Mia smiled back. “Thank you.”
The briefing room smelled of fresh whiteboard markers, new carpet, and the faint metallic tang of tools still being unpacked. A long table dominated the centre, surrounded by mismatched chairs that looked borrowed from various offices. Whiteboards lined one wall, already scribbled with preliminary aero concepts, tyre compound targets, and a rough calendar for the upcoming season. A handful of people were gathered—engineers in plain polos, a strategist tapping at a laptop, the PR coordinator she’d spoken to on the video call last week. They looked up as she entered, offering nods and small, curious smiles.
And then Eddie Hale stood.
He was taller than the photos suggested, broad-shouldered in a plain black team hoodie, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms mapped with old scars and faded tattoos. His hair was cropped close, silver threading through the dark at the temples. Sharp cheekbones, easy grin, the same quiet intensity that had carried him to four world championships. But there was something else—a effortless charm, the kind that made people lean in when he spoke, the kind that had earned him a quiet reputation as a playboy who enjoyed the finer things: fast cars off-track, good wine, better company. Yet the grin was genuine, the eyes warm, never calculating. He didn’t look like a man on the way out. He looked like someone who’d decided the view from the cockpit—and now the strategy room—was still worth fighting for.
“Mia Brookes,” he said, crossing the room with a hand extended, voice smooth and low like aged scotch. “Welcome to the chaos. Or what will be chaos once we get the car rolling.” His grip was firm, warm, lingering just a second longer than necessary—playful, not pushy. “Dana’s been singing your praises for months. Said you’re the only person she trusts to keep a driver from sounding like an idiot. High praise from her. She once told me my post-race interviews were ‘borderlinecriminal.’”
Mia smiled. “She’s biased.”
“She’s brutally honest,” Eddie corrected, eyes crinkling with real amusement. “Kept me in line for years—shoulders, ego, the lot. If she says you’re good, you’re gold.” He gestured to the table with an easy sweep. “Come on, sit. Let me introduce you properly before the coffee runs out.”
The core team was small—fifteen people in the room, counting her. The head of aerodynamics, a wiry Italian called Antonio who spoke in rapid bursts; the chief mechanic, a Scotsman named Rab with a laugh like gravel; the strategy lead, Priya, who looked barely thirty and already had the calm of someone who’d seen too many late-race tire calls go wrong in sims. They were friendly, curious, a little wary. Mia could feel the unspoken question: She worked at Ashworth. What’s she doing in our startup garage?
Then the door opened again, and Etienne Laurent walked in.
He was even younger than she’d expected—barely twenty, still carrying the sharp-edged freshness of someone who’d skipped most of the usual teenage years to chase speed. Tall and lean, with effortless good looks that made photographers linger at the paddock fence. Dark hair falling just a little too long over his forehead, sharp cheekbones, and striking hazel eyes that flicked over the room with quick, assessing intelligence. A faint French accent coloured his words, soft consonants and a slight lilt that made everything sound faintly amused.
He paused when he saw her, offered a quick, polite smile that showed a hint of boyish charm. “You must be Mia. I’ve heard a lot.”
“Etienne.” She nodded. “Good to meet you in person.”
He slid into the chair across from her, stretching long legs under the table with easy grace. “Likewise.” A small, self-deprecating shrug, the accent wrapping around the words like silk. “I will take all the help I can get.”
A ripple of laughter around the room. Eddie clapped his hands once, the sound sharp and commanding without being harsh. “Right. Let’s get started.”
The meeting was brisk, practical. Eddie laid out the roadmap—no races yet, just relentless prep: simulator runs, wind tunnel blocks, tyre development, sponsor meetings. He spoke like a driver who still felt the track in his bones, but also like someone who’d learned to see the bigger picture. When he turned to Mia, it was direct.
“Your role is straightforward but not simple. You own the message from day one. Driver voice, team voice, sponsor voice—keep them aligned. No drama. No leaks. We’re not Ashworth. We don’t have the budget for spin. We build trust with what’s under the bodywork and what comes out of our mouths.”
Mia nodded. “Understood. I’ve seen how noise can drown out performance. I won’t let that happen here.”
“Good.” He leaned back, grin returning—charming, disarming. “Because this place is smaller, but the pressure’s real. Etienne’s our future—fast as hell, but still learning how to carry a team. I’m splitting time between driving and strategy. Owners wanted me full-time in management—thought having a four-time champ in the backroom would be gold for sponsors and development—but I told them I’m not done racing yet. So here we are: me in the seat, me in the meetings, and a rookie who needs to learn fast. We need someone who can keep the story clean while we’re all trying not to bin it in the first test.”
Etienne gave a small grin. “No pressure.”
Mia met his eyes—charming, undeniably. The kind of effortless appeal that came with being twenty and already this fast: sharp features, that easy French half-smile, the casual confidence of someone who still believed the world would make space for him. He was nothing like Lucas—no guarded intensity, no weight of family pressure. Just youth, raw talent, and a lightness that made her feel oddly protective.
She felt like a big sister more than anything else. Someone who would guide him through the media minefield, keep him from saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, and make sure the spotlight didn’t burn too bright too soon.
The meeting wrapped. People drifted off to their stations. Eddie lingered, walking her to the corridor.
“You’ll have an office down the hall,” he said, voice dropping to that smooth, easy cadence. “Small, but it’s got a window. And if you ever need to talk—about the job, about the circus, about anything—door’s open. I’ve been where you are. Not the same scars, but similar ones.” He paused, grin softening into something warmer, more sincere. “We look after our own here. Earn that trust, and you’ll have it for life. And if anyone gives you trouble, send them my way. I’ve got a reputation for charming problems away—or staring them down.”
Mia nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I appreciate that.”
Eddie gave her a final nod—respectful, warm, with just a flicker of that playboy sparkle—and headed toward the simulator bay.
Mia stood alone for a moment in the corridor, the distant whine of the sim rig vibrating through the floor. She looked down at her pass, at the Ascari logo stark against the white plastic.
No glamour. No spotlight glare. Just work. Good work. Her work.
She took a slow breath, tasting fresh paint, engine oil, coffee, and possibility.
Then she walked to her new office, opened the door, and got started.
???
