I wonder if Ollie knows about my mother’s little matchmaking agenda.
Her lips curved into a small, satisfied smile.“Just remember, Lily.We’re building something here.You’re representing women in motorsport, and more importantly, representing Rennen’s investment in you.”
The guilt trip was expertly deployed, hitting exactly where she intended.
Before I could formulate any response, she stood, smoothing her blazer.“I’ll have a dress sent to your hotel room within the hour.”She paused at the door, delivering her final instruction.“And for heaven’s sake, keep the jokes to a minimum.”
Before I could reply, she leaned in, pressed a faint kiss to my cheek, and turned toward the door.But something stopped her.She took in the vase in the corner of the room, the one whose flowers had held the note from Miami.I’d meant to throw it away, but the team had packed up my driver’s room before I’d gotten the chance.When it appeared again in Montreal, I couldn’t bring myself to toss it.Instead I’d slipped out to a supermarket and bought fresh flowers.
Something bright to replace the bad memory.
My mother’s nose wrinkled slightly.“Lily.”Her tone carried that particular disappointment I’d become accustomed to.“They look like they’re from agrocery store.”
“They are, actually,” I said carefully, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“Good God.They look terribly cheap.”She moved closer, inspecting the arrangement with a critical eye, which was ironic, since my mother had a black thumb.“Lilies and daisies?Honestly, if you must keep flowers in your workspace, at least choose something with more sophistication.An orchid, perhaps.Or a proper arrangement from a florist.”
I looked at the flowers one more time and opened my mouth, the confession hovering at the edge of my tongue.Should I tell her?
The words sat there, heavy and unspoken.
“Actually,” I started, then I stopped.My mother’s gaze felt heavy as she watched me.“Um, I sort of wanted to ask you something.I received a… note.It was a bit nasty, felt different than the usual ‘women don’t belong in racing’ garbage I usually get…”
I stopped, waiting to see her reaction, but her expression didn’t change.No concern creased her brow; no maternal instinct kicked in.
“Oh, darling.You’re at a larger team now.It’s going to come with more visibility.You’re in the spotlight!”She adjusted her handbag on her shoulder.“You’re not the first woman in a male-dominated space to receive attention from sad little people with too much time on their hands.”
“Right, but this note was in my room… and seemed to maybe be from someone who lost some money—”
At that, my mother cut me off.“Just ignore them.”The command was flat, shutting down any chance of an argument.“And for God’s sake, don’t make a fuss about it.”
I blinked.“A fuss?”
“Lillian.”She turned fully toward me now, and I recognized the look.The one that said I was being difficult again.“You’re already under enough scrutiny.The last thing you need is to give anyone more reason to think you can’t handle the pressure.That you need special protection or coddling.The team doesn’t need a reason to question whether a female driver is worth the trouble,” she continued, softer now, like she was doing me a favor.“And with BetHere being such a big sponsor, we don’t want to bring them any negative attention, hm?You know, Marcus is very involved with a few different companies as a board member.This relationship could grow into something else!”
I swallowed down the rest of my words, letting them sink back down to where they belonged.She was right.One complaint, and I’d become the difficult woman who couldn’t take the heat.A liability who needed protecting.
I’d seen what had happened to my friend Abby over in Indy Car.She’d complained, and the team had stopped prioritizing her at sponsorship events.
“Yeah, you’re right.It’s no big deal.”
“Good girl.”She smiled, genuine this time, and kissed my cheek again.She cast one last glance at the vase before exiting the room.Her heels clicked across the floor, crisp and even, echoing long after she’d disappeared.
My eyes drifted back to the flower arrangement.Innocent, cheerful, perfectly ordinary flowers bought from a perfectly ordinary shop.Nothing threatening.Nothing dangerous.
Nothing like the original bouquet that had come with a message promising violence.The threat lived in my mind now, playing on repeat during quiet moments, crowding in when I should have been sleeping or visualizing race strategy.
Someone with access to the paddock, to team hospitality areas, to my private driver’s room, had gotten into my room and left flowers.
And I’d told no one.
But was my mother right?
Making a big deal about threatening fan mail would just prove to my critics that women in F1 were too fragile for the pressure, too emotional to handle the spotlight.That I needed special treatment, coddling, protection the male drivers didn’t require.
I knew for a fact that Henri had never reported hate mail.Or my teammate Luca.They probably received worse as they’d been racing longer, but they didn’t run crying to team principals about mean notes tucked into bouquets.
And they certainly didn’t keep the vase and fill it with flowers like some sort of twisted memorial.I grabbed my water bottle, taking a long pull to wash down the bitter taste in my mouth.
