Her dad folded the paper. “Nothing to be sorry for, love.”
She nodded, throat too tight to speak.
That night she slept in her childhood bed. The quilt was thin, the mattress a little lumpy, but it smelled like home. She cried again—quietly this time—until exhaustion pulled her under.
The next morning she woke to birdsong and sunlight slanting through the curtains. For the first time in months, she didn’t reach for her phone first thing. She just lay there, breathing, letting the quiet settle around her like a blanket.
It wasn’t healing. Not yet.
But it was a beginning.
???
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Lucas
Winter clamped down on Kent like a vice—grey skies leaking steady rain, bare trees rattling in the wind, the family estate feeling more like a mausoleum than a home. The break that should have been recovery became a slow, suffocating slide. He barely left the house. He’d tried at first—pub nights with his brothers, gym sessions that left him shaking—but the energy bled out fast. Everything tasted like ash.
The headlines shifted in early January. Someone—Marco, probably—had leaked her name. “Mystery Girl” became “Amelia Brookes”. The narrative wrote itself: ambitious staffer seduces driver, wrecks high-profile relationship, causes brawl. “Slut,” “career climber” trended in the comments. Lucas read them once—scrolling in the dark at 3 a.m., chest tight—then threw his phone across the room so hard the screen cracked. He didn’t look again. Couldn’t.
He didn’t sleep much after that. Nights were spent staring into space, replaying Abu Dhabi: her voice cracking, “I can’t be part of a rumour mill again,” the way she’d stepped back when he reached for her. He’d said “I love you” like it could fix anything. It hadn’t. She’d walked away, and the silence since had carved him hollow. He missed her like a missing limb—phantom pain flaring at every quiet moment, every time he reached for his phone and remembered she wouldn’t answer.
His mother tried—extra portions of shepherd’s pie, gentle questions about “that nice girl” they’d met at Silverstone. Hedeflected, smiled, lied through his teeth. His father was quieter—long looks over breakfast, the occasional “You’ve got to focus, son. Title’s still there next year.” Lucas nodded, but the words landed like stones in an empty well.
He avoided mirrors. The man looking back had shadows under his eyes, a tightness in his jaw that hadn’t eased since Vegas. He’d punch the heavy bag in the gym until his knuckles bled, then sit on the floor with his head in his hands, chest heaving.
Dana texted once:She’s home. Safe. Hurting. Give her space.
He stared at the message for an hour before typing back:I’m trying.
He wasn’t sure he was.
Pre-season loomed like a deadline he wasn’t ready for. By late January he headed back to the factory, the cold UK winter following him into the sim bay. The team felt wrong without her—no quiet voice in his ear during prep, no steady hand on the schedule, no one who looked at him like she saw past the helmet. The comms juniors were competent but jittery; Claire ran everything with crisp efficiency, but it wasn’t the same.
The first big briefing hit like a cold tyre on hot tarmac. Claire stood at the front, tablet in hand.
“Team changes for the year. Mia Brookes is not returning. I’ll be handling both drivers directly now—you’ve proven yourselves, so it’s not the challenge it used to be. Less hand-holding, more strategy. Questions?”
Jax spoke up first, voice rough. “Bloody hell, Claire. That’s a shame. Everyone loved Mia. She was good—really good. Sharp, fair, didn’t take crap from anyone. Kept us all in line without making us feel like kids. Made the job easier for everyone. Gonna miss her voice of reason, that’s for sure.”
Lucas went completely still. Knuckles white on the edge of the table, eyes fixed on nothing. Jax’s words landed like salt in the wound—confirmation of what he’d feared. Not returning. Gone.
Jax glanced sideways—quick, concerned—catching the flinch, the way Lucas’s breath had caught. Realization flickered acrossJax’s face: he’d just driven the knife in without meaning to. He hadn’t known about Lucas and Mia, hadn’t even suspected, but he knew his mate was hurting. Badly. And he’d just reminded him of exactly what he’d lost.
Jax cleared his throat, voice dropping lower, quieter. “Sorry, mate,” he said, just to Lucas. “Didn’t mean to… you know. Just sucks, that’s all.”
Lucas stared at the table. The pain twisted fresh and deep—confirmation she wasn’t coming back. Ever. He forced a nod—mechanical, tight. “Understood.”
Jax didn’t push. He just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of his own—acknowledgment, solidarity—then turned his attention back to Claire, letting the moment pass without drawing more eyes.
Claire’s eyes flicked between them—brief, assessing—but she continued without comment.
Jax caught him later in the corridor, hand on his shoulder. “Hey. You look like shit. Want to grab a coffee? No bullshit, just… talk if you want.”
Lucas shook his head, throat tight. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” Jax said quietly. “I didn’t know about you two. Didn’t have a clue. But I saw how she looked at you. How you looked at her. She cared about you—more than most people in this place do. Whatever happened… I’m sorry. If you need to vent, or get drunk, or just sit in silence, I’m here. Yeah?”
