13 Monaco

13

MONACO

LATE MAY

COSMIN

It wasn’t the bedspread that gave us away—Phaedra put that in the washing machine and told Inge she got blood on it. It was Reece noticing my words as we exited the boat.

When we got back to the hotel, she came to my room.

“I’m not best pleased I have to ask you this—it’s frankly not in my wheelhouse and I should be handing it directly to Klaus, but I thought I’d give you the benefit of the doubt in case I’m mistaken. Did you have sex with Phae this afternoon? And don’t lie.”

I offered what I hoped was a confused smile. “Why would you ask that?”

“Cosmin!” she snapped, eyes flashing. “On the dock you said, ‘After you, draga mea.’ The ‘mea’ implies you think she’s yours now. Also: washing the duvet? I’m not a fool.”

As I lifted a bottle of pomegranate juice to my lips, buying a moment’s time under Reece’s hawkish gaze, I could still smell Phaedra on my hands. “There’s no cause to bring anything up with Klaus.”

“Because you didn’t do anything, or—”

“Because it’s a private matter.”

“It’s not a ‘private matter’—it’s in your bloody contract!” She clapped a hand over her forehead. “You utter knobhead! What were you two thinking?”

When I went to the door of Phaedra’s room an hour later to tell her of the conversation with Reece, there was no answer. That evening, Reece texted me that Phaedra was on a flight back to the States to see her father. For the next week she stayed in North Carolina and attended meetings remotely. I went to Bucharest for a few days to spend time with Viorica.

Tomorrow Phaedra will rejoin the team in Monaco. I’ve been here since last night, staying at the apartment my friend Owen shares with his American girlfriend, Brooklyn.

She’s the daughter of a man who amassed a fortune producing reality TV programs. Smart, beautiful, excellent taste in music, and with a joyous, extroverted heart. I rely on Brook to introduce me to new bands. She and Owen have been together two years and have a passionate and loyal (though unconventional) relationship.

I’m lying on the bed in the small guest room, reading over some of the emails I’ve written but not sent to Phaedra this week. The lights in the room are off, but there’s ambient light from the large window looking out on the Boulevard du Larvotto and the sea.

A tap on the open doorway pulls my attention to the bright rectangle framing Brook. Her long blond hair is curly and has streaks of turquoise and pink. She rarely wears makeup, her chief adornment being the sleeve of vintage-style tattoos covering her right arm.

“Trying to sleep?” she asks.

“No, please come in.” I darken my phone and set it aside, and Brook sits on the edge of the small bed.

“I made a kickass couscous salad if you’re hungry,” she offers.

“Thank you. Perhaps later.” I roll onto my side and prop my head on one hand. “I’m being a poor guest. My apologies for appearing distant. I’ve been preoccupied.”

“Yeah, no shit,” she says with a small laugh. She takes her phone from her pocket and taps the screen. “I made you a gloomy playlist. Suspect you need it.”

My phone chimes and I open and peruse the link.

“That L.A. Witch song,” she continues, “‘Baby in Blue Jeans’ is basically auditory heroin. Angsty as fuck.”

We sit in companionable silence while I scroll through the new songs.

“You’re free to tell me to MYOB,” she ventures, “but you’ve got the ‘moping about a girl’ look. For a guy who has his dick in everything, it surprises me.”

My eyebrows lift in amusement. “I’m not as promiscuous as you assume, iubi.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

I consider whether to change the subject, then decide to unburden myself.

“I’ve made a misstep with someone I care about deeply. Phaedra Morgan, my race engineer.”

Brook chuckles. “Haven’t met her, but I’m a fan since the thing last year with that clueless old scrotum who owns Team Coraggio. Don’t know if you heard about their online pissing match. He said snarky shit about ‘lady engineers’ and she fired back that he should stick to what he understands, ‘ like tax evasion and horsie-tail butt plugs .’ Y’know—because of that leaked video of him at the sex party.”

“Beautiful,” I say with a laugh. “That’s my fierce girl.”

“ Is she your girl?”

The smile fades from my lips. “Likely not.”

“That’s why you’ve got ‘a face like a slapped arse,’ as Owen says.”

“Yes.” Quiet descends, the only sound the drone of the video game Owen is playing in the living room. I peek at Brook. “I ended up in bed with her.”

“Uh-oh.”

“She hasn’t spoken with me since.”

“Oof.” Brook waits a beat. “Are you in love?”

I sigh. “There’s a saying: M? faci s? visez ?n culori—‘You make me dream in colors.’ It’s how she makes me feel.”

Brook takes from her pocket a tin of the anise candies to which she is almost addicted, chooses one, and pops it into her mouth. “You should tell her.”

“I don’t have confidence such a thing would be well received.”

“Why? Because she’s a badass, you think she doesn’t want to hear schmaltz like that? Lemme tell you a secret: I’d rather get dental surgery than watch The Notebook , but I still swoon when Owen says romantic shit.” She leans toward me and drops her voice. “None of us is immune. Tell her. Say it in Romanian, an inch from her ear.”

“Hm.”

“But if she doesn’t feel the same way about you, obviously don’t mug yourself.”

I think of Phaedra’s demeanor on the boat. She was businesslike when she got up to wash the bedspread, and insisted I go up on deck and pretend to have fallen asleep in a lounge chair. When the group returned and we went back to the marina, she retreated into her novel. On the shuttle bus to the hotel, she ignored me.

I assumed this was a temporary but necessary deception, especially when I caught her sneaking a sorrowful look at me in the hotel lobby as we all crossed to the elevators.

Now I’m not so sure. Eight days of silence seems to tell a different story.

Wednesday afternoon, I take a chance on going to the hotel where Phaedra and a few others on the team have rooms. Much of the reason I’m staying with Owen and Brooklyn is that I told Reece I would avoid Phaedra in nonwork environments. In exchange, she agreed to drop the issue and say nothing to Klaus.

But I can’t endure another sleepless night picturing Phaedra, remembering her scent, her moans and whispered urgings, those hypnotic green eyes.

I have to see her.

After I knock at her suite, there’s a minute of silence before the door opens. Phaedra’s auburn waves are piled on her head, and she’s wearing a thick hotel bathrobe too long for her short frame. Her lips part. She wrings a handful of the robe’s fabric closed at the neck—likely bare underneath. The scent of lavender and mint swirls around her.

I lean against the doorframe. “May I come in?”

“No.” Her bare feet shift on the champagne-colored carpet, one resting atop the other. “I was taking a bath.” She points a thumb over her shoulder. “Gonna get back to it. I’ll see you at the paddock in the morning.”

Her eyes drift over me, then snap away as if she’s caught herself. I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing I am—remembering what I look like without clothes.

“Draga mea,” I say quietly, “I’m not of the opinion that men are owed an explanation when women spurn them.” I spread my hands. “Still, I would ask.”

“Don’t be Captain Melodrama. You’re not spurned . I’m just avoiding you. And we both know why, so there’s your Scooby-Doo mystery solved.”

“What is ‘scoopy do’?”

She rolls her eyes. “Romania stopped being communist before you were born. You’re telling me they didn’t let you have Scooby-Doo?” She crosses her arms. “It’s an old cartoon about a stupid talking dog and a hippie. Like, fighting crime and shit.”

I lower my head and smile, then look at her through my eyelashes. She scowls, impervious to the attempt at charm.

“If you invite me in, we can look it up—a video of this police dog cartoon.”

“It’s… no, it’s not a police dog. For fuck’s sake. I’m explaining it wrong.” Down the hall, a door opens, and Phaedra gasps. “ Shit! ” she whispers, grabbing my shirt and yanking me inside. “Did you pass anyone in the hallway?”

“Only staff.”

“Oh, jolly,” she deadpans. “I’m assuming no hot maids, or you wouldn’t have made it this far—you’d be in the nearest broom closet, finagling her into a knee-trembler.”

“I do not know this word— finagle .” I raise an eyebrow. “But ‘knee-trembler’ is familiar.”

“What a shock. I’ll bet you got the rest from context.” She presses her ear to the door, listening for people in the hall.

I sit on the corner of her bed. “Thank you for inviting me in. I’d like to talk.”

She crosses to the window, tying her robe tighter and peering down at the expanse of Monte Carlo. “It was hardly an invitation,” she stage-whispers with annoyance. “I just don’t want anyone to see you. Reece promised not to rat me out to Klaus if I stay away from you.”

When she perches on the armrest of the love seat near the window and adjusts the robe to cover her leg, I stare at its smooth curve, the slender ankle, the high arch of her foot.

“Ah. She spoke with you as well.”

Phaedra nods, twisting the bathrobe tie. “Look, dude. I appreciated your, uh, support in Barcelona. Good times. But with the announcement that Mo’s on ‘family-related sabbatical,’ eyes are on me. Our, uh, afternoon on the boat was fun, obvi. But…” She chews her lower lip and shrugs.

“Do you have feelings for me, draga mea?”

“Like it matters,” she says immediately, her voice gruff.

I stand, closing the distance between us. When I touch Phaedra’s chin to coax her to look at me, she doesn’t flinch away.

“Your comment about ‘maids’ when I arrived implies you’re still angry about Shanghai.” My thumb brushes her lower lip. “But I have kept a secret from you.”

Her green eyes are dark, and I’m drawn to the rise and fall of her chest, a pale sliver of freckled skin at the open V of the robe. I undo her hair and arrange the long waves over her shoulders.

“I led you to believe that woman had been in my bed, but she hadn’t. She was simply a shy fan who took a bold risk to meet me before I left in the morning. She became embarrassed and cried. I felt sorry for her and arranged for her to have a race pass. End of story.”

Phaedra has her hands lightly on my waist; I’m not sure she’s aware of touching me.

“I kinda believe you. But it might be because you’re standing super close and smell incredible.” She touches her upper lip with her tongue. “You should probably leave.”

I bend to kiss the crown of her head. “Should,” I echo. My lips alight on her brow. “Could,” I add. Next, I slide my fingers through her hair, grasping her as I kiss the corner of her parted mouth. “But won’t . Because your roaming hands are asking me to stay.”

I pause with my mouth a centimeter from hers. We’re so close, our focus jumps back and forth to settle on each of the other’s eyes like birds testing branches.

Her mahogany lashes drop closed as I claim her lips, touching the upper one with my tongue where I just saw her do the same. Her right hand moves, fingers closing around the contour of my cock, leisurely stroking through my jeans. My rumble of encouragement vibrates into her mouth as our tongues explore, hot but unhurried.

“I have to taste you,” I murmur against her.

“You are tasting me.”

With a wicked smile I pull my shirt off, then glide my hands down the warmth of her neck and skim over the robe. I tug the knot on her belt free before sliding inside.

“ Everywhere , sweet one,” I clarify.

Her skin is soft and dewy from bathwater, and the lavender-mint scent rises with her own earthy-bright heat. I push the robe off her shoulders and straighten to take in the sight of her nakedness where she’s perched on the arm of the sofa. The sparkle of moonlight and boats on the inky sea frames her from the window behind.

“You’re at precisely the correct height,” I say, kneeling, “for me to savor.” I push her legs wide and place a kiss on the inside of her thigh. “I’ve been imagining this for months.” My whisper-light kisses move like footsteps tiptoeing to paradise. My hands stroke her ankles, the taut calves, the humid hollows at the backs of her knees.

As I trace up her thighs with my knuckles, she shifts toward me in offering. Her hands tangle into my hair. I brush both thumbs along her pink lips, flirt with her already glistening opening, then coast back up to expose her wet and swollen bud. She’s shaved underneath now, though the front is still a downy trapezoid the color of new pennies.

Stroking the recently denuded skin, I glance up. “Expecting company?”

She narrows her eyes with a sardonic half smile. “Oh, shut up and don’t be smug. I wasn’t expecting ‘company’ other than the battery-operated type.”

The thought of Phaedra doing this makes my cock lurch. With a helpless groan I make contact, my tongue sliding a lazy circuit around her clit, lingering in areas that cause her hands to tighten on my hair.

I find a spot that elicits a tense whispered “Yes! Oh fuck…” and bathe it with the flat of my tongue until she pushes against my face, gasping. She tastes like salt and heat, the sweet muskiness of cantaloupe mixed with a dark richness like walnuts. I can’t resist gliding a path down to her entrance and pushing my tongue inside. A small, hoarse sob escapes her.

“More,” she begs. “ Don’t stop. You’re really good at that.”

“Confess, draga mea.” I slide two fingers into her and find that shy little patch like a firm, sticky sponge saturated with her lust. I rub and glide, physical memory directing my hand into the motion that made her twitch and moan last time.

“What am I confessing?” she manages, throwing her head back. She releases my hair and digs her fingers into the sofa. “Anything. Just tell me where to sign. I did it. Guilty.”

I give her several long, slow licks, then tease the spot I’ve noticed she loves most while my fingers rock inside her. She’s so delicious it’s driving me mad.

“No false confessions,” I warn. “Just this: Whom did you think of while you pleasured yourself?” I return my tongue to her, then suck her clit before pulling away again. “Whose face, voice, tongue, cock? Whose name spilled from your lips when you came?”

I renew my teasing ministrations, finding the precise rhythm that makes her beg me not to stop. As she gets closer, I can only catch a few syllables of what she’s deliriously saying under her breath—broken shards of words, riding atop her panting.

Her thighs are tense, and her toes point into the carpet like a ballerina. Her hands providing leverage on the sofa’s arm, she pitches her hips in tight little thrusts, as if bobbing on a quick current. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her nipples pink caps on the lightly jiggling mounds of her breasts.

When I draw back, she groans in dismay. I know she’s seconds from the edge, and inside her, my fingers define a lemniscate—the infinity symbol—against her hot walls. “Pentru totdeauna,” I whisper.

Forever.

My mouth covers her sweet cunt and she whimpers with relief, then goes silent in concentration as my focused caress leads her to the tipping point.

Her hands dive into my hair again and she allows herself one unrestrained sob of ecstasy before perhaps realizing that too much noise could give us away. Her legs jab straight as climax thunders in, and she strangles her cry into a discreet moan, shuddering against my hand and my lips.

“It was you,” she gasps, the words rough. “I thought about you… always , dammit…” Her eyes open and settle on me.

“Such an obedient girl.” I stand and tip her flushed face to kiss me. “Are you always so well-behaved? Mmm?”

I pull her to her feet into my arms. My cock is aching, crushed in my tight jeans, and she presses against me hard.

“I think you may be a bit bad,” I say as she drags my head down to kiss her.

Her mouth is ravenous against mine. “I am now,” she manages through the slick warring of our lips and tongues. “And it’s your fault.” She snags the waist of my jeans and pulls me toward the huge window. “You make me want to do terrible things.”

Planting her palm on the center of my chest, she shoves me against the cool wall perpendicular to the window and drops to her knees, wrenching my fly open. I help her, stepping out of my clothes and pushing them aside with my foot.

Her hands coast up my thighs and torso. She pauses, staring straight up into my eyes, arms stretched high in a posture so like supplication that I want to tumble her to the carpet and fuck her like a raging beast. Her pupils are splayed dark as mountain lakes ringed by trees, lips plump and abraded pink from kissing. A cascade of coppery-chestnut waves falls around her shoulders, parting over her tits.

From this angle, the jutting curve of her ass is bewitching. Her hand fits perfectly around the girth of my cock, and she begins to stroke me, one corner of her mouth lifting in a smirk.

“You look stunning on your knees,” I growl.

“The view’s about to get even better.”

With that, her mouth closes over me. I tip my head back with a hiss between clenched teeth, and one of my hands moves to the top of her head, fingers twining in the silken locks.

I watch her plunging up and down, my cock glittering and those plump lips sliding. I’m riveted by the way she blends the use of her lips and tongue and hand. She’s incredible—so skilled. Suddenly I wish to destroy every man she’s touched this way. Her mouth and hands belong only to me, now and always.

My hand tightens in her hair. I’m too close—I have to stop her before I’m unmanned.

“Numai mie ?mi apar?ine,” I murmur under my breath, half delirious.

She runs the tip of her tongue around the ridge of my cock, massaging the sensitive underside before pausing. “You said the same thing on the boat. What is it?”

Her lower lip is shining, and she sucks it into her mouth for a split second, eyes locked on mine. The gesture is both so erotic and so natural that a stab of need tears through me. I pull her to stand, dovetailing our fingers.

“It means,” I tell her in a harsh whisper, switching places with her as if in a dance, “you belong to me, only .”

I crush her lips in one fierce kiss before rotating her and trapping her against the wall, turned away from me. She gasps, and her palms flatten on the wallpaper—a geometric sage pattern with radiating threads of gold. Where her hands land, it appears electricity is shooting from her fingertips, and it seems fitting.

Yes, this wallpaper will be burned into my brain—I know it when I dip my knees to angle myself at her opening and she arches back, her posture begging me to ram my cock home. As I do, it wrings a cry from us both, and Phaedra’s hands slip up the wall an inch with the force of my entry.

Her hands move again and again, fingers tensing, as I slam into her. I brace one palm on the wall and she clasps my wrist hard. With my other hand I reach around and caress down her belly, settling two fingers on her clit, slowing my thrusts, kneading and stroking her outside while I churn up a storm of tension inside her. Her snug walls squeeze me, and that round ass I’ve been watching for months is pure bliss to smack against with my hips.

We’re beside the large window, and Phaedra swings one leg out and rests her foot on the windowsill, opening herself wider. One of her hands settles over mine as I rub her slippery clit.

I deliver a small bite to the side of her neck. “Do you want to take over?”

“No,” she breathes, her eager body alternately grinding against my fingers and sheathing my cock deeper in herself. “I just want to be with you while you do it. Fuck , it’s so good…”

“Beautiful, beautiful,” I whisper into her shoulder as her legs start to tremble. “Fall apart for me.”

Her hand atop mine adjusts subtly, showing me exactly what she needs in this position. I follow her lead and she lets out a low, breathy moan, rocking against my hand as I drive into her with the short, sharp thrusts she seems to want right now.

“I never got the chance,” she says in a delirious whisper. “I’m taking it now…”

“Whatever it is,” I reply, my lips against her neck, my fingers sliding in a motion Phaedra guides with her own, “you deserve it, sweet girl.”

There’s a flutter inside her, and she clenches around my cock. The hand she has on my wrist against the wall digs into me.

“Anything, draga mea. Name it and it’s yours.”

“A secret!”

She pushes her ass back against me hard as she comes, her hand flying up and covering the breathy whimper that spills from her. As silent shudders pass through her, I cup her breasts, squeezing their warm weight, feeling the pebbled nipples at the center of my palms.

With a few more wild plunges, I shower her inside, groaning into her neck, doing my best to stay as quiet as she was herself.

Together we go still. I sweep her hair aside and give the back of her neck one last little bite, then stroke down her ribs and waist. She follows me with her hips, emitting a note of disappointment, as I withdraw.

I turn her around and cradle her face in both hands, pressing my lips to hers for a long moment, both of us content just to be touching.

When we part, she reaches to push hair off my forehead. “Did you mean it, Legs?”

I’m not sure to which part she’s referring, but I answer honestly, “I never say things I don’t mean.”

“You’ll be my secret? I missed out on all that stuff like sneaking around with boys, making out in cars. I didn’t go to high school—I just had a tutor. My first boyfriend was a glorified business arrangement, in my twenties. There have been no scandalous secrets in my life.”

She trails off and looks at the carpet, then goes to flop face down on the bed.

I join her and sprawl out too, smoothing a hand down her back. “Talk to me, lovely.”

She props on a hand and studies my face.

“It makes me a hypocrite to ask. I’ve spent months criticizing you for being a sleazy ho-bag, and now that you fucked some stellar O’s out of me, I’m like, ‘But could you be my sleazy ho-bag?’ I’m actually starting to, uh, like you as a person.” She rolls her eyes, and I’m not sure which of us she’s mocking. “It seems shitty of me to exploit your nature for kicks.”

“That’s all it could be—‘kicks’? Fun and games?”

She looks away. I suspect we’re both remembering that moment on the boat in Spain, when I told her it wasn’t a game.

“Maybe we could just go for it and keep it discreet,” she suggests quietly, eyes focused on tracing a curve on the bedspread with her fingertip. “But if that makes you feel objectified or whatever, I can handle a no thanks.”

I roll onto my back and put my hands behind my neck. “Are you hoping both that I will say yes and I will say no?”

“I acknowledge it’s completely reckless, Cos. But if anyone could keep it casual, it’s a womanizer like you. And… I need the distraction right now.”

I recognize the truth in what she’s saying. And I certainly cannot begrudge her a “distraction” during this painful time, however much her words may sting.

If I’m to win her, I must be in the race.

Timing. Strategy. Tenacity. Focus. Every moment, hunting for the opportunity for advancement.

And so—despite having told her moments ago that I never say things I don’t mean—I toss the words between us like a dice roll.

“Certainly I can keep it casual.” I lean across the empty space between us to kiss her. “Consider me your scandalous secret.”

The Monaco Grand Prix is nearly a hundred years old, and if it weren’t already considered the crown jewel of international motor racing—the most prestigious, glamorous, and iconic event of the Formula 1 calendar—it wouldn’t exist, due to its demanding and dangerous track layout. It’s the only circuit with a race-length exemption… 260 kilometers, rather than the minimum-required 305 kilometers.

A street course, it’s narrow, winding, and bumpy, with elevation changes and corners “as tight as a nun’s budget,” as Owen says. It also has a tunnel section, in which the light-dark-light change is a blinding adjustment, and downforce on the car is temporarily altered due to the aerodynamic properties of the enclosed space.

Despite the slower average speeds at Monaco, racing incidents and the resultant presence of the safety car are common. There’s almost no room for overtaking on the track, so qualifying in a strong position and executing clever pit strategy are critical. It’s a highly technical race… and highly unforgiving.

Since Wednesday night, Phaedra and I have spent every possible stolen moment in each other’s presence. Interestingly, we devote nearly as much time talking about the upcoming race as we do making love (a term she loathes, but which I cannot help using in my head). Our communication is curiously relaxed now that we’ve settled on our agreement.

“We should’ve been having strategy meetings naked all along.” She laughed as we lay tangled together Friday night, sweaty and drifting on a tide of post-sex bliss, chatting about the upcoming qualifying session.

“I think,” I replied, rolling her beneath me again, “this is a brilliant but impractical plan. Though I confess, many times in meetings, I’ve pictured you in nothing but the headset.”

Race morning, Sunday, there’s anxiety over the weather, with possible intermittent rain approaching. A street course is already tricky for grip—the surface isn’t the same as on a track engineered specifically for racing, and road traffic means the presence of dirt and oil. Throw in a bit of rain and things become perilous. The tunnel section also complicates tyre choice, as it stays drier inside while the main part of the track is wet.

In the morning meeting, the team discuss multiple permutations of what could happen. Klaus notes—with an expression both approving and a bit sly—that Phaedra and I seem to be quite in tune, jumping into each other’s sentences with intuitive ease. She does a convincing job of claiming it’s nothing more than the result of an accidental, impromptu meeting over coffee yesterday, during which we discussed the race.

Already, after only a few days, I can read her expressions better for having seen them unguarded in bed. On the tail of Klaus’s praise, I spot immediate—though subtle—signs of her relief. The coolness I’ve noticed in their dynamic since the Chinese GP appears to be thawing.

I’ve qualified third on the grid. In the reconnaissance lap, Phaedra and I discuss adjustments to the three systems that combine to supply rear braking. The balance feels excellent, but factors such as tyre degradation and the changing weight of the fuel load will cause this to evolve during the race. The right touch is essential. If things are off, understeer causes the car to feel lazy and unresponsive; too far in the other direction creates oversteer that could send me into a spin. The brakes are nearly as important as the steering wheel in controlling the direction the car is pointed.

A one-stop strategy is best in Monaco—it’s imperative not to lose track position on circuits with such slim opportunity for overtaking. I’m starting on soft compound tyres and will make one stop to switch to hard compound for the rest of the race. This could change, should there be significant rain.

As the race begins, I maintain position through the scrum of the first corner. Phaedra is calm and encouraging, delivering periodic updates on weather radar along with her invaluable engineering input. Things are going beautifully until lap 21, when the beginning of rain asserts itself. Within three laps, a sprinkle becomes a steady drizzle.

“How long might this last?” I ask Phaedra.

“Could be twenty minutes,” she replies easily. “How’s it feel? Lot of chatter about switching to inters. Thoughts, Legs?”

It’s probable the drivers ahead of me will watch and wait too, pushing a decision as late as manageable.

Phaedra and I discussed many possibilities last night. Aside from the team’s plans A, B, and C, we bandied about our own informal plan D (as one might imagine, there were plenty of jokes about that particular letter of the alphabet).

The rain gets heavier in the next sector of the track, and before I reply to Phaedra’s question, she speaks again: “Powell’s boxing for inters.”

“Radar?”

“Not ideal.”

I creep through the hairpin at what feels like a snail’s pace, round turn 8 and head into the tunnel, where the dry track buoys my optimism. I brace for the flare of bright sky as I emerge. The light quality, in that moment, feels more relevant than the weather forecast—the difference between theory and experience.

I tell Phaedra, “Feeling confident.”

“Understood. Ollson boxing for inters now as well.”

“Copy.”

I’m questioning my gut feeling—the rain is quite heavy. But something tells me to wait longer and see if I can stick to a one-stop. My soft tyres are at least better under the current track conditions than mediums would have been.

In another lap I’m more certain this is the right strategy. I suspect other teams will regret having panicked. I’m feeling my tyre degradation, but the rain is clearing.

“Were we correct?” I ask Phaedra, knowing she’ll understand my meaning.

She chuckles warmly. “That’s plan D for ‘damned straight,’ Legs.”

On lap 31, I box for hard tyres. The rain has stopped and a dry line is forming well. For several laps, the grip is still so precarious that my stomach is in my throat, but my unease dissipates as conditions improve and Phaedra tells me Olsson and Powell are making another pit stop. Suddenly I’m in first place—the car and my spirit both flying, a win in sight on my sixth race with Emerald .

For the next twenty-three laps, I lead the race.

I’m a force of nature.

Though my focus is 100 percent on the dozens of details rushing at me simultaneously, in the background of it all, a foundational pulse thrums through me: the presence of Phaedra.

We’re an unstoppable combination.

A good drive already has the intense flow-state exhilaration of falling in love. The only thing that could top it is falling in love during a race.

Shooting out of the tunnel on lap 54, I’m headed for Nouvelle Chicane—about to lap Jo?o Valle—when disaster strikes.

He makes a pointless, jerky move as I’m alongside him, sending us careening in two directions like colliding billiard balls. A shuddering slam brings me to a halt, mind spinning, the hiss of adrenaline in my ears, loose tyre bouncing across the track in my peripheral vision.

“What the fuck ?!” I shout, staring at the scarred barrier in disbelief as what’s happened catches up to me. My heart is tripping in my chest. I smack the steering wheel with one hand, swamped with grief over the perfect win my race engineer and I were reeling in together.

“You’re okay, Cos?”

“I’m not fucking okay!” I snarl. “That halfwit daddy’s boy sent me into the wall! What was he trying for with that shit? Harrier told him to get out of my way, yes?”

“Race stewards are looking into it,” Phaedra says, her voice smooth and certain.

My teeth grit in frustration. Behind me on track, cars edge past the sprawl of post-wreck detritus. I force myself to breathe slowly.

“Just glad you’re all right,” Phaedra adds, conspicuously neutral, though I can hear the tension in her tone.

I shake my head, eyes squeezed shut, mourning the loss of my victory.

So damned close…

“We had it,” I groan. “We fucking had this one.”

“Next time, Cos,” she tells me. “We’ll get it next time.”

My eyes open as it connects with me, what she’s said:

We’ll get it next time.

We.

After the final-lap debacle in Bahrain just two months ago, she said, You’ll get it next time…

I can’t help a little smile inside my helmet as I climb out of the car.