Chapter 1
Ava
Five months later, February – London
‘Did your invite get lost in the mail?’ I ask Axel Bergmüller, the two-time world champion who’s currently wearing ripped jeans, scuffed sneakers, and a Specter Energy Racing polo shirt.
It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever seen a driver wear, but it’s certainly not appropriate for a formal event.
‘You know the dress code said black tie, right?’
He steps off the red carpet and into the wings where I’ve been waiting for him.
‘They should be glad I’m even here,’ he says, unfazed by my scolding.
Maybe it’s an Austrian thing. Maybe it’s a champion thing.
Or maybe it’s just an Axel goddamn Bergmüller thing, but this man could not care less. ‘I didn’t want to come.’
‘You never do.’ I loop my arm around his to drag him into the venue, tired of standing around in my beautiful but insensible stilettos. At least one of us followed the dress code. ‘My dad is going to be furious when he sees you.’
‘Omid will weep gracious tears that his best driver decided to show up, and you know it.’
There won’t be tears, but my father will undoubtedly heave a small sigh of relief that his bratty, infuriatingly talented number-one driver has shown up for a mandatory event.
As team principal of Specter Energy, one of Dad’s main responsibilities is wrangling this twenty-six-year-old man-child who carries the hopes and dreams of the team. And it’s a task we share, even though I haven’t worked for the team in over a year.
But Axel is – unfortunately – like family at this point, all thanks to Dad practically adopting him when he was just a teenager racing in Formula 3. As his honorary older sister, my duties include getting him to show up where he’s supposed to and not make a mockery of the team in the process.
We’re not doing a great job of either at the moment.
‘These are the worst parties,’ he grumbles as I tug him into the throng of well-heeled guests. ‘Full of people who don’t know shit about motorsport and act like they’re entitled to our time, all because they’re paying to have their company logos on our cars.’
This annual event, hosted by the official timekeeper of the sport, a long-established Swiss watch brand, does indeed draw the exact crowd he mentioned.
It’s more of a pre-season kickoff party than anything, a chance for teams and sponsors alike to mingle and network before everyone is at each other’s throats in the spirit of competition.
I see why he dislikes it. He’s about to be paraded around like a prized pony, gawked at and fussed over, made to give a speech and be on his very best behavior for the next several hours.
He’s temperamental on a good day, and if he’s being forced to do something he hates?
No one is safe. May the universe have mercy on the first person who asks him how he thinks the upcoming season is going to go.
They’re about to verbally get their ass handed to them.
‘Axel, please.’ I sigh, pulling him to a stop so he can face my pleading stare. ‘I just want to enjoy tonight. I know you hate it all, but I’ve missed this.’
His dipped brow eases, his glare a little less severe. ‘Right, you’ve been away from this bullshit.’ He’s quiet as he shifts uncomfortably, probably remembering the why behind my absence. ‘Are you sure you want to be here?’
I understand his hesitance. Rumors pushed me out of my job and the world of Formula 1, and showing up again is sure to refuel them. But when my best friend – the COO of one of the companies sponsoring an F1 team – asked if I wanted to be her plus-one tonight, I couldn’t resist the offer.
‘I’m sure,’ I say.
But Axel’s still skeptical. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’
It’s hard to believe after everything that happened, but it’s the truth.
The world of motorsport is all I’ve ever known.
My parents worked in IndyCar when I was a kid, and I grew up in the pit lanes of the American circuits, comforted by the scent of fuel and rubber, lulled to sleep by revving engines.
I learned to drive a kart before I could read.
I even briefly considered becoming a strategist like Mom or an engineer like Dad before I realized neither was my strong suit.
It was marketing and design that scratched an itch in my brain, and once I had degrees in graphic design and sports marketing under my belt, I dove straight back into the world of motorsport.
But I only came to work for Specter Energy Racing after grad school, when I received an olive branch from Dad following a decade of him mostly ignoring my existence – aside from dropping money I barely touched into my bank account every month.
At the time, I was working in the marketing department of an IndyCar team, but when the offer from Dad came in, I was compelled to accept it.
Just like him, I couldn’t resist the allure of Formula 1.
By then, he’d worked his way up to being team principal following years as an engineer, having made the shift from IndyCar to F1 after Mom’s death.
While I was left behind at a Virginia boarding school at fourteen, he jetted off to England to follow his dreams of conquering the pinnacle of motorsport.
And with six Constructors’ Championships under his belt, I’d say he’s accomplished that.
I, on the other hand, haven’t accomplished much – unless you count being at the center of a scandal that ended with me being asked to leave the team.
I level Axel with a hard stare when he doesn’t look convinced by my answer. ‘Do you think I’d be wearing a gown and heels that pinch my toes if I didn’t want to be here?’
‘I know you love playing dress-up.’ He snorts, green eyes rolling. ‘Have you talked to Omid yet?’
‘He’s the one who sent me to wait for you.’ It was more about getting me away from the team’s sponsors he was speaking with, since he was unwilling to address my surprise reappearance. ‘And now that you’ve graced us with your presence, I can go have fun with people I actually like.’
‘I’m the highlight of your night,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘But fine, go socialize with the enemy.’
I bristle at the way he refers to my best friend as the enemy, but considering she’s the sister of one of the McMorris F1 Team drivers, he’s not completely wrong.
‘And you can go find my father,’ I instruct as he puts a hand to my shoulder to start nudging me forward. ‘You’re all supposed to be onstage for a speech in twenty minutes. Specter Energy’s up after Omega Siluro.’
Axel dramatically mimes that he can’t hear me over the noise and music before dropping his hand and melting into the crowd, likely in search of the nearest exit. Whatever. At least I got him in here. I made no promises about making him stay. Besides, it’s not like Dad can fire me all over again.
A flash of blonde hair in my periphery has me turning to catch the enemy approaching, her trademark scowl lightening when she spots me.
‘About time you came back in,’ Edith Maxwell-Brown grumbles. ‘Do you have any idea how many creepy old men I had to fend off while you were gone?’
I give her a quick scan, taking in her black taffeta gown and its sweetheart neckline, accented by the teardrop diamond necklace resting just below her collarbones.
She looks amazing on a normal day, but she’s a full-blown stunner tonight.
‘At least two dozen,’ I answer. ‘Those guys are plentiful around here.’ And so is their money.
‘Place is practically overrun with them.’ Edith grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray but hesitates on offering one to me. ‘Are you drinking tonight?’ she asks quietly. ‘Wasn’t sure if you’d changed your mind since the wedding.’
It’s a thoughtful question, since I’ve spent the better part of a year abstaining completely – all for the goal of preparing my body to carry a future baby. Still, I have to fight to keep a smile on my face as I take the glass from her, because there’s a big part of me that wants to cry.
‘I’m taking a break from IUI for a while. The last round’s failure took a lot out of me.’ I lift the glass in a mocking toast to me not being pregnant. ‘So I’ll be drinking expensive champagne and eating all the soft cheese my heart desires until I’m ready to try again.’
She taps the rim of her flute against mine. ‘That’s the spirit. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.’
Her mention of when, not if, buoys me a little, as if it’s just a matter of time before I spot two little lines on a pregnancy test. I’ve dreamed of one day being a mom ever since I lost my own, wanting to build a family to pass along the love she gave me and to support my kids in the way I wish I could have been by my remaining parent.
I want to be everything for a child that my mother was for me.
But the harsh reality is that it’s been eight months of trying and I’m no closer to making my dream come true.
Logically, I know that less than a year isn’t a long time to be trying for a baby. It’s not even long enough to be hit with a diagnosis of infertility. But having to keep waiting because my body has decided Hmm, no, I don’t think we want to do that is the letdown of the century.
‘My doctor thinks it’s time to move to IVF, so maybe I’ll have better luck with that,’ I say, trying to remain positive despite the slow creep of disappointment month after month.
‘But she did warn me that I’m heading into advanced maternal age territory.
’ I scoff. ‘She might as well have just called me old. I mean, come on, I’m thirty-four, not eighty-four.
I’m not even old enough to run for president. ’