Chapter One #2
He’s serious. He actually believes I would throw away my race weekend and risk both our safety, just to take him out because I couldn’t beat him fairly.
But why was I even surprised?
This year our team principals had turned what should have been a clean championship fight into something toxic.
They had been bitter rivals for years, and as Henri and I had climbed to the top of the standings, their feud had infected everything.
All of a sudden, every racing incident got twisted into a deliberate attack.
The Hermes’s principal, Verhoeven, seemed to think I had a personal vendetta against Henri, that every overtake was reckless, every defensive move unsportsmanlike.
It didn’t matter what the stewards ruled or what the data showed—in Hermes’s narrative, I was always at fault.
Always out to get him, always the villain in his story.
Something raw and bitter had formed where our friendship used to be, leaving my once-friend unrecognizable.
Not that there was much of our friendship left to save anyway.
After that night in Las Vegas, everything changed. I’d drifted off to sleep thinking we’d figure out how to make a relationship work as drivers between two different teams. Instead, he’d come up with some pitiful excuse and fled.
There were no more late-night calls, no funny memes or silly texts making fun of overly serious journalists. That casual easiness between us had disappeared.
But it was pre-season testing that had truly cemented the end of our friendship.
When Hermes posted suspiciously fast lap times, Felix accused them of running illegal parts.
Hermes fired back, claiming Rennen’s car design violated regulations.
The FIA had to step in with inspections, and suddenly Henri and I were caught in the middle of a technical war neither of us had started.
By the time the first Grand Prix started, Henri had transformed into this cold stranger who looked at me like I was the enemy.
Don’t. Don’t think about that now, Lily.
A marshal’s hand on my arm caught me off-guard, and he slowly led me into the emergency car. I watched Henri get into a separate one, the marshals fawning over him as he crawled into the back.
The drive to the paddock felt like a lifetime. My knee ached, my ribs throbbed, and the smell of smoke clung to the back of my throat. Owning the first major crash of the season wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to start out my three-year Rennen contract.
The moment I walked into the garage, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations hushed and mechanics stared as I walked through. Every pair of eyes seemed to carry the same question.
Did Lily Blackwood crash into Henri Dubois on purpose?
Honestly, the suspicion on their faces felt almost worse than Henri’s accusation.
Andy, my physio, burst through the crowd, crashing into me.
His arms locked around my shoulders, solid and steady.
For a moment I let myself sink into him—into the comforting hold that had followed me to countless different circuits every season.
Into the one person who’d unpack my favorite tea in every unfamiliar hotel room, who’d remember which side of the treatment table I preferred, who’d learned exactly how long to let silence sit before cracking a joke.
When we separated, I yanked off my helmet, wiping a tear that had formed in my eyes.
“You all right?” His green eyes bore into me with an intense, searching look. His hands hovered near my shoulders, ready to steady me.
Was I? Now that was a loaded question.
“Well,” I said finally, “at least we know the safety features work.” My lips stretched into what felt more like a grimace than a smile. Andy’s face twitched with something between sympathy and discomfort.
Just as well. The joke had fallen flat, another casualty in what was quickly becoming the worst day of my racing career thus far.
Over Andy’s shoulder I spotted Felix, tall and composed, with a dark suit pressed to perfection. The man who’d taken a chance on me, convinced the Rennen board that I was worth the investment, and promised me opportunity.
The man who now had to explain to sponsors and the board why his new driver had just caused the biggest crash of the season.
He wasn’t glaring or frowning. Instead, he just watched me with that steady, measured gaze of his. The kind of look that could peel back excuses without a single word.
Somehow, I’d managed to get myself a team principal who smiled less than my last one at Valkyrie F1.
Mark, my engineer, hovered just behind Felix, headset still crooked over one ear, curls frizzed like he’d been dragging his hands through them since the crash.
The bags under his eyes had deepened since this morning, and the tight lines on his face told me I’d just made his already impossible day significantly worse.
“Lily.” Felix’s voice was calm, low, almost kind. “Are you hurt?”
“Ego’s more bruised than I am,” I said, forcing a small smile.
Felix didn’t reciprocate, but he let out a quick exhale that might have been relaxation. “Good. That’s what matters first.”
Mark, my engineer, stepped in, tablet already in his hands. “Telemetry showed a throttle spike and a steering imbalance right before impact. Can you walk me through what you felt?”
I hadn’t been out of the car more than ten minutes, and Mark was already into it.
But that was his job, wasn’t it? That was what made him one of the best race engineers in the paddock.
And considering I’d made a mess of things today, I didn’t have the heart to tell him to piss off and give me five minutes to breathe.
Andy put up his hands to protest, but I shook my head, a silent plea to stand down. Mark and I had to work together all season, and I didn’t need my physio starting a war with my engineer.
I shifted on sore legs, reliving the crash in flashes. “The wheel twitched twice. Then it went light, like the car wasn’t listening to me anymore.”
Mark tapped something into his tablet, brow furrowing. “So, you’re saying mechanical failure, not driver error?” The question landed like an accusation, even though his tone was neutral. It took everything within me not to scoff.
He’s just doing his job, Lily, I reminded myself.
“I’m saying I don’t normally like to play bumper cars in the middle of a race.” I tried to keep my voice light and easy.
Felix pinched the bridge of his nose, the only crack in his otherwise perfect composure. “We’ll have the car analyzed. Let’s get you evaluated by a doctor. Andy will walk you to your driver’s room. The doctor will be in shortly.”
Nodding, I gave my team one last round of thanks. I’d barely taken a step when Felix’s hand touched my shoulder.
“One more thing.” His voice was measured, but there was something uncomfortable under it, a tightness that didn’t match his normal composure. “I’ll make sure Bertha has answers ready for you. Media will be all over this. Hermes will probably turn this into a circus and demand the FIA investigate.”
Of course Hermes would.
They’d been demanding FIA investigations all season, turning every minor incident into a major scandal, filing complaints over the smallest infractions, playing the victim for the cameras while Verhoeven, Hermes Team Principal, made dramatic speeches about safety and integrity.
All while doing the exact same things they accused us of.
Felix added, “Don’t worry, we have your back. I’ll see to the FIA personally.”
“Thank you,” I said, meaning it completely.
Felix’s expression smoothed back into neutral territory, and he gave me a single nod before turning back to the engineers. The one thing I knew about Felix more than anything: he would always support his drivers.
Andy walked me down the narrow corridor toward the medical office, hovering like a nervous shadow. He kept glancing at me as though he wasn’t sure if I’d shatter.
“You’re really okay?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll live.” When we reached the door, he opened it for me, motioning for me to head inside.
“All right, I’ll go see where that doctor is. Be back in a few.”
“Thanks, Andy.”
Once the medical checks had been completed, I was able to get back to my driver’s room. I peeled off my gloves and tossed them onto the chair, flexing my aching fingers. I was about to fling myself on the couch, until a bouquet of flowers caught my eye.
On the coffee table sat a neat flower arrangement in a clear glass vase, bright and cheerful and completely out of place compared to how I felt.
The bouquet was full of lilies, naturally, because someone in PR had probably thought that was clever, mixed with sunny yellow daisies and a few white roses.
A silver ribbon had fallen off the vase, probably dropped by some sponsor’s assistant rushing through the delivery.
For a moment, I let myself breathe in their scent. Sweet and fresh, their smell cut through the lingering smoke that clung to my race suit.
Then I noticed the small white envelope tucked among the stems. My name was scrawled across it in black ink, the handwriting unfamiliar. My fingers tore open the envelope, and I peered inside.
Inside was a small card with decorative gold edges.
I turned the card over in my hands, and my breath caught in my throat.
MESS UP HENRI AGAIN AND NEXT TIME YOU WON’T WALK AWAY. YOU DON’T WANT TO OWE ME, LILLIAN.
Well, shit.