Chapter Four
Lily
By the time I reached the Rennen garage, all I could think about was sleep. I was halfway to my driver’s room when a smooth, unmistakably English voice cut through the air.
“Lillian.”
Oh, brilliant. Just what I need right now.
My mother stood framed in the doorway like she’d been posed there by a photographer, pearl-colored blazer gleaming under the room’s lighting. One manicured hand rested on her handbag as if she was worried someone might steal it from under her nose.
No team gear, of course. Victoria Blackwood didn’t wear anything that hadn’t hit the runway.
“Mum,” I greeted with a casual smile.
“There’s someone here who wanted to say hello.” Based on the unusual giddiness of her voice, I knew whoever it was must have been important.
Marcus Freeman appeared behind my mother, his six-foot-something frame making her look almost childlike by comparison.
The CEO of BetHere Gaming had his silver hair combed back so severely it looked painted on, and his smile reminded me of every used car salesman I’d ever met.
His tanned hand was already extended toward me.
“Lily! The car looks excellent this weekend. Really fantastic work from you this season.”
I took his hand, trying to force down the exhaustion. “Thanks, Mr. Freeman. Appreciate you coming by.”
“Please, call me Marcus.” He grinned wider. “I was just telling your mother how impressed we’ve been with your performance. You’re doing wonderful things for both Rennen and F1.”
“She’s always been driven,” my mother bragged. “Even as a young girl. She won her first karting championship at eight, you know.”
“Mum—” I had no doubt Marcus knew all of this, but he just beamed at my mother. “That kind of dedication is exactly what BetHere looks for in our partnerships. We’re not here to just back drivers; we want to back champions.”
Champions who make you money.
“Well, I should let you rest.” Marcus stepped back, his gold cufflinks catching the light as he checked his Patek Philippe watch. “Big week ahead. But I wanted to pop in, see the talent up close.”
“I appreciate it.” I smiled.
“Let’s arrange a dinner sometime. You, me, your mother. Discuss the future.” He winked.
I nodded, jaw aching from the smile that now felt a bit too forced. Marcus shook my hand again, squeezed Mum’s shoulder, then disappeared down the corridor.
The second he was gone, my mother turned to me.
“He’s a very important sponsor, Lillian.” Her tone shifted, sharpening. “So, if you see him again, be sure to say hello. His company has historically sponsored F1 teams, but there’s interest in some individual deals too.”
Finally, Victoria’s eyes swept over me, assessing the rumpled sleeves of my team half-zip and the grease stain on my jeans.
“My goodness, you look dreadful.” Her voice made me straighten up, a reflex so ingrained I couldn’t override it even if I wanted to.
“Well, I did just finish qualifying?” Not that my mother had bothered to watch it. That I was sure of.
“Don’t be flippant. It doesn’t suit you.” Well, at least now I knew where Bertha had gotten the word from.
She took a seat on my sofa, motioning for me to do the same. “I watched your press conference. Not too terrible. At least you skipped the jokes this time.”
I folded my arms defensively, suddenly too aware of how small the driver’s room felt with her in it. “Aren’t you the one who told me to distract them with my ‘sunshiny personality’?” I made air quotes around the phrase she’d used so often over the years.
“Smile, Lillian. A sunshiny smile.” Her sigh was deliberate, in an over-the-top theatrical way. Something she’d perfected since my childhood. “No words needed. Just that lovely, disarming expression you do so well.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I said, holding up my phone with my lap-time data. “But as you can see, I’m doing fine.”
“Fine isn’t the goal,” she said matter-of-factly. “Winning is.”
Unless it was with her.
There was no winning when it came to dealing with Victoria Blackwood. Only surviving.
“You know I only want to help,” she said softly. “We’ve come this far…”
I bit back a sigh. “I know you do, Mum. And I try to listen.”
Her smile curved, faint and satisfied, like I’d just passed a test I didn’t know I was taking. “Good. Then you’ll appreciate what I’ve come to tell you.”
Ah, the real reason she was here. It never seemed to be just to see me race.
“I ran into Oliver Johnson this afternoon. Remember him from school?”
I blinked. “Ollie?” Ollie and I had been classmates growing up, and then we’d raced together a bit as teens, before he joined F2.
He was everywhere lately, his face plastered across F1 media.
The rising podcaster and the charming face behind The Home Stretch, F1’s largest podcast. His career had exploded over the past two seasons.
And apparently, so had my mother’s interest.
“You know he’s running The Home Stretch podcast,” she continued airily. I went to tell her that yes, I obviously knew, but my mother had already launched herself into her next thought. “We ran into each other earlier today. He had nothing but lovely things to say about you.”
“Yes, well, that’s nice, Mu—”
“Anyway, we were talking, and he was telling me how he would love to catch up with you, so I told him that you would have dinner with him tonight.”
“It’s the night before a race!” This was crazy, even for my mother. “Mum, are you out of your mind?”
“Well, you have to eat, don’t you?”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“And why not do it with someone successful and charming? He’s always been fond of you. And he also happens to be single.”
I let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “You once told me his mother was the most pretentious person you’d ever met.”
She flicked her wrist dismissively, gold bracelets catching the light. “You can’t fault a person for their parents, Lillian.”
And thank God for that, I thought.
“You know he once glued my math book shut, and right before finals too.”
Her lips pursed into that familiar half-smile. “Oh, Lily, boys will be bo—”
“Dear God, Mum, please do not finish that sentence.”
She waved me off, likely annoyed with my melodramatics. “He’s grown into quite a young man. Exactly the sort of person you should be seen with.”
There it was, that real agenda. Ollie’s grandfather had been a famous driver back in the seventies and was now the chairman of several charities. Their name carried weight in the racing world.
“So,” I said slowly, “is this PR, or matchmaking?”
“Dinner with Oliver will be mutually beneficial.” She looked down at her nails, inspecting them for a moment.
“He’ll get some insider knowledge for his podcast, and you’ll get valuable visibility.
You’re at a new team now. This sort of press will be good for you, and Ollie is a safe choice to do it. ”
Each word pricked more than it should have, finding soft spots I thought I’d armored against years ago.
“My results speak for themselves, Mum. I don’t need a man to validate them. Plus, what about this morality clause? Wouldn’t want the dinner looking like I’m on a date…” I added that last part with perhaps a bit too much sarcasm.
“Darling, you’re missing the point.” Mum waved her hand dismissively, as though brushing away my concerns like they were merely crumbs from a lap.
“You’re allowed to have romantic relationships, but with the right person.
Oliver isn’t a rival. Plus, he has a massive platform. Your sponsors will love it.”
I wonder if Ollie knows about my mother’s little matchmaking agenda.
Her lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. “Just remember, Lily. We’re building something here. You’re representing women in motorsport, and more importantly, representing Rennen’s investment in you.”
The guilt trip was expertly deployed, hitting exactly where she intended.
Before I could formulate any response, she stood, smoothing her blazer. “I’ll have a dress sent to your hotel room within the hour.” She paused at the door, delivering her final instruction. “And for heaven’s sake, keep the jokes to a minimum.”
Before I could reply, she leaned in, pressed a faint kiss to my cheek, and turned toward the door.
But something stopped her. She took in the vase in the corner of the room, the one whose flowers had held the note from Miami.
I’d meant to throw it away, but the team had packed up my driver’s room before I’d gotten the chance.
When it appeared again in Montreal, I couldn’t bring myself to toss it.
Instead I’d slipped out to a supermarket and bought fresh flowers.
Something bright to replace the bad memory.
My mother’s nose wrinkled slightly. “Lily.” Her tone carried that particular disappointment I’d become accustomed to. “They look like they’re from a grocery store.”
“They are, actually,” I said carefully, trying to keep my voice neutral.
“Good God. They look terribly cheap.” She moved closer, inspecting the arrangement with a critical eye, which was ironic, since my mother had a black thumb.
“Lilies and daisies? Honestly, if you must keep flowers in your workspace, at least choose something with more sophistication. An orchid, perhaps. Or a proper arrangement from a florist.”
I looked at the flowers one more time and opened my mouth, the confession hovering at the edge of my tongue. Should I tell her?
The words sat there, heavy and unspoken.
“Actually,” I started, then I stopped. My mother’s gaze felt heavy as she watched me. “Um, I sort of wanted to ask you something. I received a… note. It was a bit nasty, felt different than the usual ‘women don’t belong in racing’ garbage I usually get…”
I stopped, waiting to see her reaction, but her expression didn’t change. No concern creased her brow; no maternal instinct kicked in.
“Oh, darling. You’re at a larger team now. It’s going to come with more visibility. You’re in the spotlight!” She adjusted her handbag on her shoulder. “You’re not the first woman in a male-dominated space to receive attention from sad little people with too much time on their hands.”
“Right, but this note was in my room… and seemed to maybe be from someone who lost some money—”
At that, my mother cut me off. “Just ignore them.” The command was flat, shutting down any chance of an argument. “And for God’s sake, don’t make a fuss about it.”
I blinked. “A fuss?”
“Lillian.” She turned fully toward me now, and I recognized the look.
The one that said I was being difficult again.
“You’re already under enough scrutiny. The last thing you need is to give anyone more reason to think you can’t handle the pressure.
That you need special protection or coddling.
The team doesn’t need a reason to question whether a female driver is worth the trouble,” she continued, softer now, like she was doing me a favor.
“And with BetHere being such a big sponsor, we don’t want to bring them any negative attention, hm?
You know, Marcus is very involved with a few different companies as a board member.
This relationship could grow into something else! ”
I swallowed down the rest of my words, letting them sink back down to where they belonged. She was right. One complaint, and I’d become the difficult woman who couldn’t take the heat. A liability who needed protecting.
I’d seen what had happened to my friend Abby over in Indy Car. She’d complained, and the team had stopped prioritizing her at sponsorship events.
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s no big deal.”
“Good girl.” She smiled, genuine this time, and kissed my cheek again. She cast one last glance at the vase before exiting the room. Her heels clicked across the floor, crisp and even, echoing long after she’d disappeared.
My eyes drifted back to the flower arrangement. Innocent, cheerful, perfectly ordinary flowers bought from a perfectly ordinary shop. Nothing threatening. Nothing dangerous.
Nothing like the original bouquet that had come with a message promising violence. The threat lived in my mind now, playing on repeat during quiet moments, crowding in when I should have been sleeping or visualizing race strategy.
Someone with access to the paddock, to team hospitality areas, to my private driver’s room, had gotten into my room and left flowers.
And I’d told no one.
But was my mother right?
Making a big deal about threatening fan mail would just prove to my critics that women in F1 were too fragile for the pressure, too emotional to handle the spotlight. That I needed special treatment, coddling, protection the male drivers didn’t require.
I knew for a fact that Henri had never reported hate mail. Or my teammate Luca. They probably received worse as they’d been racing longer, but they didn’t run crying to team principals about mean notes tucked into bouquets.
And they certainly didn’t keep the vase and fill it with flowers like some sort of twisted memorial. I grabbed my water bottle, taking a long pull to wash down the bitter taste in my mouth.
I couldn’t have Felix second-guessing his investment. Besides, what would reporting it actually accomplish?
An investigation into one note felt silly and would probably go nowhere.
If it was someone who’d lost money on me, they probably just wanted to let off some steam.
I didn’t want to make a fuss over one of Rennen’s biggest sponsors.
The fact was, gambling was big business, and the sponsorship revenue was growing each year.
It was one note, I reminded myself. Probably from some drunk fan who was angry about the crash and wanted to lash out.
I’d deal with it if another showed up.