Chapter Fifty-One
Frederic
M y phone vibrates against the nightstand. Again.
I already know who it’s from before I even glance at the screen.
Poppy .
For days, we’ve been circling each other through texts. Messages that start with biting sarcasm and end with something else entirely - something unspoken but undeniably charged.
Something that has me gripping my phone at all hours, waiting for her next reply like an addict chasing his next hit.
She’s consuming me.
Between practice sessions, between meetings with my engineers, between debriefs and training - when I should be thinking about the car, about every millisecond of performance - I’m thinking about her.
And it’s fucking dangerous .
I exhale sharply, rolling onto my side in the dim glow of my hotel room. The city outside vibrates with anticipation, the sound of the harbour lapping against the docks, the distant thrum of engines being prepped, the occasional hum of the nightlife still trailing into the early morning.
Monaco. My home. My playground.
My battlefield.
But for the first time, it’s not the track I’m most focused on.
I unlock my phone. Two messages.
Try not to crash today, Mr. Formula One. I’d hate to have to find someone else to entertain me.
My jaw clenches, my lips curling into something between amusement and frustration.
She knows exactly what she’s doing, knows exactly how to get under my skin.
And the worst part?
I love it.
I should leave her on read. I should focus. I should let my mind settle, let the routine take over.
Instead, I type out a reply.
You’d be disappointed. No one else would keep up with you.
The message delivers, and I force myself to set the phone down, rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling.
She’ll be there today.
Watching.
And whether she realises it or not, I’ll be winning this race for her.
* * *
By the time I step into the garage, I’ve locked it all away.
The hunger for her. The distraction .
The fucking need .
Now, I am exactly what I need to be:
Frederic Moreau, the most ruthless driver on this grid.
Everything outside of this - outside of racing - is irrelevant.
The scent of burning rubber and petrol thickens the air, mingling with the sharp tang of engine oil. The mechanics move in a seamless rhythm around the car, their movements sharp, efficient. Just outside the garage, the grandstands are already packed, the roar of the crowd filtering through the concrete walls, a steady thrum of anticipation.
The sun glares down, baking the tarmac, the heat clinging to the back of my neck as I stride towards the car. The air is electric and tense, humming with expectation.
This is Monaco, the most legendary track on the calendar.
A place where precision is king, where the smallest mistake means disaster.
And I am here to conquer it.
This is what I do. This is who I am.
And I am going to fucking win.
I pull on my fireproofs, the fabric snug against my skin as I roll my shoulders, flexing my fingers. The engineers are gathered around the monitors, their faces flickering between focus and apprehension.
The data is everything. Every millisecond counts here - every adjustment, every calculation.
“Talk to me,” I say, my voice cutting through the low buzz of conversation.
Philip, one of my race engineers, barely glances away from the screen .
“The car’s looking solid. We made some changes to the suspension overnight - should help with the low-speed corners, but you’ll need to watch your entry into the chicane. Tires won’t be up to temperature in the first few laps.”
I nod, rolling my neck, easing the tension that’s settled there since the moment I woke up.
“I’ll manage.”
Philip sighs. “Try not to do anything reckless in FP1.”
I smirk, adjusting the cuff of my race suit.
“What’s life without a little risk?”
From the corner of my eye, I catch Matthieu watching me closely, arms crossed, brow slightly furrowed.
He knows me too well. Knows that I’m edgier than usual, that I’ve been pushing harder, sharper.
That I’ve been trying to shake something off.
Trying to shake her off.
"You good?" he asks, looking at me like I’m a fucking case study.
"Why wouldn’t I be?"
Matthieu raises a brow, unimpressed.
“Because you didn’t touch a single croissant at breakfast. And you always glare at Pierre in the mornings. Today? Nothing.”
I roll my eyes, reaching for my gloves.
“Focus on the race, Matthieu. Not my appetite.”
But he doesn’t let it go, still watching me like he’s waiting for me to slip up.
"Right," he mutters, but there’s something knowing in his tone, something that makes my jaw clench.
I ignore him.
Ignore the way my chest tightens as I climb into the cockpit, settling into the seat, the weight of the car pressing around me like a second skin. The world outside the visor of my helmet ceases to exist.
This is where I belong.
The radio crackles to life in my ear.
“All systems are green,” Philip reports.
I inhale deeply, grip tightening on the wheel as I flex my fingers around the molded grips.
Focus. Precision. Control.
I know what I need to do.
And when I win - because I will win - I know exactly who I’ll be looking for in the crowd.