Chapter 33
PREDICTIVE MODELING ERROR: SOFTWARE MISJUDGING DRIVER BEHAVIOR
Ifelt Leo pass through earlier. He’s likely outside running through some last-minute checks with Dario, which is good. As it is, I’m anxious about this race for both of us, even though I refuse to let it show.
I tell myself everything is going to be fine as I stand in the garage, tablet in hand.
The team’s engineers are gathered around me like I’m about to hand them something definitive.
Something clean. Something repeatable. Something that removes the most unpredictable variable from the equation—the driver.
They wish.
Because there isn’t a system in the world that can eliminate a driver’s instinct or doubt. Nor the moment when a decision has to be made faster than logic can catch up.
Still, they’re looking at me like I already have.
“All right,” I say, forcing my voice into something steady. “Sector One is where we’re still going to see instability under load. Not failure—instability.”
After all this time, it still strikes me how important words are.
It mattered that morning in Saratoga Springs.
It has mattered all throughout the circuit as Leo and I rebuilt ourselves into something stronger.
Even here, in this room, words matter. “Failure” makes people give up.
“Instability” reminds them there’s still something worth fighting to fix.
Something that can be anticipated and controlled if the right decisions are made.
Their attention sharpens immediately. I continue, pacing slowly in front of them. “Red Bull is going to tempt him to push out of Turn Two. If he feels the car is slipping, his instinct will be to correct early.”
“That’s what we’re hoping to avoid,” one of the engineers says.
“Yes,” I reply, tapping the tablet to bring up the telemetry from Barcelona. “Because the system is already compensating. If he intervenes, he’s fighting it instead of working with it.”
I zoom in on the data, letting the numbers speak where words fall short.
“Here,” I point out. “This is the correction point from Barcelona. Too early. It creates drag, reduces exit speed, and compromises the next straight.”
“Do you think he’s going to do the same today?” Mike asks.
“Today, he has to trust the system to get him through the finish line.”
“If he doesn’t?”
“He loses time on the corner and potentially the race.”
Silence settles over the group as they absorb my words because I’m not here to offer pats on the back or comfort. I’m committed to ensuring Apex Orion—Leo especially—comes out a winner today.
Because here, coming in first matters more than any of them could ever speculate.
Lowering the tablet slightly, I study their faces, making sure they understand the impact of my next statement. “No last-minute tweaks. No late changes unless they’re cleared through me first. We have to trust the system and more than that, he needs to know we trust him.”
The words settle in my soul differently than they would have months ago. I believe in Leo, in what he can accomplish on his own and what we forged together.
The engineers nod before dispersing to their stations. Radios crackle to life. Tires are checked. Final adjustments are made—not to the system, but around it.
I stand there for a second longer than necessary because this is the part I need to absorb.
It’s the moment where my work ends and trust begins. Truth be told, all I did was build better software. Still, no matter how precise I wrote it, no matter how refined it has become, the outcome rests with Leo.
I exhale slowly, preparing myself before stepping out of the garage and into the paddock.
It’s alive with controlled chaos, with everything being prepared for two distinct moments: the start and the finish.
One will determine if we have a chance to win.
The other will determine how Leo evaluates his past. Neither is something I can control.
I move farther into the chaos when I hear him. “I love Christin.”
I stumble as I come to an abrupt stop, struggling to believe how easily the words leave his lips. Then I hear him declare, “I know I got it wrong before, but I’m not uncertain about how much I love her. I’m not walking away from her again.”
I’m shocked when I hear a second voice—one I could pick out anywhere in any crowd. My father orders Leo, “Make it count.”
I know the last part is an instruction from Lewis Porter, not from my dad. My heart swells when I realize that by saying what his former team director once said to him, he’s accepting Leo.
Leo replies without pause. “I will.”
Moments later, he spots me. For a second, everything else fades—the noise, the movement, the pressure building around us.
As he approaches me, I can tell he’s already shifting into the focused, pre-race version of himself. “I have to get to the garage.”
“I know.”
Still, his hand brushes mine—brief, grounding. It’s enough to let me know that while his focus needs to be on the race, he’s got me in his heart. He murmurs, “I’ll find you after.”
“I’ll be here.”
He nods once, holding my gaze for half a second longer than necessary before turning away. I watch as he’s directed by his team for his racing prep, changing from the man who loves me into the driver the world isn’t ready for.
I wait for Leo to be fully immersed before taking a few minutes to study my father. There’s a bittersweet reflective expression on his face when he looks around. I take a step forward and call out, “Dad?”
His face transforms into delight when he hears my voice. “Christin.”
I don’t race toward him, not yet. Instead, I absorb the absolute love he has for me. Has always shown me. It breaks my heart to know Leo never had this.
“You made it,” I say, closing the space between us.
“You asked.” He smiles at me.
I don’t hesitate. I step up to him, letting myself be pulled into a hug that feels exactly the same as it has my whole life.
From the side of my mother’s grave to the way he held me when I joined him for dinner months ago in New York, my father’s arms have always been my safe space, without conditions.
I want that for Leo.
When I do finally pull back, I ask, “You just get in?”
“Not too long ago,” he says.
“I’d have picked you up from the airport,” I admonish him.
“I think you may have been a bit busy.”
I chuckle because he’s not wrong. “It is race day.”
“Then you’re exactly where you should be.”
I glance toward the track, then back at him. Even now, after all these years, I can see the hankering to be behind the wheel just before a race. I nudge his shoulder. “You really should watch this from the pit.”
His brows rise upward. “You sure?”
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation in my response, because I want him to not only witness what I did with Apex Orion, I want him there for Leo.
“Then lead the way.”
We move toward the pit wall together, the noise intensifying as we approach. Cars are being lined up on the grid. Heat radiates off the track in visible waves. “Is this where you’ll be?” he asks.
“Most of the race.”
“What about the rest?”
My lips curve wryly. “Inside the garage reassuring people Leo knows what he’s doing.”
“And does he?”
“Absolutely.” A single word said with conviction.
He lifts a hand up to his brow as he stares out over the familiar surroundings. “Do you trust him again?”
I don’t hesitate. “Yes, with my whole heart.”
He loops an arm over my shoulders. “That’s all I ever wanted for you, Pumpkin.”
We catch up as the day passes. Dad ends up shaking hands with the entire Apex Orion team and signing a bunch of autographs. Dario convinces him to wear Apex Orion gear, citing, “You’ll be less visible out by the pit, Lewis.”
Dad agrees. When he comes out in a polo that matches my own, we both chuckle. I remark, “The last time this happened, I was rooting for Ferrari.”
“Not doing that today, Pumpkin?” he teases.
“No. Not at all. Today is Leo’s.”
“Then let’s go.” He gestures me forward just in time for the race to start. We’re huddled together as the lights begin their sequence. Five red lights illuminate above the track.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Lights out.
The cars launch forward in an explosion of sound and motion, engines screaming as they surge into the first corner.
My eyes find Leo. His start is clean. Neither reckless nor too aggressive. He slots into position, avoiding early contact, setting himself up for the long game instead of forcing an early move.
“He drives smarter than he used to,” my father murmurs.
“Yes.”
Lap one unfolds exactly the way it should. No unnecessary risks. No overcorrections. Just precision. Lap three unfolds much the same way. By lap five, the field starts spreading. Gaps form, and individual driver strategies emerge.
Leo’s holding his own at the front of the pack, but what I’m watching isn’t just position. It’s his behavior. The throttle control. How his steering is holding up at Turn Two. Every micro-decision that determines whether the chance of winning remains in his grasp.
“He’s smoother,” my father notes. When I quirk a brow in his direction, he shrugs his shoulders. “Just because I left the sport doesn’t mean I don’t follow it.”
A small smile lifts my lips at the explanation.
My father’s voice is satisfied when he breaks into my thoughts. “He trusts you.”
“How can you tell?”
He points down to my tablet. “Because he’s not spiking your metrics.”
Since he’s right, I return my focus to the physical course.
On lap ten, the first challenge comes. A car pushes him wide into Copse.
I tense, thinking, This is it. The exact scenario I built for.
It’s where Leo’s instincts used to try to correct early.
He’d fight the system, lose speed, and lose position.
I hold my breath even as Leo holds the car steady. He doesn’t fight it and manages the tight position cleanly.
“Did he adjust?”
“No. He didn’t. First time all season.”
Fifty-one laps later, the checkered flag is within reach. I know Red Bull’s Ford is faster than Leo on the straightaway but weaker in the corners. Which means everything comes down to execution.
To trust.
To timing.
Because now is when it matters most.
Leo lines up his move. I glance down at my tablet, knowing the system is feeding him the exact data he needs. I whisper under my breath, “Now.”
Leo takes the turn with no hesitation. He carries the speed through the apex, positioning himself for the exit. The overtake happens in a blur. On the other side, we see it’s undeniable.
“He’s through,” my father says.
I don’t answer because he hasn’t crossed the finish line yet.
During the final lap, pressure intensifies. This is historically where most mistakes happen. When driver fatigue causes doubt in their team and their cars. Leo doesn’t give it a chance to fester. He drives like there’s no separation between what he feels and what the car is doing.
Final sector. I stop looking at metrics and hold my fist to my mouth. My father murmurs, “He’s got him.”
I can’t speak. Leo is edging out Copse by at least two car lengths. I watch as Copse tries to make one last runaround. Instead of getting knocked down, Leo doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t second-guess himself.
A gasp passes my lips as he opens up his lead just a little more.
Every member of Apex Orion is already celebrating before I say, “He did it.”