Dana grabbed a tissue from the box on the counter and shoved it into Mia’s hand, then passed her a bottle of water. “Take the rest of the afternoon if you need it. Hell, take the week. And Mia?”
“Yeah?”
“You fucking deserve better than hauling this weight solo. Don’t forget that.”
Mia managed a small, watery smile. “Thanks.”
As she left the physio room, the weight wasn’t gone—but it felt lighter. Shared. For the first time in years, the silence inside her didn’t feel quite so suffocating.
???
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lucas
The Dutch Grand Prix at Zandvoort was a chaotic orange-tinted whirlwind—sand dunes crowding the circuit edges, relentless North Sea wind whipping across the banking, fans in full voice under endless grey skies. Lucas battled wheel-to-wheel through the final stint, holding off a fast-closing Williams to take P4. Solid points again, the kind that stacked up quietly but relentlessly.
Then came Monza, the temple of speed. High-speed sweeps through the parkland, the tifosi roaring in scarlet, the slipstream battles ferocious. He nursed degrading tyres in the closing laps, fending off a charging McLaren with millimetres to spare—P3, his second podium of the season. The champagne tasted sweeter because it felt hard-won, not handed over.
The Azerbaijan Grand Prix in Baku delivered something different: a street circuit of long straights, tight castle-section walls, and chaos waiting around every 90-degree turn. Strategy calls went sideways with a late safety car, but Lucas stayed composed—overtaking where others faltered, defending when it mattered. He crossed the line in P5, gritty and bruised, but another top-six finish in the books.
The results weren’t dazzling fireworks every weekend. They were reliable, incremental progress—consistent top-sixes most races, the car feeling more like an extension of him than ever before. The press had started to pick up on it:
MOREAU’S QUIET CONSISTENCY IS PAYING OFF.
He should have been riding the high.
He wasn’t.
Off-track, the silence with Mia was killing him. Sienna was gone—public split announced weeks ago, no drama, just a mutual fade into “busy schedules and different paths.” He’d messaged Mia about it casually the next day (“Hey, things ended with Sienna. Amicably. Thought you should know.”), but the message sat on read. No reply. Nothing. The little blue ticks stared back at him like an accusation.
Every time he crossed the line now, his eyes scanned the garage for her out of habit—clipboard in hand, quick nods to the engineers, efficient talking points ready for the media pen. She was always there, always professional. No lingering glances. No late-night coffee runs. No accidental brushes in the engineering bay. Just distance. Polite, careful, deliberate distance.
It hurt more than any DNF.
He didn’t try to corner her immediately after the Baku race—too many cameras, too much post-race adrenaline, too many people still buzzing around the paddock. Instead, he waited until Sunday evening, after the team dinner had wound down and the circuit was emptying out. The circuit was emptying fast; the grandstands dark, the pit lane quiet except for the occasional clank of tools being packed away. He found her outside the hospitality unit, leaning against the railing overlooking the illuminated Baku Boulevard and the Caspian Sea beyond. The city lights reflected off the water in sharp, restless shards; the night air carried a faint salt tang and the distant hum of traffic.
“Mia.”
She turned, startled but not surprised. Her expression was guarded, but she didn’t walk away.
“Can we talk?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “Not here. Somewhere quieter.”
She hesitated, then nodded once. “Okay.”
They walked away from the circuit lights, down toward the waterfront promenade that ran parallel to the track—away from the teardown noise, the last stragglers, the team buses. The boulevard was mostly empty now, the fountains dark, thecity winding down. He stopped near a quiet stretch of railing, far enough that no one could overhear, hands shoved deep in his pockets so he wouldn’t do something stupid like reach for her.
“I know you’ve been avoiding me,” he said after a minute. “And I get why. Monaco was a mess. I shouldn’t have put you in that position. You were right—I had a girlfriend. It was wrong, and I’m sorry. Truly.”
Mia looked out at the dark water, arms crossed tight against the night chill. “It wasn’t just you. I kissed you back. I wanted it. And then I hated myself for it. I’m not someone who does that—crosses lines, hurts people. I’ve spent years trying not to be that person.”
The words landed heavy. He winced. “You didn’t hurt anyone. I did. And I regret it—hurting you, hurting anyone. But Mia… it wasn’t just adrenaline or champagne. There’s something here. I felt it. I still feel it.”
She exhaled, slow and shaky, the wind off the Caspian tugging at her hair. “Maybe. But it’s not that simple.”
He waited, giving her space.
She finally looked at him. “I’ve had a lot on my mind. More than just… us. It’s been… a lot. And I needed space. Not because of you—not entirely. Because I needed to feel like I had control over something. Anything.”
