Chapter 9
HEAT OF THE NIGHT
Marina Bay in Singapore was already lit like a city that never slept, heat hanging thick in the air.
Reese stood beside the Ravensport car on the circuit, helmet resting against her hip as the film crew made final adjustments before her practice session.
She was minutes away from sliding behind the wheel, and anticipation surged through every vessel, but she’d agreed to come in a night early for this interview and needed to make good on the deal.
Samara stepped behind the camera and settled in for her first question. She always took a deep breath first. Reese figured it was part of her process. “For spectators who might be new to racing, can you explain what qualifying means and why it matters so much?”
Reese nodded. “Qualifying is how we decide where everyone starts the race,” she said.
“We go out and run the fastest laps we can, one at a time. The quicker your lap, the closer you start to the front. The fastest lap is awarded pole position.” She shrugged.
“It’s where everyone’s dying to be. Me included. ”
Samara nodded, as if considering what more she might need for her storytelling. “Talk a little about why qualifying at the front of the grid matters at Marina Bay in particular.”
She glanced down the pit lane, where the track disappeared between concrete walls.
“Starting position matters everywhere, but especially here in Singapore. This is a street circuit. It’s narrow, there aren’t many places to pass another car, and mistakes are expensive.
If you start near the front, you stay out of trouble.
If you start farther back, you spend the whole race trying to fight through traffic.
It’s rare to move too many positions from where you start on a street circuit. ”
“So, during qualifying, it’s not about racing other drivers yet,” Samara said.
“No,” Reese agreed. “It’s about racing the clock. You’re pushing for one clean, fast lap without overdoing it.” She smiled faintly. “Too careful and you’re slow. Too aggressive and you end up in the wall.”
“What’s the hardest part?”
“Trusting yourself,” Reese said. “You’re driving inches from barriers at high speed and telling yourself the car will stick, that you’ll hit every corner just right. There’s no fixing a mistake in qualifying. You only get what you earn.”
A call crackled over the radio, summoning drivers to their cars. Engines fired around them, sharp and impatient.
Samara stepped back. “Good luck at qualifying.”
Reese picked up her helmet and slid it on, her voice calm, certain. “Thanks. A good starting position will make everything easier.”
Later that afternoon, Reese buzzed with extra energy.
She was thrilled to be back with her friends again.
She’d begun to miss the three of them in the space between race weekends, their presence like fresh air to her lungs.
The Starting Grid set up a four-way group chat to stay in touch with each other while they were apart, which helped.
But nothing compared to getting the gang back together again with real voices, real hugs, real chaos.
Singapore only amplified the feeling that something exciting was happening. The circuit was tight, twisty, and utterly unforgiving, one of the rare night races held through the glowing streets of downtown.
Reese spotted Cassidy first, standing in a long, sleepy line for a cappuccino at the hotel’s little café.
“Oh my God. Finally,” Cassidy said, immediately abandoning the line and throwing her arms wide.
Given that she was Cassidy, and the kindest person Reese knew, they’d likely let her cut anyway.
Those big blue Bambi eyes could probably get her out of a federal crime.
“It’s beyond good to see you,” Reese said as she pulled her into a tight squeeze.
Cassidy might’ve been new to single-seaters, but she was making waves at the academy.
She’d held her own against drivers with years more experience and had just snagged her best finish at P9 last week, finally earning her first points of the season.
“She’s a spark plug,” Reese had overheard Veronica say to one of the lead mechanics the week before. “She might just shock us all. If not this season, then next. Mark my words.”
Veronica was likely right. Drivers got only two seasons in Formula Next before they were kicked out of the nest to make room for newcomers.
Cassidy would be more than ready by then.
Hell, they all might be scrambling to get out of her way.
The funniest part? She had the temperament of a barista prepping everyone’s oat-milk latte, presenting as peaceful, adorable, and decidedly non-cutthroat.
“Are we all doing dinner tonight?” Cassidy asked, bouncing a little on her toes. “There’s a great place on the corner. I’ve asked about eighteen people for recommendations, and they all agreed.”
“I’m in,” Reese said. “Are the others here yet?”
“Marissa’s flight is delayed, and Delaney should be here any—”
“You’re nothing if not accurate,” Delaney said, appearing as if conjured, wearing a whole lot of black and a duffel slung casually over her shoulder. She honestly rocked any look she attempted. “Damn, it’s good to see you people.”
Reese practically leapt into her arms and held on. “The team is back together again.”
“Why, thank you for that headlock,” Delaney said, patting her back. She turned to Cassidy. “Ready to get back at it?”
“God, yes. I’d spring into a cartwheel, but I’m in the coffee line,” Cassidy shot little beams of excitement off in every which direction. “But I’m learning the car more and more, and I even missed it a little this time. I think that means we’re bonding.”
“Just wait till you get your shot at F1. Every car is different there.” A difference Reese couldn’t wait to experience herself one day.
“Would you sign this for me, please?” a woman asked, stepping forward to Reese with bright eyes, a pen, and the commemorative program.
“Of course,” Reese said, taking it. The others waited patiently while she signed and snapped a selfie, beaming like she’d won a prize.
“It really doesn’t matter what country we’re in, does it?” Delaney said, shaking her head, as they started walking again. “You’ll always be our resident superstar.” She ruffled Reese’s hair affectionately, and Reese ducked out of the way, laughing.
Later that night, after Marissa arrived at the hotel, the four of them caught up over steaming bowls of laksa and plates of chili crab that required a team strategy.
The restaurant was tucked under a string of lanterns along the waterfront, the humid air carrying the smell of lime, ginger, and grilled seafood.
Reese laughed so hard at one of Delaney’s stories that she nearly dropped her chopsticks.
Something about a karting rival, an eel, and a very startled official.
“Why does stuff like that only happen to you?”
Delaney shrugged, cracking a crab leg with surgical precision. “I have an approachable face for chaos.”
“Someone has to be the cautionary tale,” Marissa added.
Reese was wiping tears from her eyes when the air in the room seemed to shift.
Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else at the table noticed.
More like a subtle change in temperature, a prickle down Reese’s spine.
An awareness. Her gaze lifted instinctively toward the entrance, and then she understood.
Sloane had just stepped inside. Her hair was slightly damp from the humidity, pushed behind one ear in a way that looked unfairly good.
Why was her glisten so much better than everyone else’s glisten?
She wore a simple black dress, nothing elaborate, just clean lines and confidence.
Veronica walked beside her, elegant and composed in a slate-blue dress that hung off her tan shoulders.
Two race officials followed in close conversation, one checking something on his phone, the other pointing out a table across the room.
They were dining as a foursome, but Reese saw none of the others at first. Only Sloane.
She felt her heart give one clean, traitorous thud.
Cassidy kept talking beside her, but Reese heard only the soft, distant hum of the restaurant—cutlery, chatter, the clink of glasses—as if someone had turned the world down a notch.
Then Sloane’s gaze landed on their table.
The reaction was small, but Reese caught it: a pause too long to be casual and a flicker of something unguarded in her eyes before she shifted her attention back to Veronica. Professional mask in place. Shoulders straight. Nothing out of line. She was hard to read.
Yet she kept glancing back. Just enough to betray that something was pulling at her.
Reese sat back in her chair, pretending still to be a part of their table’s conversation.
She laughed at Marissa, nearly missing her flight because she couldn’t live without her favorite travel pillow, and was ready to sacrifice all to go back for it.
“No. I get it,” Reese said. “Some things are sacred.” But all the while, she couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe whatever preoccupation she had with Sloane Foster wasn’t entirely one-sided.
They were sitting across the room from each other, but the sizzle of whatever bounced between them was palpable.
She no longer believed she was imagining it. Reese took a very slow inhale.
“Okay, why are you staring at a wall?” Delaney asked, leaning into her line of sight.
“What?” Reese blinked. “I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.” Delaney took a strategic sip of her lime soda. “I’d ask if you saw a ghost, but ghosts don’t usually wear strappy dresses.”
“Delaney,” Reese said, a word of warning.
Before Delaney could push further, Cassidy’s eyes widened. “Um. Veronica’s here and walking this way.”