Chapter 12
Ronan
The Crown Velocity headquarters looks sterile and perfect in the morning light. Glass gleaming, tarmac unmarred. The building rises against an unusually blue sky, every line sharp and deliberate.
Like everything here is under control.
Unlike me.
I kill the engine and sit in the silence. My hands stay on the wheel, curled tight like if I let go, I’ll crash while sitting still.
A week ago, my life was chaotic enough—balancing the constant grind of an FI career, the politics inside Crown Velocity, and the ever-present mess that is my mother. But at least I knew the rules, even if I hated them.
Then she arrived. Francesca Accardi.
From the start, she’s been a thorn in my side.
That first brush-up during qualifying at Suzuka with no rookie hesitation, no give.
Just steel, which is impressive, no doubt.
And since then? It’s been one thing after another.
Forced PR appearances. A ridiculous grocery store shoot.
Her sitting across from me in some pub, digging into my life like she had the right.
And then last night. I tried to scare her off with my mother and somehow ended up in Francesca’s bed.
Now my life has the added complication of a beautiful, nosy, kind-hearted, and infuriatingly fiery Italian who refuses to be kept at arm’s length. She’s taken my carefully maintained detachment and crushed it under her smile.
And worse, I let her.
Now the question is—what the fuck am I going to do about it?
I didn’t sleep last night. Maybe an hour at most after our second round under the sheets. We were exhausted, not just physically but because of the mental gymnastics that led us into bed.
Francesca curled up to me, and it was weird… abut also comforting, so much so that I fell right to sleep. I didn’t stay that way long though, waking up in a panic because this isn’t my normal routine, and in my life, consistency is the only way for me to stay sane.
Even if that means my mum being drunk or stoned. If she ever tried to have a conversation with me sober, it would probably freak me out.
I left Francesca’s flat while it was still dark, leaving her naked body asleep in her bed. I didn’t even know where I was going, I just needed space. Needed to put a wall back up before it crumbled entirely.
To ease my guilt of sneaking out in the middle of the night, I told myself I needed to get to my mum’s estate in Woking to shower and change before coming here. I even told myself it would be rude to wake Francesca and ruin her beauty sleep. As if she needs that.
All very sensible. All very logical.
But the truth is, I couldn’t risk being there when she woke up. Couldn’t face her in the soft morning light after what happened. After what we did. After I kissed her like she was mine.
Because she’s not. And I can’t afford to want her like that. I have no room in my life to navigate a creature such as Francesca Accardi, not when I’m barely holding together what I have.
I exhale sharply, grab my badge and get out of the car.
Inside, I head to the sim lab. Lex and I will practice the Silvercrest track several times this week to allow our engineering team to tweak the cars based on feedback.
The room that houses the simulator is dim and cool, humming with idle electronics.
Screens line the walls with race footage and telemetry data looping on silent reels.
Engineers sit at their keyboards, analyzing numbers and using their big brains to translate that into better machines.
I find a certain peace here. One of the few places I can hide. The feeling inside the simulator is almost identical to being in the car on a real circuit, but there’s a safety net here. If I screw it up, if I crash spectacularly, I can reset. No twisted wreckage. No fire. No funeral.
It’s like living a perfect version of my life, allowing me to take risks without the fear of consequences. Which means I can push harder. Try bolder moves. Throw the car into a corner I’d never dare attempt on race day, just to see if it sticks.
And maybe that’s why Francesca’s getting under my skin.
With her, I’ve been acting like I’m in the sim—leaning into moments I’d normally avoid, saying things I wouldn’t, kissing her like there’s no price to pay.
But outside of here, there’s no reset button.
No safe restart if I crash. Out there, a mistake doesn’t just ruin a lap—it wrecks everything.
And I’m not convinced I have the courage to test it out.
The door hisses open and Lex steps inside like he owns the place—team quarter zip, joggers, hair still damp from a morning workout. He offers me a smile and it’s not cocky or taunting.
It’s… genuine.
I’m not sure what we are to each other past teammates. After admitting my regret to him, it definitely changed things, but it’s not defined. It’s more like a truce—still rivals with a polite handshake in the middle. Or maybe the faintest possibility of a repaired friendship.
One could hope but right now, I’m not about to burn mental fuel on it. My focus has to be on the track.
“I’ll go first,” I say to no one in particular, already striding for the sim rig. Lex doesn’t object and veers toward the engineers’ corner, settling near the main display screen to watch the data stream.
One of the engineers—Bea Sutherland, short, sharp-bobbed hair, tablet tucked under her arm—peels away from the group and approaches me. “We’re focusing on Sector 3 today—your cornering speed was a tenth off in the last data haul and we want to nip that.”
“Got it,” I reply, already envisioning those corners. I’ve driven this track hundreds of times between actual practices, qualifying, races and sim work. I could probably run it with my eyes closed.
She taps her stylus against the tablet. “Let’s see if we can get you later on the brakes without compromising traction on exit. The wind’s supposed to shift race weekend, so keep that in mind.”
“Understood,” I say with a nod. “If I can take a bit more curb on the apex, I can open the wheel earlier and carry the speed through, but I’ll need the front to bite better.”
Bea’s mouth curves—approval. “We’ve adjusted the virtual setup accordingly. Let’s see how it feels.”
I climb into the pod, lowering myself into the carbon fiber seat.
The harness clicks home across my chest. The rig sits on a motion platform, hydraulics ready to mimic every pitch, roll and surge of the car.
Surround screens wrap my vision in the circuit—Silvercrest loading in crisp detail, its elevation changes and tricky corners gleaming under a pale virtual sky.
As I settle my gloves on the wheel, Lex calls from across the room, “Good luck, mate.”
It’s enough to tighten my grip. Friendly encouragement from him? Not normal as of late and I hate inconsistency, but I need to remember… not too long ago, his friendship was part of the consistency. I just have to get used to it again.
I roll my neck and fire up the run. The sim roars to life, the platform tilting forward ever so slightly as the lights go green.
I launch down the starting straight, my pulse syncing with the RPMs. Curves come at me fast—flick left, right, left, weight shifting with the hydraulics—and for a few corners, it’s just me and the track.
Then my head fills with other things. Francesca’s laugh last night. Her skin under my hands. The look on her face when she orgasmed that second time and called my name. Lex standing five meters away, probably reading every data point and every mistake.
I miss my braking mark into the Sector 3 curve by a fraction—enough to send the rear end whipping out. I correct, but I’m late on the throttle, the tires locking before the sim screen explodes into a gravel trap.
“Reset,” Bea says, flat and calm in my headset. “Let’s start again.”
“Fuck,” I growl and rip open the harness instead.
Sliding out of the pod, I yank off my gloves. The engineers step back, giving me space as I stalk past Lex without a word. It’s not Francesca’s fault. It’s not Lex’s either. But right now, I’m pissed at them both for being in my head.
The door hisses shut behind me, and I take the corridor fast. The air outside the sim lab is cooler, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to cut through the frustration buzzing under my skin. I’m halfway to the stairwell when I hear the steady rhythm of another set of footsteps closing the gap.
“Barnes,” Lex calls, voice even but carrying enough urgency to make me slow down.
I glance over my shoulder as he falls into step beside me, hands in his pockets like we’re out for a casual stroll. “You’ve still got that charming habit of bailing when things don’t go your way,” he says, not quite a jab, not quite a joke.
I keep walking. “If you came to critique my driving—”
“Relax,” he cuts in. “I came to talk.”
I turn to face him, and he studies me for a moment. “That thing you said last week… about regret.”
My shoulders tighten like I’ve been handed a steering wheel in the rain. “Yeah?”
“You didn’t owe me anything,” he says after a moment, “but I appreciated it. I needed to hear it.”
“I wasn’t looking for a thank-you,” I grumble, still pissed at my failure in the sim and happy to take it out on him.
“I know,” Lex says. “That’s probably why I felt like you needed to hear it.”
The silence stretches for a second. I’m not used to this—us standing here without the sharp edges. “Still,” I mutter, “I appreciate you saying that.”
His brows lift slightly, like I’ve surprised him. “So… what are we now? Teammates who tolerate each other?”
A faint smirk pulls at my mouth. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
He huffs a laugh but then his eyes narrow a little, like he’s picking apart my tells. “You sure you’re all right?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with more meaning than he probably realizes. He’s not asking about the sim run.
I could tell him. Could say that I did the one thing I swore I wouldn’t—let someone in. That I let her see the cracked, ugly parts of me, and instead of running, she stayed. That I don’t know what to do with the fact she stayed.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
Instead, I say, “I’m good. Just frustrated at the sim.”
His steady gaze burrows into my soul. “You seem… off. Even before the run. I figured maybe it was your mum. You’ve never been good at hiding when she’s rattled you.”
I meet his eyes, holding them. Lex knows a little about Vivienne’s problems, but not the details I shared with Francesca. He’s certainly never met the woman who birthed me.
“It’s not her. Not exactly.” Not a lie, but not the full truth either.
Lex nods once, like he’ll let it go—for now.
There’s a moment where I almost leave it there, but the thought pushes forward. “Hey… about Posey,” I say. He shifts uncomfortably, but he doesn’t speak. “Let her know I regret it too.”
A slow smile curves his lips followed by a slow shake of his head. “No, mate. That’s on you. You track her down and say it yourself.”
My gut tightens. Apologies aren’t something I’m familiar with. But in my core, where the engine always runs too hot, I know he’s right.
“She’ll be at the FI charity gala in London,” Lex adds. “Plenty of time for you to make nice if you’ve got the stones for it. I assume you’re going?”
I give a short nod, though the idea of cornering Posey in a crowded ballroom knots my stomach. My gut hurts worse thinking about running into Francesca there because she’s not going to be happy when she sees me.
“All right,” he says, stepping back. “Later, man.”