Epilogue 2
Victoria
Dubai Grand Prix
“Who is that hottie?”
I follow Amanda’s line of sight, recoiling when I see she’s looking at the VIP lounge that overlooks the paddock and track, where my brother and Reynard are looking out on the race track, standing side by side.
Dear god. “Which one?” I’m almost afraid to ask.
“6’4. Stormy grey eyes, square jaw—”
That describes both of them. My brother is just about a carbon copy of what Reynard looked like at his age, and Reynard has a silver-fox appeal about him.
“Which one?” My voice is slightly more shrill. If Amanda’s eyeing my father, that could actually amount to something—no matter that he’s getting married in a few months.
“—looks to be 30 or so.”
“Thank god,” I murmur.
Amanda casts me a surprised look. “You know him?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “Oh. Think you could introduce us?”
“I could, but it wouldn’t do any good. He’s not one for relationships.”
Amanda frowns. “And?
I’m not going to touch this conversation with a ten-foot pole. I know my brother has certain… antisocial tendencies. Antisocial is actually a nice way of putting it; more accurate is sociopathic.
Thankfully, Delilah strides up to us at that moment, ignoring the sour look Declan casts at her for approaching the pit wall during race setup.
The only people technically allowed here are team personnel at the highest level of leadership and race engineers—the only reason Amanda can waltz in is because she’s Frank Sterling’s daughter—but my best friend is a force of nature.
Trying to keep her away from somewhere she wants to go is utterly useless.
“I need a favor,” she says without preamble.
I frown. “Right now?”
“Good a time as any.” She reaches into her bag, withdraws a thick stack of business cards, and slaps them down on the table crowded with monitors, keyboards, and gear.
“I keep getting these from teams. Sift through them and tell me who I should work with.” Her brows furrow.
“Correction, who would be interesting for me.”
“Now?” I repeat. We’re minutes out from the national anthem being played, and then the formation lap.
Delilah gives me a dead-eyed stare. “I want to accept one of the offers after the race. I have meetings lined up today and tomorrow.”
“Like, you interviewing with teams?” Amanda asks.
“Like, me interviewing them,” Delilah responds.
She’s taken the unofficial and unpaid role as not only mine and Asher’s legal counsel, but also our manager.
Really, she acts as a fixer. She’s the middleman between us and events, photoshoots, brand deals, and most of all, contracts.
She didn’t even ask for the role; just stepped up and started taking on responsibilities after the Montreal race. She’s fucking excellent at the job.
She told me about a month ago that her strategy was to do such incredible work for us, she’d have offers coming out of her ass to work with teams—despite there being no chance in hell she’ll get a recommendation letter from her previous law firm.
Since I’ve benefitted from her strategy, I don’t mind, but it also puts her in a position to request favors like this anytime she wants.
I sigh, picking up the stack. I start going through the cards one by one, discarding them with minor commentary like “fuck no” or “you’d die from boredom.” I stop cold when I see a business card for Cheetah’s team owner, who’s also scribbled a personal message on the back.
Cheetah has one of the best and most problematic drivers in the world: Jasper Hale. He’s been kicking up a massive fuss this season over any and everything. Any other driver would be fired for bad conduct, but he’s too good for Cheetah to risk losing him. Hale is the current world champion.
“This one.” I hand Delilah the card. There’s no way she’ll be bored with a team as high-powered and filled with constant issues that need to be fixed like Cheetah. “You’ll have fun breaking him.”
Amanda glances at the card and grimaces. “Is that for Jasper Hale? He’s so insufferable it’s easy to forget he’s gorgeous.” She shakes her head. “Don’t do it. No level of eye-candy is worth dealing with such a stubborn personality.”
“Stubborn?” A slow, evil smile graces Delilah’s lips. “Perfect.”
I spot Ilya making his way from the garage towards the pit wall. That means it’s beyond go-time, and any stragglers need to get out. I make a shooing motion with my hands. “Okay, both of you beat it. It’s race-time.”
Delilah pulls her phone out of her back pocket. “You have a photoshoot for that relationship advice magazine scheduled right before the afterparty, and there’s a reporter asking for an exclusive—”
“Delilah, Amanda,” Ilya greets. “If you two would please make your way to the garage or stands. I’m afraid it’s time for the pit wall to focus up.” His words are polite enough, but his warning look leaves no doubt that they need to move or else.
Delilah gives me a nod. “Get him on the podium.”
“And Elio too, please,” Amanda says. Both of them flit off.
I get seated and pull up my program. With a staggering investment from Sterling, I’ve been able to turn the raw product into a functional software and make several improvements throughout the season, so it’s much easier to work now.
“P4 and P7 in qualifying,” Ilya murmurs, sitting down beside me. “Chances of a podium in current climate?”
“Thirty percent,” I respond bluntly. I’m under promising so that I can hopefully overdeliver, but there’s no guarantee.
“I’ll take it.” Ilya swivels to face Declan, while Elio’s engineer vacates his seat to come up beside me. “Wanted to get your thoughts on a few alterations to today’s strategy.”
I listen for several moments as he outlines a plan, growing more and more dubious by the second. “Elio agreed to that?” I ask when he’s done.
The engineer nods. “He suggested it.”
Holy shit. His relationship with Asher must be progressing even faster than expected.
“I don’t know,” I say after several beats. “It’s a longshot. It doesn’t play to his known advantages. Lots of variables.”
“If it works?”
“Then we’ll have a driver go from P22 first race to P1 in the final.”
Asher
“Box, now.” Victoria’s voice, filled with urgency, fills my helmet. While I’ve learned to go with whatever she says during races…
“Fucking what?” My tyres aren’t dead yet. It’s lap 50, with 8 more to go—I can hold out until the end. I’m in P-fucking-2. Now is not the time to lose position.
“Box!” Victoria repeats. “Trust me!”
I do trust her, and I have about twenty seconds before I need to pull off in the pitlane. But… boxing now? When I’m almost guaranteed a podium if I keep pushing?
“How far behind are P3 through P5?”
“21 seconds.”
“What?” I repeat for the second time. A twenty-second gap in the top five is almost unprecedented. Is she misspeaking?
“Elio’s holding them back!” she says urgently.
My head jerks back, and I almost swerve my car. “He’s defending?”
“Yes!” she cries.
“But he fucking sucks at defense.” And keeping the pack back might mean losing his chance at getting a podium. He’ll still finish top 5, no doubt, but for him to do something so off-script and goddamn selfless for my sake?
I do not deserve it, but I’d be a fool to waste it.
“And yet he’s doing it,” Victoria hisses. “Get your ass in pit lane right fucking now, Asher. Bellani’s boxing!”
My lips curve. I’ll get her back for her tone tonight. For now… “Yes ma’am.”
Bellani’s in first. If his pit-lane time is even a touch slower then mine, I might actually get fucking first.
Nineteen seconds later I peel back out onto the track with one-twentieth of a second on Bellani—Stallion’s first driver, and someone currently working to dethrone Jasper Hale’s world champion seat.
He attacks immediately. Defense is not an easy game this high in the ranks. He’s good. He is fucking fantastic.
But, right now, I have to be better.
He overtakes me two laps later. I use the next active zone to overtake back. We keep going back and forward, again and again, until the final lap—where we pull shoulder to shoulder in sight of the finish line.
Now, it's down to the cars. We’ve both done literally everything we can.
Thanks to William’s investment in my career and the team, I’ve enjoyed three more upgrade packages, the last one being just before this race. Hopefully that’ll be enough.
A strange calm overcomes me. The noise of the race, the static, the pounding of blood in my ears—all of it dies down, leaving an odd, misplaced sense of serenity. What happens will happen. I’m getting on that podium either way, and I’ve already won the real prize.
Fifty feet ahead of the finish line, I pull a fraction ahead of Bellani.
I cross the line in first place, less than one fiftieth of a second ahead of Bellani.
My heart thuds so rapidly it might explode. My next breath shudders out of me.
First place. From last to first, in the span of a single season—and I know, the world knows exactly why. I couldn’t have done it without the team, but even if I’d pulled my head out of my ass and started listening to them, I couldn’t have done it without Victoria.
As soon as I unbuckle, she’s the one I look for.
I only pause for a heartbeat to shake Belanni’s outstretched hand—he’s a better man than I for offering it.
I ignore Jasper Hale’s glare—fucker has been coming first for most of the season, he can deal with third for a race.
He pulled ahead of Elio at the last second, leaving Gaston’s first driver in P4.
Victoria meets me in the middle of the pitlane, heedless of the regulations stating she can’t be here.
I sweep her into my arms, nearly crushing her with the force of my embrace.
I’m weak after the physical strain of spending the last hour-plus at above 200mph speeds, but for her, I find the strength.
“You did it,” she whispers, cupping my cheeks. I hear her despite the roar of the crowd and the flash of cameras. “You got your podium. First place.”
“Fuck the podium. I got you. That’s the win of not just the season, but my life.”