Chapter Sixty-Three
Frederic
T he paddock is alive with an electric tension.
From mechanics making final checks, engineers murmuring to one another over radio comms to the hum of engines filling the air like an unrelenting battle cry; I can feel the weight of it pressing down on my shoulders, buzzing through my bloodstream like a live wire.
Race day.
The energy here is different today - it’s sharper, heavier.
This isn’t just another practice session, another qualifying lap.
This is our final day in Monaco.
Everything about this race demands perfection. Every turn, every millimeter of track, every fraction of a second matters.
I roll my shoulders back, exhaling slowly and forcing my body to stay loose as I stand near the garage. Matthieu, my race engineer, is beside me, running through the final prep, his expression sharp and focused.
"Track conditions are solid - temps are rising slightly, but no rain expected," he says, flipping through his notes on the tablet in his hand.
I nod, stretching out my fingers and letting the information settle in my mind. Good. The last thing I need is unpredictable weather fucking with our strategy.
"Tire strategy?" I ask.
"Softs to start, but we’ll reassess midway. If there’s a safety car, we might shift plans. Two-stop if degradation kicks in too soon, but otherwise, we hold position."
I glance up at the sky - clear blue, sun high. No chance of complications.
"Everything feeling good?" Matthieu asks, his eyes flicking over me, reading my body language like he always does.
I roll my neck, feeling the familiar sharp focus settle over me.
It’s like a switch being flipped - my mind zoning in, my body tuning itself for the battle ahead.
"Yeah. The car’s dialed in."
Matthieu claps a hand on my shoulder, firm and steady.
"Go out there and do what you do best, Moreau."
I nod once, and then check my phone one last time.
A single message - from her.
Don’t let me down, Moreau. I’ve got money on you.
I smirk, a slow curl of satisfaction spreading through me.
Of course she does.
I can picture her now, sitting up in VIP, champagne in hand, wearing the dress I picked out for her, watching me , cheering for me , betting on me .
Fucking intoxicating .
I type out a quick reply.
You bet on me? Smart girl.
I send it, pocket my phone, and push the distraction away.
Right now, there’s only one thing that matters.
Winning.
* * *
“Five minutes until formation lap.”
The call crackles over the team radio as I step into the garage.
Mechanics are making their final checks: rear wing adjustments, last-minute tweaks on tire pressures, radios buzzing with last-second strategy confirmations.
I move towards the car, my heartbeat steady, my mind locked in.
The helmet is placed into my hands, and I lower it onto my head, the world around me muffling as the padding seals me in.
A deep breath.
I slide into the cockpit, feeling the familiar embrace of the machine around me, the seat molded perfectly to my body.
Straps tighten. Hands on the wheel. Fingers flex.
I toggle the radio. “Radio check.”
"Copy, loud and clear," Matthieu replies. "Final thoughts?”
I exhale, rolling my neck. "Let’s bring it home."
"That’s what I like to hear. Get ready for the formation lap."
Engines roar around me as the grid begins to form.
I look up at the grandstands; at the thousands of fans, at the gleaming yachts lined up along the harbour.
And then, just before my visor lowers - just before I shut out the world - my eyes flick up towards the VIP balcony.
I know she’s up there.
And fuck, I hope she’s watching.
Because this race, this win -
It’s going to be for her .
* * *
Everything outside the car ceases to exist.
This is where I belong.
The world beyond the grid - beyond the roar of these engines and the precision of these machines - fades into irrelevance.
I tighten my grip on the wheel, my gloved fingers flexing against the smooth material.
The engineers have done their job. The setup is exactly where I need it to be. The car feels responsive, sharp, like a predator coiled to strike.
Matthieu’s voice crackles into my ear through the radio.
"Alright, Frederic, you’re starting P2. Front left might need management toward the second stint. Eyes on Turn 1 - keep it clean, keep it tight. We go aggressive on strategy if we have the gap."
"Copy that."
One last deep breath. One last roll of my shoulders.
The lights go red.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Blackout .
I launch .
The rear tires grip perfectly as I shift through the gears, feeling the balance of power, the connection between me and the asphalt. We barrel down towards Sainte-Dévote, the tight right-hand corner that has decided more Monaco races than I care to count.
I’m alongside the pole sitter.
He covers the inside line, but I stay aggressive, forcing him to defend hard into the turn.
We go wheel to wheel, inches apart.
My car twitches as I hit the bump in the road just before the braking zone, but I hold firm.
It’s too narrow to make the move stick - for now .
I slot in behind him, keeping the pressure on.
Monaco isn’t about all-out pace. It’s about perfection.
Every lap. Every millimeter. Every single corner taken with ruthless precision.
Lap after lap, I stalk him. The soft tires feel good - balance is there.
By Lap 12, he’s struggling on traction out of Portier, just before the tunnel; and I see the gap before it’s even there.
I shift down, commit to the throttle early, and get the slipstream as we roar through the tunnel at almost 280.
We burst into daylight, nearing the Nouvelle Chicane.
I dart to the inside.
He sees it too late. He squeezes me, but I hold firm - elbows out, full commitment.
By the time we hit the braking zone, I’ve already won .
I cut across him, slam the car down into second gear, hit the apex, and power out onto the short straight.
"YES, MOREAU! You’re P1!"
I exhale sharply, barely allowing myself to register the satisfaction.
Now?
Now, the real work begins.
* * *
Monaco is a bastard to overtake on. Track position is king.
Which means the next phase of this race is about tire management, patience, and precision.
Every lap, every braking zone, I’m calculating, making micro-adjustments.
Turn 3, Massenet, is where I feel the rear start to slide a little. The degradation is coming.
"Box, box."
I dive into the pit lane, hitting the limiter perfectly. The crew is waiting - surgical, precise and lethal.
I hit my marks.
2.3 seconds.
The front jacks drop, and I launch back onto the track, rejoining in clean air -
Exactly as planned.
Now, I push.
I light up the new hard tires, building temperature into them through the tight Monaco streets.
The pit wall updates me. The guy I overtook is still out. His team is trying to overcut me.
Not a fucking chance.
I hammer out three consecutive fastest laps. Purple sectors everywhere.
By the time he pits, I’m already six seconds clear.
Game. Set. Match .
But it’s not over yet.
The worst part of Monaco - traffic .
Lapped cars ahead. Blue flags come fast, but it only takes one slow move to kill a lead.
I come up behind a Williams at the Swimming Pool chicane.
He hesitates.
"Blue flag, blue flag!" my race engineer yells in my ear.
I jink right, committing to an impossible gap.
I just make it.
My tires are screaming. My body is screaming.
Every nerve in my system is locked in, my grip tight on the wheel as I throw the car into the final sector, threading the needle between the barriers, millimeters from disaster at every turn.
My pulse is pounding so violently I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in every damn fiber of my being.
And the car behind me?
It’s closing in. Under two seconds now.
Merde .
I grit my teeth, adjusting my line as I fly out of La Rascasse, my rear tires skimming the edge of the curb, my hands twitching to keep the car balanced as I push it to its absolute limit.
The roar of the crowd is deafening - an unrelenting wall of noise pressing in from every direction, but I don’t hear it.
I don’t hear anything .
There’s only the engine screaming behind me, only the voice in my ear calling sector times, only the sheer force of adrenaline drowning out everything else.
I cannot make a mistake now.
Not here. Not when the checkered flag is in sight.
Not when victory is right fucking there, waiting to be claimed.
I tighten my grip, my foot flat to the floor as I charge onto the straight. The car behind is in my mirrors, getting bigger, but it’s too late.
I fucking cross it first.
The adrenaline crashes through me like a tidal wave.
"YES, MOREAU! YOU FUCKING DID IT - YOU WON MONACO!"
I did it.
"Your girl’s going to be happy," Matthieu jokes in my ear, and I bark out a breathless laugh, shaking my head.
She fucking better be.