So Scott stayed. Because apparently, even heartbroken, he couldn’t stop putting Cam’s needs above his own.
The thought made him smile bitterly into his coffee.
Years ago, he’d heard someone say that true love wasn’t selfish, that if you genuinely loved someone, their happiness and well-being mattered more than your own.Scott had always dismissed the idea as sentimental nonsense.
Look at him now. If it were nonsense, Scott wouldn’t be sitting in the Ferrari garage watching a qualifying session he had no desire to watch for the sake of the man who’d broken his heart.If this was true love, it fucking sucked.
But when qualifying started, Scott forgot all about his depressing thoughts.
There was something wrong with Cam.Scott noticed it almost immediately.
At first it was small things—a missed apex, acorrection mid-corner, anunusually scruffy exit—nothing dramatic on their own. But Scott had watched enough Grand Prix over the last year to recognize when Cameron Richter wasn’t driving like Cameron Richter.Cam’s greatest strength had alwaysbeen consistency.Even on bad weekends, he was precise and controlled, incredibly clinical.
Today he was reckless. Sloppy.
Scott frowned at the timing screens.
“That’s odd,” he murmured.
One of Ferrari’s strategists glanced up. “What?”
“Richter.”
The strategist followed his gaze.
On the screen, Cam dipped a wheel onto the dirty part of the track exiting Turn Six.The car twitched violently.
The man shrugged.“Everyone has bad sessions.”
Scott didn’t answer.Because this wasn’t one mistake.It was mistake after mistake.In Q1, Cam ran wide.In Q2, he locked up into a corner Scott had seen him navigate perfectly dozens of times on his simulator.Twice he abandoned flying laps entirely, barely managing to squeak into Q3.
By the start of Q3, Scott’s concern had grown into a sick knot in his stomach. The championship battle was too close for this.Hunter was just fifteen points behind.One bad qualifying result could completely reshape the title fight.
During the short break between Q2 and Q3, the television cameras zoomed in on Cam’s eyes, visible through his helmet. There was something dark in them. Something furious and barely contained.Cam looked like a man on the verge of throwing his steering wheel.
The final runs began, and everyone in the Ferrari garage focused on the timing screens. Hunter immediately found time.Purple sector one.Purple sector two. P1.
The Ferrari garage erupted in cheers.
Scott barely heard them. His eyes were fixed on Cam’s lap. Sector one.Messy.Sector two was somehow worse.Then came the final corner.Cam carried too much speed.The rear stepped out.
The correction cost him precious tenths, and when Camcrossed the line, he was justP8.
P8.
Silence settled over the Ferrari garage for all of half a second before the room exploded again.Hunter had taken pole whileCam Richter had just produced his worst qualifying performance of the season. The broadcast immediately switched to the championship standings.The commentators were already talking about momentum and pressure, wondering whetherthe championship leader was beginning to crack.
Scott barely heard them.
Because the cameras had returned to Cam, who was removing his helmet. And for one brief moment, before Cam noticed he was being filmed, Scott saw his expression clearly.
The sight made his stomach drop. Cam still looked furious. Furious and something else, his dark eyes glinting feverishly with something raw. The expression vanished almost immediately, replaced by the usual carefully controlled mask, but it was already imprinted into Scott’s mind.
It’s none of your business, Scott reminded himself sternly.Stay strong. He is none of your business.
***
Scott had just left Ferrari’s building and was heading toward the parking area when a hand clamped around his arm.
