Marco laughed—short, bitter. “Talk? After what I just saw?”
She stepped up beside Lucas—voice shaking. “Please. Just… don’t say anything.”
Marco looked between them—then fixed on Lucas.
“You think you’re untouchable,” he said. “Championshipcontender. Pretty face. Everyone wants you. But you’re just another driver fucking around behind closed doors.”
Lucas’s jaw clenched. “Watch it.”
Marco leaned in—voice low, taunting. “Or what? You’ll hit me? In front of everyone? Ruin your perfect image?”
Then he turned slowly, eyes fixed on her.
“You know,” he said, voice low and venomous, “I thought you were different. Classy. Smart. But turns out you’re just another slut who spreads her legs for the drivers.”
The word hit like a physical blow.
Shame exploded inside her—white-hot, blinding. It was the same word Henry had let spread all those years ago. The same label that had isolated her, branded her, made her question her own worth. And now it was being said again. Because she’d let herself get carried away.
Her chest caved. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just felt the old panic clawing up her throat—the same panic from the morning she’d woken up bruised and alone, everyone believing the lie.
Lucas moved—fast, instinctive. His fist snapped forward—clean, hard, connecting with Marco’s jaw.
The photographer staggered back, champagne flute shattering on the marble floor. He hit the ground hard—out cold.
Mia’s hand flew to her mouth.
Shock froze her in place.
The room froze.
Every eye turned.
Gasps. Phones raised. Security moving in.
Lucas stood over Marco—chest heaving, knuckles red, black suit still immaculate.
He looked at her—eyes wide, shocked at himself.
The secret wasn’t just cracked anymore.
It was shattered.
???
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Mia
The fallout was swift and merciless.
By the time the Las Vegas party photos hit the F1 gossip feeds—grainy shots of Lucas’s fist connecting with Marco’s jaw, champagne glass exploding into a shower of shards, a dark-haired woman frozen in the background like a deer in headlights—the damage was done. The clip went viral within hours: grainy phone footage looping endlessly on social media, amplified by influencers and fan accounts.“MOREAU THROWS PUNCH AT PHOTOGRAPHER IN VEGAS CLUB”screamed the headlines from The Daily Mail. Speculation exploded—jealousy, alcohol, “team drama.” No one had clear audio of the confrontation, but Marco’s bruised jaw and smug hospital-bed interview (“I was just trying to connect as a fan… he lost it over nothing”) painted a damning picture. The woman in the photos?“MOREAU’S MYSTERY GIRL,”the tabloids dubbed her—anonymous, unnamed, the perfect blank canvas for rumour. Comments sections flooded with theories: “Who’s the girl? New girlfriend?” “Bet she’s why he snapped—jealousy vibes.”
Inside the team, though, there was no mystery. Mia was reliable, sharp, the one who’d kept Lucas’s image steady. And now she was at the centre of a scandal that threatened everything.
The team called an emergency meeting the next morning in a sterile conference room at the Las Vegas hotel. Claire sat at the head of the table, face like stone, tablet glowing with incoming emails from sponsors. Marcus Lang flanked her, sleeves rolled up, looking every bit the no-nonsense principal ready to make tough calls. HR hovered with folders thick as novels—legalwaivers, conduct clauses, damage control plans. Lucas and Mia were summoned separately—no eye contact, no shared glances, just the cold weight of separation.
Lucas’s meeting came first. She didn’t hear it directly, but Jax cornered her in the lobby afterward, eyes wide with second-hand drama. “Mate, it was brutal. Claire tore into him—public apology, mandatory counselling, sponsors reassessing. FIA might slap a penalty on him for Abu Dhabi. He looked gutted coming out. Like he’d lost the title already.”
