Grandad’s name. The weight of it crushed him in that moment—decades of stories about the fearless driver who never backed down, who won titles on sheer will, who’d been unbreakable even in the face of death. Lucas had heard them all his life, idolised them as a boy, chased them as a man. But now? Now it felt like an accusation. Like his father was saying the previous years—the crashes, the doubts, the quiet unravelling after Mia—had been failures of character, not circumstance.About time. As if he’d been slacking, not fighting for every inch.
He tried to shake it off in the grid walk, the pre-race rituals: helmet on, visor down, the world narrowing to the cockpit. But the anger simmered, hot and insistent, twisting in his chest like a bad setup. He sat on pole, engine revving beneath him, a row of red lights staring back.
Lights out.
He nailed the start—perfect clutch bite, rocketing into Turn 1 ahead of the pack. The car felt alive, responsive, gripping the tarmac like it knew his secrets. Lap 1: clean through the chicane, building a half-second gap already. Lap 2: pushing harder, tyres heating up just right. The radio crackled: “Good pace, Lucas. Keep it steady.”
But steady wasn’t what he felt. The anger gnawed—finally living up to your grandad’s name—and he braked a fraction late into Turn 4, the rear twitching but holding. Close. Too close. He shook it off, focused on the rhythm: apex, throttle, exit. Lap 5: the field spreading out, his lead stretching to two seconds. But his mind wandered—flashes of his father’s grin, the casual dismissal of everything he’d bled for. He clipped the kerb at Turn 9, the car jolting hard, vibration rattling through the wheel.
“Watch the kerbs,” his engineer warned. “Tyres okay?” “All good,” Lucas bit out, teeth clenched. But the distraction built like pressure in a tyre wall. Lap 10: a near-miss with a backmarker, too aggressive on the overtake, wheels brushing. Hisheart hammered—not from the speed, but from the rage boiling over. About time. As if this season was the only one that counted. As if the man he’d become—scarred, rebuilt, still aching for what he’d lost with Mia—meant nothing.
Lap 15: pit stop flawless, out ahead again. But the fury wouldn’t settle. He pushed harder, chasing tenths he didn’t need, the car protesting with every aggressive input. Lap 20: through the high-speed sweep of Turn 3, he felt the balance shift—overcommitted, tyres screaming. He corrected, but it cost him time. The gap shrank to 1.2 seconds. His engineer again: “Easy, Lucas. We’ve got this.”
No. He didn’t. The anger crested—family legend—and on Lap 23, diving into Turn 5, he attacked the inside kerb too hard. The rear snapped viciously, tyres losing grip in an instant. The world tilted: spin, wall rushing up, impact slamming through him like thunder. Carbon fibre shattered, suspension crumpled. The car came to a brutal halt against the barriers, smoke curling from the wreckage.
* * *
Mia
In the Ascari garage, Mia was mid-sentence with Priya—something about Etienne’s tyre management in the heat—when the crash echoed across the circuit. A sickening screech, then the thud of impact that reverberated through the stands. Silence followed, heavy and wrong.
The garage froze. Tools clattered to the floor.
Mia’s head snapped to the big screen, heart seizing. Replay already rolling in slow motion: Lucas’s car snapping sideways, spinning wildly, slamming into the wall at full force. Debris exploded outward—wing fragments, carbon fibre shards scattering like shrapnel. The cockpit view showed the violent jolt, helmet whipping sideways. No movement after.
Her breath caught, sharp and painful. “No…”
The crowd’s collective shock rippled through the grandstands—a gasp turning to murmurs, then tense quiet. Safety car deployed. Marshals sprinted across the hot tarmac, flags waving. Mia’s hands gripped the edge of the pit wall so hard her nails bit into the paint. Her mind raced: Get out. Move. Please, Lucas, move.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away. A marshal reached the car, leaned in. Lucas’s hand lifted—weak, trembling. Relief crashed over her, but it shattered when the marshals signalled frantically for the ambulance. Medics swarmed, tools flashing. They worked carefully, extracting him onto the stretcher, neck brace locked in place. His body limp, unresponsive in that moment.
Mia’s vision blurred. Fear clawed up her throat—the kind that stole breath, made her knees weak. Not him. Not like this. The ambulance pulled away, lights flashing amber and yellow, siren cutting through the humid air like a knife.
The garage returned to quiet routine—Etienne still out on track, strategy calls continuing—but Mia’s focus was shattered. She checked updates obsessively on her tablet: bruised ribs, suspected fractured wrist, concussion protocol. Conscious, talking to the team. No internal injuries. Stable.
But stable wasn’t enough. She needed to see him.
When the day finally ended—Etienne P11, solid but unspectacular—Mia waited until the garage lights dimmed and the crew headed back to the hotel. Then she slipped away.
* * *
Lucas
Lucas lay propped against the pillows, left wrist locked in a fresh cast, bruises spreading dark across his collarbone. The fluorescent lights made everything feel clinical and exposed. Ribs pulled with every breath. He looked worn—shoulders heavy, usual edge blunted by pain—but he wasn’t about to let it show more than necessary.
The door opened quietly.
He glanced up.
Mia.
She stepped inside, closed the door with care. Her eyes found his—wide, searching, carrying something unsteady.
“Mia,” he said. Voice rough.
“Hey.” She paused near the door a second, then crossed to him. “I waited until everyone else left. I just… needed to see for myself that you were really okay.”
He managed a half-smile—small, controlled. “I’m okay. Bruised ego more than anything. Ribs hurt like hell when I breathe, but I’m here.”
