CHAPTER FIFTEEN
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Mia
This time was different.
“Last year here was tough,” he said when one reporter inevitably brought it up. “I was green, the car wasn’t kind, and I didn’t handle the spotlight well. Today felt like closing that chapter. The team gave me a car I could fight with, and I’m grateful.”
The room softened. Cameras clicked. The redemption arc was already forming.
Mia watched from the side of the pen, clipboard in hand, a small, proud smile tugging at her lips.
She’d helped shape those answers—quiet late-night prep sessions, gentle nudges toward vulnerability.
Seeing it land felt like proof she belonged here.
The next races followed suit. Shanghai: P4.
Suzuka: P5 again, battling wheel-to-wheel with a Red Bull in the final stint.
The points were stacking up, the car reliable, the team cohesive.
Lucas was settling into a rhythm that felt almost effortless—precise, controlled, quietly devastating. The press noticed.
They’d always loved Jax, of course. The Australian was still the undisputed media darling: cheeky grin, laconic one-liners, the quintessential larrikin who could charm a room with a single “no worries, mate.” But Lucas was closing the gap fast. The cameras lingered on him now—the sharp jawline, the easy smile that had once been guarded, the way he answered questions with a warmth that felt genuine rather than rehearsed.
And then there was Sienna: stunning in every post-race photo, long blonde hair catching the light, always perfectly positioned beside him in the garage or on the grid.
The narrative wrote itself: the handsome English driver with the glamorous influencer girlfriend, finally loosening up, finally human.
“LUCAS MOREAU: FROM MELBOURNE MELTDOWN TO MEDIA MAGNET?” one headline read. Another called him “THE NEW HEARTTHROB OF THE GRID.” Mia read them all, felt a quiet satisfaction that her work was paying off—and a small, private ache every time she saw Sienna’s arm looped through his.
Everything was going well. Steady results from the early season.
Until Imola.
The rain came down in sheets on race day, turning the old circuit into a skating rink.
Lucas started P7, fought his way up to P4, then—on lap 38—misjudged the braking zone into Tamburello.
The rear snapped, the car spun, and he kissed the barriers hard enough to end his day.
No injury, just a bruised ego and a DNF.
Mia found him later in the quiet of the team trailer, away from the cameras. He was staring at the floor, elbows on knees, still in his race suit.
“Hey,” she said softly, closing the door behind her.
He looked up, eyes tired. “Feels like last season all over again.”
“It’s not,” she said firmly. “You were flying before that. Everyone saw it. One mistake doesn’t erase your great start to the season—or how far you’ve come since last year.”
He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “The press is going to love this. ‘MOREAU CRASHES AGAIN.’”
“Let them write what they want. You know what happened out there. You pushed, you fought, you just got unlucky with the conditions. Monaco next. Street circuit. No room for error. But you’ve got the pace now.
You’ve got the head for it. Remember Suzuka?
You held off two faster cars for ten laps.
That’s not the rookie who lost it in Melbourne. That’s you.”
Lucas turned to her, searching her face. Something in her steady gaze loosened the knot in his chest. “Do you always know what to say?”
“I just say what’s true.” She gave him a small smile. “You’ve got this, Lucas. Monaco’s yours to take. Show them who you are now.”
He held her eyes a beat longer than necessary. “Thanks, Mia.”
* * *
Lucas
The streets of Monte Carlo hummed with the sound of engines, the harbour yachts bobbing like jewels.
Qualifying went perfectly: P5 on the grid.
Race day was chaos—safety cars, yellow flags, strategy calls—but he drove like a man possessed.
Clean lines through the Nouvelle Chicane, brave overtakes at Rascasse, flawless tyre management.
When the chequered flag appeared, he crossed the line in P3—his first podium.
The parc fermé erupted. He climbed out of the car, helmet off, sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead, grin splitting his face. The crowd roared. Champagne corks popped in the distance. He scanned the sea of team personnel, eyes searching—until they found her.
Mia stood near the barriers, clipboard in hand, cheeks flushed from the heat and the adrenaline. Their gazes locked. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just them.
He started toward her, long strides eating the distance, arms already opening as if to pull her into a crushing hug—
Then a high-pitched squeal cut through the noise.
“Baby!”
Sienna burst from the side, all golden hair and designer dress, throwing herself into his arms. The cameras swivelled instantly.
He caught her on reflex, laughing as she planted a kiss square on his mouth—deep, celebratory, perfectly timed for the lenses.
The crowd cheered louder. Social media was already exploding.
When he looked back, Mia had turned away, busying herself with her clipboard.
* * *
The team party that night was loud—champagne flowing, music thumping through the venue overlooking the harbour, Jax holding court with his usual charm.
He was everywhere: shaking hands, posing for photos, Sienna glued to Lucas’s side in a shimmering silver dress that caught every light. But his attention kept slipping.
Mia had worn a simple black dress—thin straps, fitted at the waist, the hem brushing mid-thigh.
Nothing flashy, but it moved with her, hugging the curve of her hips when she laughed at something Jax said near the bar.
Jax was in rare form, mid-story about a wild night in Melbourne last year, arm slung casually around her shoulders as he delivered the punchline.
She threw her head back, laughing freely—the sound bright and unguarded—and he felt it like a punch to the sternum.
His gaze found her again and again—across the crowd, over Sienna’s shoulder, mid-conversation with a sponsor.
Each time their eyes met, the air tightened.
His jaw clenched; his hand flexed at his side like he was physically restraining himself from crossing the room.
Sienna was radiant, laughing brightly, posting stories, pulling him into selfies.
He smiled for the camera, arm around her waist, but his eyes kept drifting back to Mia.
He watched as she excused herself from Jax’s group with a quick smile—something about needing a refill—and drifted toward the quieter edge of the bar.
He excused himself from a sponsor mid-sentence, murmuring something about needing air, and closed the distance in slow, deliberate steps.
He stopped just close enough that he could smell her—warm rose petals warmed by sun and a hint of jasmine, clean and soft, the same scent that had haunted him since the physio room in Barcelona.
“Congrats again,” she said softly, voice almost lost in the music. She lifted her sparkling water in a small toast. “P3 feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Feels unreal.” His gaze dropped to her mouth for half a second, then back up. “But you—you’re the one who got me through Imola. I keep thinking about what you said. ‘Show them who you are now.’ I did that today because of you.”
She forced a small smile, heat creeping up her neck—he could see the faint flush that made her skin glow under the party lights. “You did it because you’re good, Lucas. I just reminded you.”
He stepped half a step closer—too close for colleagues, not quite close enough for anything else. His voice dropped lower. “You do more than remind me. You make me want to be better. At everything.”
Her breath caught. The words hung between them, heavy and dangerous. He could see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers twitched like she wanted to reach out. He felt it too—the pull, the ache, the months of restraint cracking under the weight of one look.
Dana, standing a few metres away with a drink in hand, caught the exchange.
Her gaze flicked from Mia to him—quick, pointed, a single warning look that said everything: Be careful.
This is dangerous. She didn’t say a word.
Just held the look for a beat, then turned back to her conversation, giving them space but leaving no doubt she’d seen it all.
Before either of them could say more, a deep voice cut through the music.
“Lucas! There’s our podium man!”
Marcus Lang, the team principal, strode over with a wide grin, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to jolt him. “First podium in too long—bloody brilliant drive today. Proud of you, son. The board wants a quick toast and photo. Come on, don’t keep them waiting.”
His jaw ticked. He forced a grin, nodding. “Be right there, Marcus.” But his eyes stayed on Mia for one last, lingering beat—hungry, conflicted, almost pained—before he let himself be pulled away into the crowd.
* * *
Mia
Mia exhaled slowly. She set her glass down, murmured a quick excuse to the nearest guest—“Just grabbing my coat”—and slipped through the side door, away from the thumping music and the crush of bodies, toward the quiet cloak room down the corridor.
Her heart was still hammering, loud enough that she could feel it in her throat.
Every step felt unsteady. She recalled his voice low and rough, the way he’d said You make me want to be better.
At everything. The words kept looping in her mind, dangerous and addictive, making her skin feel too tight, too hot.