I’d done it.I’d won Monaco.
“P1!P1!”Mark shouted, and I could hear other voices in the background, the whole garage erupting.
Static laughter filled my radio, joy and relief and triumph all tangled together.I slumped against my belts, cold sweat coating my skin beneath the race suit, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might break through my chest.Outside, the harbor erupted with noise and color despite the rain, horns blaring from yachts, crowds screaming from the grandstands.
But for a single moment, that pure triumph had a dollop of anguish threaded through it, because in my mirrors during that pass, I’d seen something.The hesitation that didn’t belong to someone second in the championship—especially not Henri Dubois.
Why had Henri done that?He’d raced this track over and over again, never flinching like that.What had happened to the driver who threw his car into gaps that didn’t exist; who won previous races through sheer audacity and skill, regardless of conditions?
Something was wrong.
Marshals waved flags as I pulled into parc fermé, my car coming to a stop.I climbed out to blinding flashes, raising trembling hands to the crowd as I waved.My team waited by the barriers, their smiles wide and welcoming.
But a part of me couldn’t stop staring at Henri.While his team greeted him with such excitement, his response was anything but joyous.
I wrapped my arms around Mark, and his embrace was brief but genuine, his hand clapping my back, both of us soaked.“You drove like a champion,” he said into my ear, rain running down both our faces, and I had to blink hard against sudden tears that mixed with the rainwater.
He deserved this win too.He’d worked tirelessly on the wet setup, spent countless hours in the simulator with me preparing for exactly these conditions, believed in me even when the results weren’t coming.
The podium came and went in a blur of champagne sprays and bright, flashing lights.Henri stood one step down, face carved in restraint.He clapped once when I lifted the trophy, his face wide with a fake smile.Afterward, I was dragged from one journalist to the next as I told them time after time how incredible it was, that I was proud of the team, that Monaco was a dream.
Through the circus of the celebration, Henri’s eyes never met mine.For all his quirks, he’d never not congratulated me after a race.Not once in three years.Even when I beat him, even when we were barely speaking, there was always a handshake, a nod, a quiet “good drive” when the cameras weren’t looking.
I let Bertha usher me through the crowd.Somewhere behind us, I heard Henri’s voice, low, distant.I almost turned.Almost waited for him to say “good job” the way he always did.
But he didn’t.
Monaco’s air was thick with excitement.Yachts glittered like chandeliers, champagne popping on million-dollar decks as the crowd’s noise followed me to the waiting car.I replayed the moment I’d passed him in my head, analyzing it frame by frame through the spray and the mist.The way the car seemed to shudder like it didn’t trust him anymore.Or he didn’t trust it anymore.
My car turned up the hill toward the hotel, the city’s party fading behind me.By the time I’d reached the suite, I’d decided I was done worrying about him.I was going to take a shower, eat something that wasn’t an energy gel, and get ready for some drinks tonight.
I kicked off my shoes and tossed my bag on the table.My body ached for a hot shower, but something stopped me halfway across the room.
Another fucking envelope.White, unmarked, and on the ground by the door.Someone had just slid it under.I walked closer, watching it like a bomb about to go off.The handwriting on the front was the same blocky, all-caps scrawl as before.The envelope had just my name.
“Bertha?”I called out as I opened the door, half-hoping she’d somehow followed me up, praying, for the first time ever, to hear my PR officer’s voice.
The silence that came back was deafening, and the hallway was empty.
Picking it up, my fingers tore the flap before my brain caught up.
HE WAS SUPPOSED TO WIN.YOU’RE NOT GETTING THIS, ARE YOU, LILLIAN?
I read it once, then again, because the words didn’t want to make sense the first time.
He was supposed to win.
I crumpled the letter in my fist, the edges biting into my palm.
EveryonewantedHenri to win this weekend.EveryoneexpectedHenri to win.But then I came in and stole his win.I beat him on the track, fair and square, with a pass that would be replayed for years.And what did that make me?
The villain who stole Monaco from F1’s golden boy.
And yet, now I had the honor of receiving this note, written by some lunatic who clearly had strong opinions about who should’ve won, and apparently enough money riding on the outcome that they felt entitled to threaten me about it.They had the nerve to invade my personal space, to make me feel small in a room that was supposed to be my safe haven.
More anger started to flood me.I didn’t think, just moved.Jacket in one hand, crumpled note stuffed in my pocket, I stormed out.When I jabbed the elevator call button, pain shot through my thumb.The mirror inside caught my reflection.Eyes blazing, hair frizzed, I looked like a woman crazed.
My fist hit his door harder than I meant to, three sharp thumps that echoed down the hallway.
