Chapter Three
Lily
The weekend’s free practice sessions and qualifying were finally over, and now all that stood between me and a quiet Saturday evening was the press pen, which would no doubt continue to spend half its time dissecting Henri’s driving choices during Friday morning’s free practice.
What the hell had gotten into him?
After the crash in Miami, I’d tried to extend an olive branch. I’d called him repeatedly, apologizing and trying to explain the incident, but he never answered. So instead, I’d poured my apologies into voicemails that he probably ignored.
I exhaled slowly, pushing the thought aside as I climbed out of my car’s cockpit. It didn’t matter what Henri thought. This week was a new race, and I had qualified second today. I had a real chance to win tomorrow, and if I did, I’d be on top in the championship standings.
Focus on that, not Henri.
“Great work!” Mark’s voice crackled through the headset. Then he appeared in person, jogging around the car to meet me as I pulled off my helmet. “Impeccable driving this weekend. Unfortunate that Henri got P1 after he had such an abysmal Friday. Let’s just hope he can keep his car to himself…”
The comment landed with more weight than Mark probably intended.
The sun had broken through today after Friday’s rain, and Henri had somehow clawed his way to pole position in Qualifying. Something petty and raw inside me wanted to join Mark’s dig, but considering my car had actually caused a crash, I decided I couldn’t face the hypocrisy.
“I can practically smell the podium champagne!” I said brightly, forcing enthusiasm into my voice.
“Well, just remember, we don’t collect trophies until Sunday.”
Thanks, Mark, I thought sarcastically. I had no idea how this worked. Mark’s ability to puncture a good mood was unmatched. I huffed a quiet laugh, trying to shake off the irritation, when movement at the back of the garage caught my eye.
“Oh God,” I groaned.
Mark looked up, giving me an apologetic smile.
Bertha Higham, Rennen F1’s Head of Communications and Media, weaved her way through the garage crowd with unmatched determination. She was wearing that expression. The one that said she was not to be trifled with.
Here we go.
“Mark!” she called out, waving him down with one perfectly manicured hand. “I told you I needed her immediately after qualifying.”
He rolled his eyes with barely concealed disdain. “Yes, because media management is obviously much more important than actual engineering work…” His mumbling dripped with so much sarcasm you could practically see it pooling on the garage floor.
Bertha approached, arms crossed. “What was that?”
Mark smiled, one of those shit-eating grins, before motioning elaborately in my direction. “Nothing. She’s all yours, Bertha.”
Traitor.
Bertha turned to me, her expression softening by about one degree, before thrusting a sleek black folder into my hands. “Media in ten.” Her tone was professional, but her expression carried the faintest trace of apology. Rare for her, which meant she knew exactly how rough this session would be.
“The English pool wants you and Henri together,” she continued. “Then solo for the locals. These are your approved answers, and no ad-libbing this time, please.”
“I’ll stay on script,” I promised lightly.
Bertha’s eyes narrowed, unconvinced. “You said that after Miami.”
Well, to be fair, I hadn’t exactly meant it in Miami.
I’d known precisely what the press were going to ask—could have written the questions myself: Was it intentional? Do you think you belong in F1? Should women be allowed in the sport if they can’t control their cars?
No part of me had been willing to sit back politely while they wrote me off after one mechanical failure.
Or let them paint me as the reckless female driver who’d taken out poor, innocent Henri through sheer incompetence.
Hermes had enjoyed throwing around comments about Rennen’s inability to design quality cars.
The interviews after the crash were an exercise in endurance. I’d made it through the first two interviews on script, nodding at appropriate moments, giving measured responses.
And then Sports Daily had asked if I thought I owed Henri an apology for “dangerous driving,” and something in me snapped.
I’d told them, rather politely, exactly where they could shove their double standards. Pointed out that when male drivers had mechanical failures, no one questioned their right to be in the sport. Mentioned that perhaps they should wait for the stewards’ investigation before pronouncing judgment.
The headlines were merciless: Blackwood Defensive After Crash. Rennen Driver Refuses to Take Responsibility.
I shifted my weight from one side to the other. “I remember.”
“Good. So, this time, let’s be measured. Oh, and”—Bertha’s fingers drummed against her tablet, her mouth opening and closing twice before she found her words—“try not to sound so flippant.”
Flippant.
Smiling had always been my armor, the thing that kept me from showing how rattled I really was underneath. It was easier to be the cheerful one, the woman who laughed off the whispers and met every loaded question with sunshine.
The strategy had worked at Valkyrie, when the team had started with me and Georgia as the first female driver pairing in F1 history. We’d been explicitly told to win people over.
“Smile more. Be approachable. Be likeable. Make the sport fall in love with you.”
If I had learned anything during my motorsports career, it was that nothing placated a crowd like a disarming smile, even if it was fake.
The media room was cramped, the kind of space that always felt too small for the number of journalistic egos crammed into it. Bright lights shone overhead, casting an unflattering glow that made everyone look slightly ill. Sponsor logos covered most of the wall behind us.
Bertha pointed me toward my seat, second from the left. The one designated for P2.
Henri arrived a moment later with his PR team, like bodyguards protecting something valuable. His expression was fairly neutral, but I could see a small smile hiding behind his eyes. He was pleased with himself, as he should be.
After his disastrous free practice yesterday, today he’d managed to beat me by thousandths of a second for pole, which I was a bit peeved about. Two seats down, éliott Simon, another driver, was already holding court, charming the front row like it was second nature.
Press conferences had always felt oddly comfortable to me, which I knew was weird given how many drivers dreaded them. But there was something predictable about the format, something manageable. Questions you could anticipate, and answers you could prepare for, especially with a good PR team.
My mother had always claimed I had a gift for “smoothing edges”—for taking pointed questions loaded with subtext and turning them into something softer, more palatable.
For defusing tension with a well-timed smile or a self-deprecating joke.
That skill had served me well when I wasn’t the main story or the one in the hot seat; when I could sit in the supporting role and watch other drivers, like Georgia, squirm under scrutiny.
But now, sitting at P2 in the championship, just a few points behind Henri, I was undeniably in the hot seat. And my answers to their questions definitely carried real consequences.
Being next to Henri again felt strange in a way I couldn’t quite articulate. The last time I’d seen him this close was Miami, right after the crash, when I’d helped him out of his car. He looked exhausted, like sleep had evaded him over the past few days.
But even tired, Henri had this captivating, quiet command that drew attention without effort.
When he spoke, his voice carried that low, deliberate confidence that made interviewers lean in closer.
Something about his hazel eyes, the way they watched you with complete focus, made you feel like you were the only person in the world worth paying attention to.
No wonder I caved and gave in to my feelings for him last year.
But the Henri sitting next to me wasn’t the same man from last season.
The suave, nuanced answers might sound familiar, but the voice behind them had changed—sharper now, more focused, tinged with frustration.
He was desperate to win this championship, and that desperation had transformed him.
It had probably transformed both of us. Eight races in, and it had all but consumed the two of us.
Henri finally glanced in my direction, his eyes meeting mine for the briefest moment before he gave a curt nod. “Blackwood.”
So, it’s like that, is it?
“Dubois,” I answered, matching his tone, though I added a small smile meant to bridge the gap. He didn’t return it, but his posture loosened. A subtle tell, like he’d almost considered further acknowledging me.
Fine. I didn’t like him much either right now anyway.
A British voice cut through the loud chatter, a signal the conference was about to start. “Lily! A solid P2 today. How does it feel?”
“Obviously would have liked P1,” I said with a grin. “But all things considered, I’ll take finishing without hitting anyone as a win.”
A few journalists chuckled. I knew they were going to ask about the almost collision this week, so I figured getting out ahead of it would be easiest. Although that probably wasn’t what Bertha had hoped for.
“In all seriousness, the team worked hard this week, and we’re seeing the success from that work.”
“Tell us,” an American journalist piped up. “That moment with Henri during free practice yesterday—any thoughts on that near-miss? It looked a little tense.” He leaned forward eagerly, his press badge swinging against his lanyard.
This was why I loved the American journalists: they got to the gossip right away. No need for chitchat. And as a British driver, I appreciated that.
“We both went for the same line,” I said lightly. “It happens. That section’s tight. Anyone who’s driven it knows there’s not much margin.”