The Finish Line

Prologue

Lily

The club’s pounding bass echoed in my ears as we pushed through the revolving doors into our hotel lobby.

My body was still buzzing with adrenaline from my Las Vegas Grand Prix win.

Considering it was a casino, the lobby of the Venetian Hotel was relatively calm at this hour, just a few scattered guests and staff.

Music from the casino floor hummed in the distance, but here in the marble-floored expanse, surrounded by elegant Greek statues, it felt almost peaceful.

“I’ll walk you to your room,” Henri said, his hand finding the small of my back as we headed toward the elevator.

I looked up at him, smiling widely. “Such a gentleman.”

His lips quirked into that lazy grin that drove me crazy. “Always.”

My feet ached in my heels, the cost of spending the past three hours dancing. As my third victory of the season, this Las Vegas win had been special, with Henri coming second in his Hermes F1 car, and Georgia, my teammate, coming in third.

We made it to the elevators, and Henri pressed the call button. The doors slid open almost immediately, and we stepped inside. The sudden quiet, the enclosed space, it felt intimate after the chaos of celebrating.

I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall. Flushed cheeks, smudged eyeliner, hair wild from dancing. My black dress was slightly askew at the shoulder.

Henri stood beside me, top button undone, looking unfairly handsome for someone who’d matched me drink for drink. He’d been watching me all night with those devastating hazel eyes of his, and he was watching me now.

“Thirty-one?” he asked, his finger hovering over the button panel.

“Yup,” I confirmed, my voice coming out breathier than intended.

He pressed the button. The doors slid shut, muffling the casino floor, and finally it was just the two of us. Henri leaned against the wall, that slow smile again playing at his lips.

“That overtake on Georgia in Turn 14,” he said. “Absolutely mad.”

“Mad brilliant or mad stupid?”

“Both.” He pushed off the wall, moving closer.

The elevator jolted into motion, and I swayed slightly—whether from the movement or the champagne, I wasn’t entirely sure. Henri’s hand came to my waist, steadying me, and suddenly we were standing much closer than we were a moment ago.

Three years. Three years of stolen glances in the paddock, of text messages that had started professional before becoming good-night texts that were anything but. Three years of finding excuses to stand just a little too close in press conferences, of “it’s too complicated” and “maybe someday.”

And tonight, I’d conquered Las Vegas, and I was done ignoring the tension between us. His thumb stroked slowly against my waist, through the thin fabric of my dress.

“Henri…” I said softly.

“Oui, ma belle?” His voice had gone rough, and his other hand came up to cup my jaw, tilting my face toward his. “Lily, you’re—”

“If you say drunk, I swear—”

“—incredible,” he finished. “You were incredible today. You are incredible.”

My heart stuttered. “Henri.”

But there was no response from him, just deep longing in his eyes. He leaned forward, his lips just barely touching mine.

And then he kissed me.

Finally, finally kissed me, and it was everything I’d imagined during all those long nights on the road, alone in hotel rooms, trying not to think about him.

His lips were soft at first, then gentleness gave way to hunger.

I pressed closer, three years of want pouring into it, my fingers curling into his shirt as his hands slid into my hair, tilting my head back.

My back hit the elevator wall, but I didn’t care about anything except the way we moved together, the way his thumb traced along my jaw, the small sound he made against my mouth when I pulled him impossibly closer.

When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard, his forehead resting on mine.

The elevator chimed. Thirty-first floor.

Henri caught my hand, lacing our fingers together as the doors opened. We made it maybe three steps down the hallway before I pulled him back, kissing him again, pushing his back against someone’s door, not caring if anyone saw.

“Room,” he managed against my lips. “We should… your room.”

“Right. Yes.” I fumbled for my key card, nearly dropping it twice as Henri’s hands stayed at my waist, his mouth finding my neck. “You’re not helping.”

“Don’t want to help,” he murmured softly into my ear. “I want to do the opposite of help.”

Finally, the door swung open, and we stumbled inside, a tangle of limbs and laughter and three years of pent-up tension.

Henri turned me to face him, and suddenly the laughter faded into something more serious, more intense.

He was looking at me like I was something precious and completely irresistible all at once.

Henri caught my wrists gently, bringing them to his lips. “Are you sure, ma chérie? Once we do this—”

“Henri.” I freed one hand to cup his face. “I just won Las Vegas. I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. Now stop being a gentleman and kiss me again.”

The laugh that escaped him was warm and rough and perfect. “As you wish.”

I woke to the sound of my phone vibrating against the nightstand.

Sunlight streamed through the gap in the hotel curtains, and for a disorienting moment, I couldn’t remember where I was.

Then I felt the warmth of Henri’s body beside me, his arm draped across my waist, and last night came rushing back in vivid detail.

My phone rang again.

I carefully extracted myself from his embrace, grabbing a T-shirt from the floor and pulling it on before padding barefoot into the suite’s living room, closing the bedroom door softly behind me.

The phone screen showed an unknown number with a German country code.

My heart stopped. I stared at the buzzing phone, my thumb hovering over the answer button. A German number could only mean one thing.

I swiped to answer, my voice rough with sleep. “Hello?”

“Lily, good morning. This is Felix Hoffmann, Team Principal of Rennen F1.”

The world tilted. Felix Hoffmann. The man who’d built Rennen into one of the most dominant forces in Formula 1.

The man whose junior team I’d left when I signed with Valkyrie three years ago.

The man who could give me what I’d been chasing during my contract at Valkyrie: a real shot at the World Championship.

Even this year, Georgia had already won the championship by sixty-three points in last week’s Grand Prix.

I sank onto the couch, gripping the phone tighter. “Felix,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. “Good to hear from you.”

“Likewise.” His tone carried that same measured authority I remembered from my academy days, the thick German accent unchanged. “I hope I’m not interrupting your celebrations. Congratulations on Las Vegas, by the way. Excellent drive.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you have a moment to talk?”

“Of course,” I said. “What’s this about?”

“I think you know, Lily,” he said, and he almost sounded amused. “With Eric moving to another team, we have a seat open at Rennen. And after considerable discussion with our board, we’d like to offer it to you.”

The phone nearly slipped from my hand. The Vegas strip visible through the window suddenly seemed too bright, too surreal, for this moment to be real.

The open Rennen F1 seat was going to be the seat everyone wanted. With the car specs changing next year, Rennen F1 was rumored to have the best engine. No one knew for certain, but they had a history of dominating new regulations.

And they definitely had the money.

“You want me,” I said slowly, testing the words, “to drive for Rennen F1.”

“We want you to win for Rennen F1,” Felix corrected.

“We’ve watched what you’ve done at Valkyrie over the past three years.

You helped contribute to three Constructors’ Championships and had consistent podiums—proof that you can handle the pressure and perform at the highest level.

You’ve been instrumental in making Valkyrie one of the top teams on the grid. ”

It had been three years of fighting for respect in a male-dominated sport, of proving that a female-run team could compete with—and beat—the established F1 giants.

Three years of standing on podiums, of battling wheel-to-wheel with the best drivers in the world, of showing everyone who doubted us that we belonged.

“But we also know you haven’t been given a fair shot at the Driver’s Championship,” Felix continued, as if reading my thoughts. “Georgia is Valkyrie’s priority, as she should be. She’s a three-time World Champion, and Isabelle has built the team’s strategy around her. That’s not going to change.”

He wasn’t wrong. I’d spent my entire time at Valkyrie F1 as the second driver, and I was growing tired of it. Tired of hearing “hold position” over the radio. Tired of watching Georgia spray champagne from the top step while I stood below.

Georgia may be my best friend, but she was also my teammate, and Valkyrie would always choose her. It wasn’t personal; it was practical. Georgia had proven herself.

“At Rennen,” Felix said, “there’s no predetermined number-one driver. The best driver wins. We think that can be you, Lily. The question is whether you believe it too.”

Did I? After three years of smiling through post-race interviews while swallowing my frustration, of watching my teammate win while I played support, did I believe I could be a champion too?

The answer came swift and certain, burning through the doubt like fire. Yes.

I hadn’t spent three years in Formula 1 to remain in Georgia’s shadow. I’d fought too hard, sacrificed too much, proven myself too many times to accept second place as my ceiling. I wanted to win a championship, not just the odd race.

I wanted the Championship. And I couldn’t win it at Valkyrie.

“I want this,” I said, the words tumbling out breathless and certain. “Felix, this is an incredible opportunity. I’m thrilled to accept.”