“I’m not hungry, and I’ve got laps to finish.”
She turned, grabbing her bag from the counter.“You know what I think?”
I sighed.“You’ll tell me anyway.”
“I think you’re too proud to admit when something’s wrong.And too scared to figure out what’ll happen if you stop pretending that you’re fine.”Her voice cracked a little at the end, which made me look away.
“Good night, Georgie.”
“Bonne nuit, idiot.”
She closed the door quietly.The apartment went quiet again except for the faint hum of traffic below.I could’ve told her everything.I almost did.But once you start naming the things that scare you, they start to become real.
So instead, I restarted the simulator.The computer hummed back to life, and the engine noise filled the apartment, loud enough to drown out everything else.
If I couldn’t fix myself, I could at least fix my driving.
Chapter Eleven
Lily
My phone buzzed on the table beside my helmet, pulling me from the data analysis Mark had sent over.I glanced at the clock: still half an hour before debrief.
Unknown:
P2?This is why women don’t belong in F1.Can’t deliver when itmatters.Tomorrow you’ll learn what happens when you disappoint thewrong people.
I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen.The words blurred slightly as I read them again, trying to convince myself it was just another troll, just another angry fan hiding behind anonymity.
Before I could process it, my phone buzzed again—a notification from my Instagram page.A DM from an account I didn’t recognize.No profile picture, just a string of random numbers and letters for a username.
The same message.
My heart kicked against my ribs.The air in the small driver’s room suddenly felt thinner, the walls closer.I quickly took screenshots of both the text and the DM before deleting them.
As if that would make it go away.As if pretending it didn’t exist would keep it from being real.
I set the phone face down on the table, staring at my helmet instead.The Rennen chrome gleamed under the fluorescent lights, my number staring back at me like a reminder of everything I had to lose.
A knock on the door made me jump, my hand flying to my chest.
“Come in,” I called, my voice steadier than I felt.
Ollie stepped through, a bouquet of pink roses in hand.Not the threatening kind with a note tucked inside, just flowers.Simple, elegant.
“Thought you could use these after qualifying,” he said, setting them on the table beside my helmet.I gave them a quick once-over.
No note.
“Thank you.”I stood, smoothing down my team shirt.“You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets.“P2’s nothing to scoff at.And honestly, you drove brilliantly.You were so fast at the end.”
Heat crept up my neck.“Henri still got pole.”
Ollie crossed the room before taking a seat on the sofa next to me.“You’ll get him tomorrow.I know you will.”
I wanted to believe him, but P2 may as well have been P20 in my mind.There was no passing in Monaco, especially not Henri.The Monegasque driver had taken pole by two-tenths.He’d grown up on these streets, and today the racing Gods had blessed him with what he’d worked so hard for.I should’ve been proud, but instead, disappointment sat heavy.
