Beyond Speed

Chapter 1

Two Rhythms

Paris in June had an irritatingly beautiful way of existing.

The light came through the apartment windows too early, gilding the dark wood floor and slowly warming the tangled sheets of the king-size bed where I was still trying to pretend I was asleep.

The distant sound of the city was already rising from the streets—muted car horns, hurried footsteps, the constant murmur of a city that never really rested—and in the middle of it all, Adrien Moreau was humming some ridiculous song in the kitchen like he couldn’t go five minutes without making noise.

I opened one eye slowly.

“Are you singing off-key on purpose?” I murmured, my voice hoarse with sleep.

His laugh came almost instantly.

“Good morning to you too, love.”

I rolled over in bed, pulling part of the sheet with me as I took in the usual chaos of our bedroom.

One of his black shirts was tossed over the armchair near the window.

My nightgown from the night before had disappeared somewhere between the living room and the bathroom.

There was a helmet perched—for no apparent reason—on top of the dresser, because Adrien apparently believed any flat surface in the house doubled as a temporary garage.

“Your helmet is still on my dresser,” I complained.

“Our bedroom.”

“My dresser.”

He appeared in the bedroom doorway holding two coffee mugs and wearing that crooked smile that still had the irritating effect of making my heart race, even after all these years.

It was unfair for someone to look this good at seven in the morning.

His dark hair was indecently messy, the wrinkled white t-shirt hugging the muscles of his chest and arms, and the gray sweatpants sitting too low on his hips made me immediately reconsider my desire to get out of bed.

Adrien noticed my inspection.

“Like the view?” he asked, smug.

“You practically live without clothes in this house. At some point it loses its impact.”

He laughed as he approached the bed.

“Liar.”

It was. He sat down next to me on the mattress and handed me one of the mugs before leaning in to kiss my forehead absentmindedly. The gesture was automatic—so woven into our routine that sometimes I forgot how much it would have scared me before.

Intimacy had always seemed too dangerous to me.

Until him.

“Are you going to get up, or do you plan to spend the whole day there?” he asked before taking a sip of coffee.

“I seriously considered canceling all my appointments and becoming a kept woman, supported by a world champion.”

“I would totally support that decision.”

“You wouldn’t support anything. You’d freak out after three days of me reorganizing your meal plan.”

Adrien smiled over his mug.

But the smile didn’t last long—it was quick. Too small for anyone else to notice. But I knew Adrien well enough to catch the exact fraction of a second when his attention slipped away.

His eyes fell to the phone on the nightstand.

The screen lit up.

New message.

He picked up the phone almost immediately—he always got messages. From the team, sponsors, Sebastian, Logan. His life was a constant stream of notifications.

But in the last few days, something had been different, and I couldn’t explain it.

There were small things—delayed responses, moments when he seemed distant in the middle of a conversation, smiling to himself at his phone, odd hours.

And that uncomfortable feeling that his mind was always somewhere else.

“Everything okay?” I asked casually.

“Hm? Yeah. Of course.”

Too quick.

He locked the screen and looked back at me.

“Sebastian sent a message complaining about jet lag. Dramatic as always.”

I nodded slowly.

It could be true—and probably was. Still, something uncomfortable lingered in my chest.

Adrien finished his coffee and got up right after, walking around the room looking for clean clothes among the mountain of clothes scattered over a chair.

“Have you seen my black shirt?”

“Which of the fifty black shirts?”

“The favorite one.”

“Extremely useful information.”

He huffed theatrically.

“Cruel.”

I watched as he finally found the shirt on the floor near the bathroom door and pulled it on without ceremony. His movements were quick and distracted. Like he was in a hurry to get somewhere.

“Are you going out?” I asked.

“I need to take care of some things today.”

Vague again.

Adrien had never been exactly detail-oriented, but with me he used to be transparent. He told me everything. Even the useless things.

Now he seemed… careful.

That bothered me more than I’d like to admit.

I got out of bed slowly and walked over to him, still holding the warm mug between my hands. Adrien immediately wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me close without even needing to think.

My body knew his by heart.

“You’ve been acting strange this week,” I said quietly.

He raised his eyebrows.

“Strange how?”

“Distracted.”

“I’ve been working a lot, love.”

“You’ve always worked a lot.”

For a second, his gaze faltered.

It was barely noticeable, but I caught it. Then he kissed my forehead again. Deflecting.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you later.”

I sighed quietly and pulled away before my brain could turn small worries into something bigger.

Because it was ridiculous—we were fine and happy.

We’d been living together for over a year. We’d survived the press, paddocks, contracts, scandals, expectations, and the hell that was being in a relationship inside Formula 1.

Adrien loved me.

I knew that.

Still, as he finished getting ready around the house and answered messages from room to room, that feeling lingered, uncomfortable and persistent. He stopped at the apartment entrance about twenty minutes later, car keys already in hand.

“Don’t wait up for lunch,” he said.

I nodded from the couch, pretending to focus on the tablet in my lap. Adrien watched me for a few seconds, then came closer.

His hands slid to my face—the kiss was slow, affectionate, and familiar.

Yet still distant.

“I love you,” he said against my lips.

“Love you too.”

He smiled. But there was something hidden behind that smile. Something I still couldn’t reach.

The door closed behind him a few seconds later, and the apartment felt too quiet.

I sat there on the couch, staring at the phone beside me, trying to convince myself I was overreacting.

Maybe I was.

Maybe it was just the stress of the season.

Maybe I’d gotten too used to having all of Adrien Moreau’s attention on me.

Or maybe it really was something…

I’d learned early on to notice when Adrien Moreau was hiding something.