Page 53 of Break My Heart

The run into Turn Two comes fast, then the kink through Three. Now, my driving is about skill as the throttle builds. My car glides forward, chasing the pack ahead. Every braking marker feels like a decision point as we drive around the challenging course.

I decide to stop playing games. Tucking myself behind the Ferrari as we enter lap three, I’d be inhaling their exhaust if my helmet didn’t protect me. By the end of Turn Six, I’m edging up their back left wheel. My car starts to wash wide, the front grip fading for a heartbeat.

“Losing front through Six,” I say.

“Copy,” Dario answers. “We’re seeing it in real time. Brake bias minus one.”

I flick the switch with my thumb. The change is immediate because of Christin’s work. The wheel gives me what I ask for without lag. The first time I felt the smoothness of the shift in testing, I nearly broadcast over the comms that I wanted her to marry me and bear my children. I can only imagine her taking one of the pit crew’s drills to me. Fortunately, I held back.

I ask, “Gap to Ferrari?”

“Seven tenths,” Dario says. “DRS next lap if you keep this pace.”

“I’ll keep it.”

Turn Ten tries to humiliate me. It always does. It’s a downhill, narrowing left-hander that involves braking while turning. It’s an ego crusher regardless of skill. Coming in hot behind the Ferrari with my front-left protesting, I’m close enough to see the horse emblems on their taillights.

For one sharp second, the car wants to slide. My instinct is to start correcting early. Then, I hear Christin in my head from the weeks in Vegas before this race.

Stop predicting. Trust what’s actually happening.

The wall waits beyond the runoff, not close enough to touch, but close enough to imagine the sound. I hold the car a fraction longer than I normally would.

The wheels regain their traction, and I surge forward, releasing a harsh breath.

“Nice save,” Dario says.

“Wasn’t a save.”

“What was it?”

I smirk before I answer, “Emotional growth.”

There’s a pause over the radio. Then Dario mutters, “Christ, help us.”

With the first three laps behind us, the race settles into a steady, grueling rhythm. Bahrain’s corners come at me in sequences now—brake, rotate, manage traction, unwind. The car is responsive. Predictable in a way it hasn’t been in almost half a year.

And it’s all because of Christin. Everything I hold in my hands carries her right alongside me. Doesn’t matter if it’s the revised mode switching or cleaner input mapping, Christin didn’t just make the system easier; she customized it for me. For the team, I correct myself.

Still, I’m not used to being anyone’s first consideration.

“Leo,” Dario says. “Ferrari’s struggling on rear traction. Pressure him into Eleven.”

“Already there.”

“Don’t get greedy.”

“I’m never greedy.” Except when it comes to one woman.

Dario snorts. “Lie.”

“Fine. Rarely.”

I close the gap through Turn Eleven. The Ferrari ahead clips a curb too sharply and twitches on exit. I spot it before he has time to correct himself. There’s a small opening to the outside—small enough that I’m probably insane for considering it.

I take it anyway.

The car drifts right, tyres edging near the painted line. Suddenly, I’m alongside the Ferrari, a hair’s breadth between us. They drift toward me, either not seeing or pretending they don’t. I realize I’m too close to the edge just as Dario snaps, “Leo, watch track limits.”