Chapter 9
Francesca
Silvercrest sprawls before us, legendary and treacherous.
The track is located almost exactly halfway between Woking and Guildford and next week will host one of the most high-profile global prix on the FI calendar.
The balance of sweeping straights and tight, technical corners demands both aggression and finesse, and the subtle elevation changes have a nasty habit of exposing weaknesses in even the best drivers.
The track hums with life under a flat gray sky, the wind tugging at my jacket, and I welcome the refreshing breeze. I barely slept last night because every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ronan.
His heated stare. The fire in his voice when he said I didn’t understand. And God help me, the moment his eyes dropped to my mouth like he might kiss me, all while hating me.
I should have shaken it off by now, but my brain refuses to let it go. I told myself this morning that I’d keep things simple. Stay professional. Focus on the shoot.
But now, standing here, that promise feels about as solid as the mist curling over the asphalt.
The place is crawling with crew today. Drivex banners snap in the breeze. Camera rigs line the paddock lanes. A photographer adjusts his lighting angles near the pit wall while Timmy flits from setup to setup, glittering with praise and stress.
It’s showtime.
I spot Nash near the Drivex trailer, chatting easily with Lex, who gives me a warm wave when I approach.
“Mornin’, superstar,” Lex says, his grin easy and unbothered, like he’s been doing this kind of dog-and-pony show his entire life. “Ready to pretend we all like each other for the cameras?”
I smirk, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jacket. “That’s the spirit.”
Nash looks more than relaxed, as if this is just another morning at the track instead of a staged PR circus. He lifts his fist toward me, and I knock mine against it.
“You sleep okay?” he asks, casual, but his eyes flick over me like he’s looking for cracks.
“Sure,” I lie. The word comes out too easily because no one needs to know I spent half the night staring at the ceiling while replaying last night’s conversation.
I paste on another smile, hoping neither of them notices the exhaustion tugging at the corners of my mouth. Cameras will be snapping soon and the last thing I need is for anyone to see how rattled I really am.
And yet I can’t help but ask, “Is Barnes here yet?”
Nash nods past me and I turn, watching Ronan walk through the paddock with the confidence of someone who’s actually won two podiums here. His gaze skims over the three of us standing together—and then shifts away.
Timmy, already buzzing with caffeine and sparkle, is in full creative mode. “All right, darlings, let’s make some magic. Singles first, then pairings, then group stills. No one leaves until I say we’re done or dead.”
We start with solo shots. Helmets, hands on hips, smoldering glances. The usual.
I tug at the sleeve of my racing suit, the familiar Titans purple trimmed in steel gray and crisp white.
The tailoring is sleek and made to move as well as protect.
Timmy had strong opinions this morning and insisted my long hair be worn loose—not in the braid I always use for race days.
He wouldn’t even consider a practical ponytail like I wear for media events.
He wanted it unbound because, as he put it, “This isn’t just racing, darling, it’s history. Let them see it.”
As if the suit didn’t already hug my curves. As if my chest plate didn’t give it away. No one needs to see my hair to know I’m a woman.
Still, I let him have that win. But when he came at me with a full face of makeup, I pushed back. Hard.
He pouted—actually pouted—when I refused the bronzer and blush. We settled on a touch of lip gloss and some powder to kill the shine.
Nash looks sharp in the same Titans colors beside me—his suit identical in design.
He’s holding his signature helmet under one arm, matte purple with white lightning streaks crossing the top.
Each driver has a unique helmet, and I enjoyed helping to design mine.
It’s glossy black, detailed with hand-painted constellations arcing across the top and sides, a quiet tribute to the stars my parents always told me to chase.
Across the way, Lex and Ronan are a study in contrast. Crown Velocity’s uniforms are darker—racing green sliced with black and charcoal gray.
Lex’s suit is pristine and fitted like a tailored tuxedo, his silver-and-black helmet gleaming even without the sun’s rays.
Ronan’s helmet is almost fully green and covered with renditions of all the formula tracks we race.
Timmy directs us efficiently, which I appreciate, and I end up having a bit of fun. When Ronan’s in front of the camera, he’s like a statue—flawless but frozen. Lex, by contrast, oozes charm. Nash and I shoot our pairing with mock serious faces and exaggerated poses that have everyone snickering.
The vibe is generally good, but it’s impossible to ignore the wall between Lex and Ronan. They don’t speak. They don’t make eye contact. They rotate through the shoot like ships passing in the night.
After an hour, we end up taking a break. Crew members drift toward craft services, makeup artists huddle around monitors, and Timmy is off gesturing wildly at a camera rig that’s apparently not dramatic enough for his taste.
Nash is a few meters away, pacing and laughing softly into his phone—clearly talking to Bex, based on the way his face lights up.
I glance around for Ronan, but he’s vanished again.
No surprise there since he’s not exactly the social butterfly type.
If there’s a corner to brood in, I’m sure he’s found it.
Then I spot Lex, sitting alone on a bench outside the hospitality tent. He’s stretching his long legs, one ankle lazily resting over the other, his green-and-black Crown Velocity suit unzipped at the collar.
I grab a water bottle from the cooler near craft and walk toward him. “Hey,” I say, holding it out.
“Thanks.” He accepts it with a grateful nod and that easy Lex smile—the kind that always looks genuine no matter who you are. He unscrews the cap and takes a long drink. “Having fun?”
“This is definitely part of the sport I’m not used to,” I reply, easing onto the bench beside him.
The wind nips at my loose hair as I tuck a few strands behind my ear and I curse Timmy for insisting I leave it down. It’s constantly in my face, tickling my neck. I miss my braid.
Lex frowns at my efforts to contain the mass. “Why don’t you just tie it back?”
I snort, pushing another lock behind my ear. “Timmy’s orders. Apparently, I needed to look more female. As if the boobs didn’t give it away.”
Lex barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, his shoulders shaking. “Timmy’s a menace.”
“Yeah, well, he tried to get me in full makeup too. I drew the line at lip gloss.”
Lex’s smile lingers as he shakes his head. “Good for you.” His tone is warm, approving, and I appreciate the acceptance into his inner circle for the day.
We sit in companionable silence for a beat, watching as a lighting crew repositions a soft box reflector along the pit wall. A bird cries overhead, the sound sharp and distant against the mechanical thrum of generators in the background.
“We missed you at dinner last night,” Lex says casually.
“I was having a drink with Ronan,” I say, keeping my tone neutral, though the memory of the bar still lingers on my skin.
Lex blinks, bottle poised halfway to his mouth. “Ronan?” he repeats, frowning.
I nod. “Yeah… saw him going into a pub after the shoot and followed him in. I invited him to come to dinner, but he declined.”
His expression doesn’t shift into judgment, exactly, but it does close a little. He leans back against the bench, eyes flicking toward the track.
If I thought that might coax him into telling me more about what happened between them, I’m sadly disappointed. “He told me a little about it,” I offer.
Lex’s gaze returns to mine, cool but not hostile. “Then you understand why we’re not friends and why I’m not particularly sad he didn’t show up last night.”
“I think so,” I admit. “He indicated you two used to be close.”
“We were.”
I hesitate, unsure how much of Ronan’s confidence I’m betraying, but I push forward. “I asked him why he did it… outing Posey the way he did.”
Lex’s brows rise in visible surprise. “Well, he never told me,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Then again, I punched him for doing it, so there wasn’t much talking after that.”
I let out a low breath. “Oh, wow. I didn’t realize that.”
“Yeah.” His response is flat, but I hear the hurt laced within it. “It was a clean hit too. Knocked him back a step. He didn’t return the punch.”
“That says something,” I murmur, watching a gust of wind whip a Drivex banner so hard it nearly rips off its post. “Want to know why he did it?”
Lex doesn’t respond immediately. He studies the bottle in his hand like the label might hold answers to bigger questions. “I’m not sure if I care, to be honest.”
“I think you care,” I say softly, turning toward him. “You’re a nice guy. Of course, you’d care.”
“But he’s not a nice guy,” he says with a shrug that’s too practiced to be sincere.
“I think he’s got the ability,” I counter, then glance past him at Ronan pacing along the edge of the hospitality structure, phone to his ear, his free hand shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket. His mouth is tight, his expression hard. It doesn’t look like a fun conversation.
I turn back to Lex. “He said he was jealous. That he thought he was losing his best friend and maybe wanted to blow it all up before it changed without him.”
Lex exhales slowly, nodding once. “I suspected as much. It wasn’t exactly rocket science to figure that out.”
“He’s not proud of it,” I add. “And I think you know that. Because you knew him.”