Emma blinked. “For not believing you. For siding with him. For letting everyone ostracise you until you had to leave. For being the kind of friend who disappears when things get hard.”
Mia nodded slowly. “That's a start.”
Emma's jaw tightened—just a fraction. “I'm trying here, Mia. This isn't easy for me either. Admitting I was that person… it's humiliating. I don't do humiliation well.”
“I know,” Mia said. “You never have.”
Emma looked away for a second, toward the window where leaves stuck to the wet glass. “So what now? You forgive me and we pretend the last few years didn't happen? Or do I just walk out and we never speak again?”
Mia traced the rim of her cup. “I forgive you.”
Emma's head snapped back. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Mia said. “Because holding onto it doesn't serve me anymore. I've spent too long carrying what happened—in Oxford, and ever since. I've learned to put things down when they're too heavy. Forgiveness isn't absolution. It's me choosing not to let it define the rest of my life.”
Emma studied her, something like surprise flickering behind the composure. “You're different.”
“I had to be.”
A beat. Emma picked up her spoon, stirred unnecessarily. “I don't expect us to be best friends again. That ship sailed. But… I'd like to know you're okay. That you're not still paying for my mistakes.”
Mia met her eyes. “I'm okay. Not perfect. But okay. The distance helped. Time helped. And knowing it wasn't my fault—really knowing it—helped most.”
Emma nodded once, sharp. “Good. Then I've done at least one thing right today.”
Mia stood, slipping her coat on. “I need to go. Prep starts Monday. Early mornings.”
Emma rose too, slower. “Of course. The empire awaits.” A small, wry smile. “Take care of yourself, Mia. And if you ever want coffee again—text me.”
Mia paused at the table. “Maybe I will. Someday.”
She left cash for her coffee—exact change—and walked out. The door chimed behind her, soft as an afterthought.
Outside, the autumn air was sharp, carrying the scent of wetstone and distant bonfires. Mia turned up her collar, started toward the tube. London stretched ahead—Ascari waiting, engines waiting, a life waiting that she had chosen, piece by hard piece.
The shadow of Oxford lingered, thinner now. Emma's apology—abrasive, incomplete, self-serving in places—hadn't erased it. But it had let a little more light in.
And that was enough.
She kept walking.
???
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Mia
The Ascari Racing headquarters sat on the edge of Silverstone’s industrial park—low, sleek buildings of smoked glass and steel, still half-empty, still echoing with the sound of drills and fresh paint. No marble foyer, no branded fountains, no army of assistants gliding past with iPads. Just a temporary reception desk in what used to be an open-plan office, a single Ascari logo freshly mounted on the wall, and the distant whine of a simulator rig being calibrated. The team hadn’t turned a wheel in anger yet; everything was setup, testing, hiring. They were building from scratch for next year’s debut.
Mia liked it immediately. It felt raw. Honest. Small enough that people still knew each other’s names—and big enough in ambition to feel electric.
As she crossed the car park, black coffee warm in her hand, a brief flash hit her: her interview at Ashworth years ago, Lucas barrelling around the corner.
She took one slow sip now. The coffee tasted the same—sharp, grounding—but the memory felt distant, faded. A small scar, not a wound.
She exhaled, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
The receptionist, a woman in her fifties with a soft West Country lilt, smiled as she buzzed Mia through. “They’re expecting you in the main briefing room, love. Up the stairs, second door on the right. Eddie’s already in there charmin’ the coffeemachine into submission.”
