Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Charlie

Don't call me a nepo baby.

I have a Master's degree in both Aeronautical Engineering (Hons.) and Mechanical Engineering (Hons.) from Cambridge, won the Zienkiewick Silver Medal for my paper on the four laws of aerodynamics, raced in competitive karting from the age of nine, only stopping after breaking both wrists in an on-track accident when I was sixteen. I founded Girls Rush , a foundation supporting the promotion and development of young women in all levels of motorsport, and my father still, to this day, wishes he'd had a son instead of a daughter.

As of last week, I'm the chief aerodynamicist at Equis Racing.

The fact my father owns Equis Racing doesn't have anything to do with my new position. I wasn't employed by my father. Dad doesn't want me here. Dad is a dick.

The Team Principal, Carson Willoughby, employed me because, after working from the bottom up in Formula 2, and being a member of the team that guided Diaulos Racing, Equis Racing's biggest rival, through to back-to-back F2 Constructor Champions, I was the most suitable candidate.

So no, I'm not a nepo baby. I'm here because I'm fucking amazing at my job.

I'm here because I genuinely believe Equis Racing can be, should be, the F1 Constructor Champions.

That Dad is pissed off I'm here is just an added bonus.

But now, I'm about to do something that is going to piss off a lot of people.

Namely, inform the race team that Laurant's car isn't performing the way it should and needs to undergo significant adjustments to the settings and wing structure. No matter how much Laurant is most likely going to demand it's exactly how he wants it.

If Equis Racing is to win this year's F1 Constructor Championship, and next year's, and the year after that, they need to listen to me.

Most of all, Laurant himself.

Who, according to my deputy aerodynamicist, Sergio, is the one calling me a nepo baby.

"How are we tracking for time, Serg?" I ask, scrolling through the points of my presentation on my iPad as we make our way through Equis Racing's Monaco Grand Prix HQ. We're a day away from the first two practice sessions. Most of the team has been here for at least six days. The drivers themselves arrived the day before yesterday.

I know Nigel O'Brien, Equis's other driver, is somewhere onsite, having seen him and his girlfriend talking with Martin Verhoeven from Barnett Racing this morning when I arrived. But Anton…

A tight knot twists in my stomach.

Thanks to my preparation for this job, I've researched Anton Laurant to the nth degree, but I've never spoken to him. I've tried to arrange a meeting since I joined Equis, but he's ignored my request.

Too busy . That's been the text response every time.

Text. Not even a courtesy call. A text.

"We're doing fine, Ms Madigan," Sergio replies, checking his watch. "Ahead by six minutes, in fact."

"Sergio?" I throw him a look. "It's Charlie. Or if you can't handle that, Charlotte. Not Ms Madigan. Okay?"

I've told him this multiple times since I joined the team.

He smacks his forehead and smiles. "Charlie."

He's also done that multiple times. Sergio is my favorite person on the team. He's funny, whip-smart, and has made me feel more than welcome from day one. Plus, his wife bakes the most amazing Ricciarelli. Apparently, he and Dad knew each other at Eton College, but neither seem inclined to acknowledge it.

"The front wing on both cars needs to be adjusted three clicks for more downforce," I say, opening a different page on my iPad. "I need the pit crew on that today. It'll help the cars turn in better." I frown, looking up at him. "By the way, do you know where Laurant is?"

Sergio grimaces. "Err…"

I snap to a halt, stare locking on him. "Are you kidding me?"

Clearing his throat, Sergio rubs at the back of his neck. "I'm not. Apparently, he's going sailing with?—"

"Fuck this," I growl, tucking my iPad under my arm and yanking my phone from my jacket pocket.

Sergio lets out a nervous laugh.

Teeth gritted, I scroll through my contacts.

"Fuck this," I mutter again, stopping at Laurant's contact profile.

His face smirks at me in frozen arrogance from above his name and number. I should have known he would be trouble the moment I saw this photo attached to his WhatsApp profile. He selected it, he made it his profile avatar in the Equis WhatsApp group. And sure, he's too gorgeous for comprehension, but the smug conceit in the photo screams he knows it.

I will enjoy reminding him he's just a pretty boy who can drive fast.

When it comes to the car itself, the twelve-million-dollar machine, I'm in charge.

I punch Call and raise my phone to my ear, flicking a look at Sergio.

He grimaces again, taking a step back. "He's not going to like this," he says, shaking his head.

"Do I look like I care what he likes?" I say back.

Anton's smooth, deep voice slinks into my ear a heartbeat later, French accent dialled up to eleven. "Oui?"

Just that. One word.

I picture his face with its mocking dark eyes and defined lips and chiseled jaw and?—

"If you don't get your arse to the meeting in twenty minutes," I reply, dialing my British accent up to twenty, "I'll make sure this nepo baby has your contract torn up before the end of the day." I smile at the missing Laurant, the expression as icy as my threat. "Cheerio."

I kill the call, return my phone to my jacket, close my eyes and give my head and shoulders a little shake. Ground and center my emotional state. Count to five.

Opening my eyes, I nod at Sergio, currently gaping at me like I've suddenly sprouted an extra head. "Tell everyone the meeting is delayed by thirty minutes."

His head jerks in a stuttering little nod.

A tight tension crawling up my spine and over my scalp, I pivot on my heel and start striding back the way we'd come. Is it possible to hate someone you've never met?

"What are you doing, Ms Madigan?" Sergio calls behind me.

"I'm going to beat the shit out of a punching bag," I call over my shoulder. "Can you get someone to bring me a print-out of Laurant's face?"

Sergio lets out another nervous laugh, unsure whether I am being serious or not.

To be honest, I don't know either.