CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
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Lucas
The first half of the season ended with a hollow thud.
Lucas flew back to London alone—first-class seat, noise-cancelling headphones, the city lights of Heathrow blurring past the window as the plane touched down.
The flat in Notting Hill was quiet when he walked in: clean, minimalist, unchanged since he’d left for Bahrain in February.
He dropped his suitcase in the hall, poured a glass of whiskey, and stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows watching the street below—couples walking dogs, taxis idling, life moving on without him.
He didn’t sleep well that first week.
He didn’t call her. Didn’t text. She’d made it clear.
The flat felt too big. Too quiet. Too empty.
The silence pressed in harder with every passing day.
He’d sit on the sofa with the TV off, staring at the black screen like it might show him something—anything—that would make the ache stop.
He tried music, tried running, tried anything to fill the space she used to occupy.
Nothing worked. The quiet wasn’t peaceful; it was accusing. Every empty corner reminded him of her.
By the third day he was exhausted from fighting it. That was when Sienna’s message came through.
It was a surprise; it had been almost a year since they last talked.
A simple message: Back in London? Coffee? No pressure.
He stared at it for twenty minutes—thumb hovering over the screen—then typed: Sure. Tomorrow?
He didn’t know why he said yes.
Maybe because the silence was louder than any engine roar.
Maybe because thinking about Mia hurt in a way that made his chest feel caved in.
Maybe because Sienna had never asked for pieces of him he couldn’t give. She’d been uncomplicated once—warm body, easy laugh, no questions about ghosts or instructions to be human. Right now, uncomplicated felt like mercy.
They met at a quiet café near Hyde Park—mid-morning, no cameras, just two people who’d once filled space together.
She looked the same: long blonde hair, easy smile, trim, disciplined physique in leggings and an oversized sweater.
She hugged him lightly, smelled like vanilla and citrus, and ordered the same oat flat white she always had.
They talked about nothing important at first—her latest campaign, his races, the weather. Safe topics. Then she set her cup down.
“You look tired,” she said gently.
He gave a small, wry smile. “Long season.”
She reached across the table, rested her hand over his.
“You don’t have to do it alone, you know.
” She paused, her smile turning a little self-deprecating.
“Honestly, I could use the company too. Franco and I… we called it quits a couple months back. The footballer thing? It was fun at first—red carpets, VIP boxes—but it got messy. Loose ends everywhere. I’m just trying to… reset.”
Lucas nodded slowly. He’d seen the headlines—Sienna Vale and the Spanish striker, tabloid fodder for months.
Red carpets, yacht parties, the kind of glamour that sold magazines.
She’d always chased that spotlight; he remembered her lighting up when photographers called her name.
Franco had been a perfect match for it—fame feeding fame.
But now? Now she was looking at him like he was the next safe harbour.
He looked at her hand—small, manicured, familiar.
He turned his palm up, laced his fingers through hers. “I know,” he said.
She smiled—soft, forgiving. “Come back to mine? Or… yours?”
He exhaled. “Mine.”
It wasn’t love. Not even close. It was distraction. It was motion. It was better than standing still in the wreckage.
They went back to his flat that afternoon. Simple. She stayed the night. Then the next. Then the next.
By the end of the week, her suitcase was unpacked in his wardrobe. She cooked dinner some nights, ordered in others. She laughed at his dry jokes, never asked why he sometimes poured a second whiskey instead of talking.
She was uncomplicated. Kind. Present.
But Lucas saw the patterns: the way she lit up when her phone buzzed with notifications, the casual selfies she snapped of them together (“Just for memories,” she’d say, but he knew they’d end up on her stories).
She talked about Franco less like heartbreak and more like a chapter closed—“He was great for the exposure, but the schedules clashed too much.” She liked the idea of them: the influencer and the rising F1 star, a neat rebound from her footballer ex. It fit her brand. Filled her grid.
He told himself that was enough.
His father called one evening while she was in the shower. “Heard you’re back with the influencer girl,” he said. “Sienna, right? Good on you, son. Stability’s what you need. Titles don’t win themselves. Keep your head straight—no distractions.”
Lucas gripped the phone tighter. “Yeah, Dad. Head’s straight.”
His father laughed—rare, approving. “That’s my boy. Eyes on the prize.”
When Sienna came out, towel around her hair, she curled against him on the sofa. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Just family.”
She didn’t push. She never did.
That night, as she slept beside him—breathing even, peaceful—he stared at the ceiling.
The emptiness was still there. Quieter now, muffled by her presence.
He told himself it was enough. Enough to function.
Enough to keep moving forward. Enough to prove he could build something stable, something his father could finally approve of.
Enough to stop feeling like he was drowning every time he thought of Mia.
It wasn’t love. It was survival.
And survival, he told himself, was better than nothing.
But late at night, when Sienna’s breathing was steady and the city outside was quiet, the armour cracked.
He’d close his eyes and see Mia’s face under the Abu Dhabi floodlights—tears on her cheeks, voice breaking as she said she couldn’t.
He’d remember the way she’d looked at him like he was the only thing that mattered, then walked away like he was nothing.
The memory cut deeper than any crash he’d ever had.
He didn’t love Sienna. She was just… there. A placeholder. A way to fill the silence without having to feel the full weight of what he’d lost.
Some mornings he woke before her and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. He’d think about calling Mia—just once, just to hear her voice—and his thumb would hover over her name until the screen went dark. He never pressed send. He knew she was never coming back.
He told himself he was moving on.
He told himself he was fine.
But the hollow stayed. A constant, quiet companion. And no amount of nights with Sienna could fill it.
He kept going. One day at a time. One breath at a time.
Because stopping would mean facing the truth: he wasn’t fine. He was just surviving.
And survival, for now, was all he had left.