Chapter Forty-Five
Victoria
The team is thrown into chaos. The race is, as well—everything gets screwed up while safety cars come out to clean up the mess of Asher’s car.
I lose the ability to breathe as I watch track marshals drag him out of the steaming, charred pile of metal that once passed for a halfway decent car. My heart stutters, skips three beats… then breaks out into a flurry as Asher straightens on his own.
I’d kill to be out on the track with him. I have to see that he’s okay up close. I have to make sure that he’s not hurt—
“Sit. Down,” Ilya tells me pointedly when I take a step away from the pit wall. “Nobody goes anywhere until we get this goddamn nightmare figured out.” He looks at Declan. “Status?”
“He’s not finishing the race,” Declan says grimly. “Not with the state of his car. Elio might be able to push in the top 15 if he takes advantage of the safety cars.”
“Victoria—switch places with Stanley,” Ilya commands, motioning at Elio’s engineer. “Get Elio as far as he can go. Asher’s out.”
His last words ring with finality. Asher’s out. He’s not getting the upgrade package before Montreal, and there’s no telling what state he’s in—whether he’ll be able to get top 10 in Montreal.
“Miss Linden.” Ilya’s voice is harsh. “Get in Elio’s ear. Now.”
My hands tremble. I can’t focus on anything but Asher. “I don’t think I can—”
“You can, because I am telling you to. Right. Now.”
His tone tells me that if I don’t comply, I’m done. And if I’m done, who’s going to help Asher?
I take a deep breath. Reach for cool, calculated composure that mostly eludes me. Click around on my tablet to redirect my algorithm to Elio, and accept the headset from Stanley.
Ilya’s breaking a lot of protocol and tradition in giving an intern this much power—somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that’s a good sign.
It means that he respects and trusts me.
But I can’t find anything good in this situation, especially as Asher’s taken out of sight, presumably to medical.
Safety cars flood the track, slowing every F1 car down as the debris is swept to the side.
I clear my throat and bite back the sting in my eyes as I don the headset. “Elio, this is Victoria reporting as your stand-in engineer. So sorry for the change.”
There’s a surprised pause. Then, Elio’s voice flits out, slow and cautious. “Glad to have you with me. What’s the plan, boss?”
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “Let’s start with your vitals…”
Somehow, I manage to guide Elio through the rest of the race.
By a stroke of luck and fantastic driving, he finishes in P14.
The win tastes foul in my mouth. Not only did I contribute to Asher’s crash by selecting the wrong tyres… I then jumped ship to Elio. I was ordered to, but it’s still not a good look.
Asher will understand. He has to. He’s grown so much in the last few months—I’ll talk everything over with him, and we’ll be fine. We have to be.
The sinking pit in my stomach calls me a liar.
“Ulrich has been cleared of wrongdoing.” Ilya grits his teeth in the after-race debrief.
My head is stuck in a tailspin because Asher still hasn’t shown up—he’s being evaluated at the nearest hospital for injuries.
I haven’t heard anything about him, and I doubt I’ll get a moment’s peace until I do. Until I can speak to him.
But Ilya’s obscene declaration cuts through the fog. I do something impulsive and break etiquette mid-debrief, because I can’t keep my mouth shut. Not when I know Ulrich intentionally crashed into Asher’s car.
“That’s impossible.”
Everyone’s eyes swing over to me. Ilya’s expression is hard, challenging. “It’s not impossible; it’s factual. The call has been made. Ulrich swerved when he hit a deep puddle, and that happened to be unfortunately timed—”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m telling you, that’s not the case. I’ve been over the data—”
“So have the marshals. You’re stepping dangerously far out of line,” Ilya warns.
Do I look like I give a shit about stepping out of line? Ulrich intentionally crashed into Asher, a crash that could’ve gotten the man I lo—
The man I care for killed.
Declan chooses that moment to pipe up. “Since nothing can be proven, the call is final. All the evidence has been reviewed—”
“My algorithm’s findings haven’t,” I interrupt, risking my job—and being incinerated into a hole on the floor by Ilya’s glare.
Fuck it. I hold up my tablet. “The Marshals haven’t seen what I’ve seen.
There is conclusive evidence, numerical data evidence, that proves Ulrich’s malice and premeditation. ”
Declan looks at Ilya. Ilya looks at Declan.
Nobody in the team will doubt that there’s something going on between me and Asher anymore, but I don’t care. I have to get Ulrich punished, and I shouldn’t have ever attempted to hide that I have a personal relationship with Asher. It hasn’t worked in either case.
“Show me,” Ilya demands.
I push off the wall and round the table where all lead personnel are seated, clicking over to the report my system compiled and setting it in front of Ilya. It’s in raw form, unintelligible to most people, but Ilya has the expertise to understand it.
It shows the vitals of Ulrich’s car in comparison to the exact measurements of water on the race track. It shows that when his front right tire hit the narrow edge of the puddle, he shouldn’t have been impacted. That his trajectory was safely pushing into the puddle.
It proves that his swerve the moment that Asher pulled up with him was intentional and reckless.
“Dear god.” Ilya stares down at the screen. “Declan?”
Declan rounds the table and leans over Ilya, also scanning the program. “Fucking. Hell,” he mutters.
“Will it be enough?” I ask uncertainly. I can’t be with Asher, but I can sure as hell do my best to get justice for him.
“If it’s not, we can file a formal complaint. Make some noise.” Ilya twists to stare at me, handing my tablet back. “Send this to me in full.”
“Done.”
“I thought you were tracking our team, not others,” Declan says, brows furrowed.
“The core of my program is data analysis. Forecasting was layered over that. It can’t forecast accurately if it’s not tracking every single condition on the track and every other driver.”
“Congratulations, intern,” Elio pipes up. There’s a tired, almost worried smile on his lips. “Let’s see how much we can get Ulrich punished.”
I stay with Ilya and Declan long after the debrief, compiling a report and complaint to send to the FIA Stewards—the people who decide the level of Ulrich’s punishment. It takes longer than expected.
Every minute that passes is a minute I could be spending with Asher, and it kills me.
Ilya eventually takes pity on me. “Go,” he says. “We have what we need.” He pauses. “Asher’s been discharged from the hospital. He’s back in his hotel room, probably brooding.” Another, longer pause as he examines me. “Room 34A.”
I already know, but Ilya mentioning it is telling. He’s suspected something before, but now, he’s certain.
Since I’m not being fired on the spot, I suppose this is his way of telling me he’s okay with it. Or maybe my addled brain is making up excuses to offer me some modicum of comfort, and Ilya intends to fire me the next time we speak. Either way, I can’t find it in myself to care right now.
I get an Uber to the hotel in a haze. The unpleasant dampness clouding my thoughts lingers as I make my way to Asher’s room instead of my own.
He opens after my first set of knocks, and my stomach drops.
His expression is set in a blank mask, but his eyes swarm with rage. His lips are just a little thinner than normal, his jaw a lot tighter. He’s furious.
And he’s hurt. There’s visible bruising around his neck. The rest of him is covered in clothes so I can’t discern damage, but I wince at the thought of how much pain he’s in.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is flat, dissonant. Harsh.
It feels like a slap to the face.
“I’m…” I clear my throat. “Here to check on you. I wanted to run to you on the track and join you in the hospital, but—”
“You were too busy with Elio and the team,” he surmises, his tone accusing. As if I deliberately left him at the first sign of trouble.
Shock knocks the breath out of me. Asher knows better. He knows me, and I’ve more than proven my loyalty to him. Where the hell is this coming from?
“Asher—”
“You should leave. I’m not in a good mood.” He turns and stalks back into the room, but leaves the door open. I take that as all the invitation I need. I get that he’s hurt, angry, and dejected, but I won’t let him push me away. It won’t solve anything.
I follow him in and close the door behind me. Asher moves to stand in front of the large window, gazing at the pouring rain. It still hasn’t let up, and when I left, I saw that the F1 track was flooded.
“Ilya kept me in place after the crash and reassigned me to Elio. I couldn’t say no.” I tentatively walk up beside him. “Then, I spent several hours helping compile a report to get Ulrich—”
Asher rounds on me so abruptly, the explanation dies on my lips. “I don’t fucking care,” he snarls. “Why you were assigned to Elio after you got me in a fucking car crash is beyond me, but Gaston has always had a competence issue.”
All the air leaves my blood and lungs in a rush. My eyes sting. It feels like he’s just slipped a knife between my ribs, and the tip of it is lodged in my heart.
His words hurt everywhere. More than hurt; they set off poignant rounds of agony.
“What?” I breathe. He thinks I’m the reason he crashed?
“You gave me fucking greens,” Asher hisses. “I looked it up; every single other person went with blues. You know, the tyres specifically engineered for bad rain. I was at a massive disadvantage—”
“Asher, you crashed because you went after March and ended up behind Ulrich,” I say emphatically.
Did I err in giving him greens? Possibly.
I’ll have to run that decision through my algorithm a dozen different ways once I have all the race data processed.
But Asher would’ve been fine if he’d listened to me.
Is he seriously blaming me?
Doesn’t he realize how much that hurts?
“I wouldn’t have had the stupid idea to overtake if you didn’t give me hope. It made me reckless. It got me a fucking concussion, bruised bones, and a broken fucking dream.”
The knife slips farther into my heart. My body goes weak with pain, and I’m surprised I don’t fall to my knees.
My model specifically recommended greens because everyone else was on blues, and because I was constantly feeding it updated wind and perspiration reports throughout the race.
It made a calculated decision that I happened to agree with.
While it was risky, it was far less risky than the shit Asher pulled… yet he’s blaming me?
My pain fades into background noise, and anger takes its place. Swift, hard, and sharp enough to cut.
“You have no right to pin the crash on me,” I hiss. “A series of decisions led to it, and only one of them was mine. You’re reckless enough that you might’ve gone after March even with blues, which would’ve still put you behind Ulrich.”
“No, it wouldn’t have. Your choice directly led to—”
“Enough!” I snap. “You have no right to talk to me like that or blame me for what transpired today. I have done nothing but go out of my way, lose sleep, and risk my neck to help you this season. I have dedicated all-nighters and neglected my responsibilities for you—”
Asher cuts me off with a cruel laugh. “And look where it’s gotten me. I don’t want your fucking help anymore, intern. It’s over. We’re over. I’m going back to Ethan. You can take your destructive bullshit somewhere else—if anyone will have you after today.”
I stumble back. Now, the blade has punctured a deep hole in my heart, and it’s seeping blood and pain.
Asher is choosing someone else over me, when I’ve worked the hardest and done the most.
Now that you’re old enough, you should know… Reynard hasn’t left you anything. He’s prioritized his other children.
I’m sorry, but your scholarship was redelegated to a much more promising student.
We actually ended up going with another, more promising intern, but we’re still interested in your algorithm.
And now… I’m going back to Ethan.
The cycle is repeating itself again, only now, it’s so much worse because this is personal. Because I’ve given Asher pieces of myself that I kept shielded from everyone else, and I let myself truly, fully hope.
Tears sting my eyes, and an unbearable burn lodges a lump in my throat.
I won’t let him see me cry. I might be devastated, but I still have my pride.
“Got it.” My voice cracks over the words, no matter how I try to control it. The sting in my eye intensifies. “I’ll let leadership know.”
Something crosses Asher’s face. A flicker of clarity or sadness, I’m not sure. I don’t care to know anymore.
I turn and flee before I can make a fool out of myself, and manage to trap my sobs until I’m in the quiet safety of my room.