Today had made me a thorn in their side; now was not the time to add to that.I could get through more of this season, and then, once I was properly leading the championship, I could tell them.
Chapter Twelve
Lily
“Morning, superstar!”Mark greeted.His smile was too wide for him, and I knew he was trying to overcompensate for me coming in P2 during qualifying.
“Morning,” I managed, accepting the earpiece he held out.
He handed it over with careful fingers, like I might shatter if he moved too quickly.“Car’s all ready to go!”His cheerfulness was almost contagious, and I appreciated the effort.
Monaco was unlike any other circuit—narrow streets flanked by barriers, no room for error, no forgiveness for mistakes.The harbor sparkled in the morning sun, yachts bobbing gently against their moorings.Millionaires watched from balconies above the streets where our cars were threading at top speeds.
At eight years old, I’d sat cross-legged on the carpet, nose inches from the TV screen, watching the race.My fingers would grip an imaginary wheel, turning it in perfect sync with whatever F1 driver the film crew were following.
Monaco may not be my home race, but it was still one of the crown jewels of motorsport.Every driver wanted to win here.There was no street race like Monaco.Everything about this race brought me to life, and I wanted this win.The only problem?I was sitting behind the one person who knew this track better than me.Yesterday, no one had been surprised when Henri squeaked out pole.He’d driven with cool, calm precision.
Which meant this race was going to come down to strategy—and pit stops.
Or one hell of a pass from me.Something that hadn’t been done in years.Even Georgia hadn’t managed to do it when she’d beaten Henri last year, and the year before—her wins had come purely from pole position or better pit stops that had allowed her to come out ahead.
Truly daring passes were so rare at Monaco, because if you were one millimeter off, your whole race was over.These streets were old and narrow, not exactly designed for high-speed racing.
I lowered myself into the cockpit.The harness straps tightened across my shoulders with familiar clicks—one, two, three, four, five—and my hands found the wheel.For the first time that morning, my pulse felt steady.Henri’s car sat ahead on pole, almost teasingly.
Rain had started falling an hour before the race, turning Monaco’s streets into a skating rink.The forecast said it would ease but never fully clear.The purple-and-gold livery of Henri’s car gleamed under gray skies, water already beading on the bodywork, rain falling steadily.Twenty-three hundredths of a second had separated us in yesterday’s dry qualifying.Less than the length of a car.Nothing, really.
But he’d gotten the better time.
The track cleared for the formation lap.I followed Henri through the streets, the spray from his rear tires obscuring my vision, making the already tight track feel claustrophobic.The wet setup felt good beneath me, responsive and balanced, but this was Monaco in the rain.One wrong input, and you were in the barriers.The city walls pressed in on either side, closer than any other track, painted lines barely visible through the standing water.
We settled on the grid, rain drumming against my helmet.Not hard enough to stop the race, but enough that passing now was inconceivable.
Five red lights blinked above the track, holding us in suspended animation.
Mark cut in.“Starting on wets.It’s going to be raining all race.”
I exhaled once, twice, then the world launched forward as soon as the lights went out.
Henri had the cleaner start, but it was chaos into Turn 1.The wet surface amplified everything.He sliced ahead of me through the first part of the track, but it was survival mode for all of us drivers in this rain, trying not to get swallowed by the chaos of twenty cars fighting for position through a corner that was barely wide enough in dry conditions.
Someone locked up behind me.I felt the spray hit my rear wing; heard Mark’s sharp intake of breath over the radio.
“Just focus forward.”
“Copy.”
Lap after lap, we threaded the city together in the rain.Henri was perfect through most of it, impossibly fast despite the conditions.The spray from his rear tires created a gray curtain between us.
Through Casino Square, he was flawless.Past Mirabeau, committed and precise.Down to the hairpin where most drivers were lifting early, playing it safe in the standing water.
But then, right after the hairpin, threading through turns seven and eight, I saw it.
The hesitation.
His car twitched, just slightly.A correction that didn’t match the Henri I knew.He lifted earlier than he needed to, even for the rain.The gap between us closed by a tenth, then another.
The radio crackled on.“He’s braking early after the hairpin.Keep pressure.”
