Mia nodded numbly, the surprise of it all still settling like lead in her stomach. Lucas—her Lucas—facing this because of her. Because of them. The pain twisted deeper, but she pushed it down. She ignored his messages that afternoon—simple texts like“You okay?” and “We need to talk”—letting them stack unread on her phone. She stayed away deliberately, holing up in her hotel room, avoiding the paddock, the team dinners, anything that might distract him before Abu Dhabi. But it wasn’t just for his focus. She couldn’t face him. Couldn’t look into his eyes and see the regret, the fallout they’d caused. Couldn’t risk the vulnerability cracking open again, not when the shame from Vegas still burned like fresh wounds.
Her own meeting came next. She sat alone, back straight, stomach in knots, fingers twisting a napkin under the table.
Claire’s voice was quieter, but no less cutting. “Mia, you’re on probation. Effective immediately. No media-facing duties until we assess the fallout. You’ll work internal comms only—reports, schedules, nothing public. One more incident—one more headline—and we terminate. Understood?”
Mia nodded, throat tight. “Understood.”
Inside, the pain crashed over her in waves. Probation? After everything she’d built—her careful control, her flawless work—this? Here she was, sidelined, her reputation dangling by a thread. The headlines didn’t name her. The anonymity should have felt like protection, but it didn’t. It felt like erasure—her story stripped away again, just like Oxford, where lies had spread unchecked and she’d been powerless to correct them. Everyone had believed the worst then too. Now the cycle was repeating, only this time she couldn’t even defend herselfpublicly. She was invisible in the narrative yet still blamed for it.
* * *
Lucas
Abu Dhabi—the season finale—arrived under a weight of scrutiny that felt heavier than any car he’d ever driven. He was distracted from the moment he stepped into the paddock. Reporters hounded him at every turn—“Lucas, comment on the Vegas incident?” “How’s it affecting focus?”—sponsors asked careful questions in private meetings, the team walked on eggshells around him. He qualified P4—solid, but not dominant, his laps inconsistent, mind fractured. Race day was chaos: he pushed too hard early, locked up into Turn 12 on lap 9, spun into the barriers. DNF. No points.
The championship slipped away.
He finished third overall—respectable, but not the title everyone (especially his father) had expected. The post-race press conference was brutal: questions about the Vegas incident, about focus, about “personal distractions.” He answered tersely, eyes dull, the pain of the crash still stinging.
Mia watched from the media pen—probation meant she couldn’t even brief him. He caught glimpses of her at the back, arms crossed, face unreadable, and every time his chest tightened. She hadn’t answered his messages in days. Hadn’t looked at him in the paddock. Hadn’t come near him since Vegas. He told himself it was to protect his focus—hers too—but the silence felt like something else. Something final.
That night, after the team dinner she skipped, he stood outside the hospitality suite—alone, staring at the Yas Marina floodlights, shoulders slumped in defeat. The lights reflected off the water like broken glass, mocking the way everything had shattered.
“Lucas.”
He turned. The exhaustion in his face nearly undid him—he felt it in every muscle, every breath.
“Mia…”
She stepped closer—close enough that he could smell the fainttrace of her shampoo under the engine oil still clinging to him.
“I can’t do this,” she said quietly, voice steady despite the ache he could hear beneath it.
He froze, eyes widening in surprise. “What?”
“I lost my job—effectively. Probation’s just a slower firing. I lost… us. In public. In private. Everything.” Her voice cracked. “We tried. We really tried. But maybe it’s best to stop now… before we can’t. Before it destroys us both.”
The words landed like a gut punch. His face crumpled—shock giving way to desperate pain, voice breaking. “Mia, please. We can fix this. Talk to Claire, explain—”
She stepped back, shaking her head. “It’s not just the job. It’s the rumours. The headlines twisting everything. Just like Oxford. Everyone believed the lies then too—the whispers, the slut-shaming, the labels. I was powerless to correct it. I can’t be part of a rumour mill again. I won’t. Not when it strips me of control, turns me into someone I’m not.”
His eyes searched hers—raw, pleading, the surprise deepening into something that looked like devastation. “Mia, no. Don’t do this. I can’t… I don’t want to lose you.”
The words burst out before he could stop them—raw, pleading, stepping closer as if he could hold her there by sheer will. “I love you. I should’ve said it sooner. Please—don’t go.”
She froze, surprise flickering through her pain. But she shook her head, stepping back again.
No response. No echo.
The silence after those three words was louder than any engine, louder than the crowd, louder than the impact of his own car against the barriers earlier that day.
He reached out, hand hovering but not touching. “Mia—stay. Please.”
She didn’t.
She walked away—down the paddock corridor, past the silent garages, past the lingering media lights—until she was gone.
He stood under the floodlights long after she left—championshipdreams in ashes, heart in pieces, the surprise of her silence still reeling through him like a crash he hadn’t seen coming.
