clean?” Her voice cracked on the last word, raw. “That’s not careless, Mia. That’s fucking cruel. I thought he was better than that.”
Mia’s throat tightened. She kept her eyes on the mug.
“He didn’t promise me anything,” she said softly. “We both said it couldn’t happen again.”
“Doesn’t make it okay to hurt you like this.” Dana leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You’re my friend. I hate watching you carry it alone. You’re sitting there drafting statements about how ‘happy’ he is while you’re bleeding inside. Are you okay? Really?”
Mia managed a small, unsteady smile. “Not really. But I have to work with him. Every day. Pre-season testing starts next week. So I’ll… figure it out.”
Dana reached across and squeezed her wrist—hard, grounding, almost bruising. “You don’t have to figure it alone. And if that prick keeps acting like nothing happened—smiling at you in briefings while his girlfriend hearts his posts—I will have fucking words. Physio privilege. I can make his next neck session a living hell. Tape him so tight he’ll be begging for mercy.”
Mia let out a short, surprised laugh despite everything. “Don’t. He’s still our driver.”
“He’s also a grown-arse man who should fucking know better.” Dana exhaled, grip softening but not letting go. “Girls’ night soon. No engines, no egos, no stupid fucking drivers. Just us. Wine. Bad movies. You cry if you need to—I’ll bring tissues and the good chocolate. And if you want to scream into a pillow about him, I’ve got plenty.”
“Deal,” Mia said, clinking her mug gently against Dana’s. The fierce, loyal, anger in Dana’s voice loosened something in her chest—just a fraction. Not enough to fix anything. But enough to breathe through the next hour.
* * *
Lucas
Dinner with Sienna that night was at a trendy spot in Mayfair—low lights, fusion cuisine, her choice. She looked stunning in a silk dress, blonde waves cascading as she recounted her latest photoshoot.
Lucas nodded, smiled. “Sounds great. You nailed it.”
But as she talked influencers and brand deals, his mind drifted.
His phone stayed silent. No follow-up from Mia.
Earlier that afternoon, after the prep session, he’d cracked. Pulled out his phone in the car park, desperate for any scrap of contact. He’d texted her a lame excuse:Hey, what time’s the sim briefing tomorrow? Forgot to note it down.
Her reply had come quick, clipped:10am sharp.
Nothing else. No emoji. No question back. No invitation tokeep talking.
He’d stared at it for a minute, thumb hovering, then tried again—something friendly, light:Cool, thanks. How’s the rest of your day going? Drafting statements must be riveting.
No response. Hours now. The silence gnawed at him, louder than the restaurant’s ambient chatter.
Sienna was oblivious, pulling out her phone to snap photos of her artfully plated salmon tartare. “This looks insane. Lighting’s on point here.”
She angled the camera, flash off, capturing the dish from every side. Lucas forced a smile, leaning in slightly when she gestured for him to join the frame. “Smile, babe! This’ll get so many likes.”
