She couldn’t let herself want more.
But when he leaned over to point at something on her screen—close enough that his shoulder pressed against hers, close enough that she could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing—she didn’t move away.
And neither did he.
???
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mia
The season kicked off in Melbourne under a blazing Australian sun, the Albert Park circuit alive with the familiar roar of engines and the electric hum of expectation. Last year—Lucas’s rookie season—he’d started on the back foot here: qualifying P18 after a gearbox issue, then spinning on lap 12 and finishing at the back of the field. Worse than the result was the aftermath. He’d been curt, defensive in the media pen, snapping at a journalist who asked about pressure from his family name. The headlines had been brutal. The clips went viral. She’d spent the rest of the season helping him live that down.
This time was different.
The new car delivered: consistent, sharp, forgiving enough to push without breaking. He qualified P6 and brought it home fifth on Sunday—solid points, a clean weekend, and the kind of performance that started rewriting the narrative. When he stepped into the media pen post-race, the questions came thick and fast, but Lucas met them with a quiet smile and measured answers. No defensiveness. No arrogance. Just honesty.
“Last year here was tough,” he said when one reporter inevitably brought it up. “I was green, the car wasn’t kind, and I didn’t handle the spotlight well. Today felt like closing that chapter. The team gave me a car I could fight with, and I’m grateful.”
The room softened. Cameras clicked. The redemption arc wasalready forming. Mia watched from the side of the pen, clipboard in hand, a small, proud smile tugging at her lips. She’d helped shape those answers—quiet late-night prep sessions, gentle nudges toward vulnerability. Seeing it land felt like proof she belonged here.
The next races followed suit. Shanghai: P4. Suzuka: P5 again, battling wheel-to-wheel with a Red Bull in the final stint. The points were stacking up, the car reliable, the team cohesive. Lucas was settling into a rhythm that felt almost effortless—precise, controlled, quietly devastating. The press noticed.
They’d always loved Jax, of course. The Australian was still the undisputed media darling: cheeky grin, laconic one-liners, the quintessential larrikin who could charm a room with a single “no worries, mate.” But Lucas was closing the gap fast. The cameras lingered on him now—the sharp jawline, the easy smile that had once been guarded, the way he answered questions with a warmth that felt genuine rather than rehearsed. And then there was Sienna: stunning in every post-race photo, long blonde hair catching the light, always perfectly positioned beside him in the garage or on the grid. The narrative wrote itself: the handsome English driver with the glamorous influencer girlfriend, finally loosening up, finally human.
“LUCAS MOREAU: FROM MELBOURNE MELTDOWN TO MEDIA MAGNET?”one headline read. Another called him “THE NEW HEARTTHROB OF THE GRID.”Mia read them all, felt a quiet satisfaction that her work was paying off—and a small, private ache every time she saw Sienna’s arm looped through his.
Everything was going well. Steady results from the early season.
Until Imola.
The rain came down in sheets on race day, turning the old circuit into a skating rink. Lucas started P7, fought his way up to P4, then—on lap 38—misjudged the braking zone intoTamburello. The rear snapped, the car spun, and he kissed the barriers hard enough to end his day. No injury, just a bruised ego and a DNF.
Mia found him later in the quiet of the team trailer, away from the cameras. He was staring at the floor, elbows on knees, still in his race suit.
“Hey,” she said softly, closing the door behind her.
He looked up, eyes tired. “Feels like last season all over again.”
“It’s not,” she said firmly. “You were flying before that. Everyone saw it. One mistake doesn’t erase your great start to the season—or how far you’ve come since last year.”
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “The press is going to love this. ‘MOREAU CRASHES AGAIN.’”
“Let them write what they want. You know what happened out there. You pushed, you fought, you just got unlucky with the conditions. Monaco next. Street circuit. No room for error. But you’ve got the pace now. You’ve got the head for it. Remember Suzuka? You held off two faster cars for ten laps. That’s not the rookie who lost it in Melbourne. That’s you.”
Lucas turned to her, searching her face. Something in her steady gaze loosened the knot in his chest. “Do you always know what to say?”
“I just say what’s true.” She gave him a small smile. “You’ve got this, Lucas. Monaco’s yours to take. Show them who you are now.”
He held her eyes a beat longer than necessary. “Thanks, Mia.”
* * *
Lucas
The streets of Monte Carlo hummed with the sound of engines, the harbour yachts bobbing like jewels. Qualifying went perfectly: P5 on the grid. Race day was chaos—safety cars, yellow flags, strategy calls—but he drove like a man possessed. Clean lines through the Nouvelle Chicane, brave overtakes atRascasse, flawless tyre management. When the chequered flag appeared, he crossed the line in P3—his first podium.
The parc fermé erupted. He climbed out of the car, helmet off, sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead, grin splitting his face. The crowd roared. Champagne corks popped in the distance. He scanned the sea of team personnel, eyes searching—until they found her.
