Formula Dreams (Race Fever #4)

Chapter 1

Francesca

Suzuka City is home to the Japanese Global Prix circuit and has often been called the holy grail of motorsport. The figure-eight track was built in the early sixties as a test track for the major Japanese automotive titans and is known to be a significant test of a driver’s skill.

It’s the kind of race that reveals the drivers who truly belong in Formula International.

Now I’m in the top tier and the first woman in Formula International. I’ve got more to prove than I ever have.

I’ve raced Suzuka before—both times at the FI2 level—but leveling up to FI means my car is faster and stronger.

That means the track is more dangerous. In FI2, the car gave me room to breathe, a steppingstone to the big leagues.

Engines maxing out at 620 horsepower and top speeds of 322 kilometers per hour made for decent grip and control as you slingshot yourself around the track.

You could even afford a slight misjudgment here or there and come away relatively unscathed.

FI doesn’t give second chances. These machines are heavier and hit 370 kilometers per hour on the straights. They corner with twice the downforce and pull Gs hard enough to leave bruises on your body. A millisecond of hesitation and you’re in the wall.

So while I’ve raced this before and have done sims of this track more times than I can remember, it’s a completely different beast today. One that could devour me whole.

The reality of that comes in waves. Sometimes it feels like it might drown me—the high expectations of Titans Racing pressing onto my chest like a cinder block. But there are times it sharpens and clears my focus.

Today… I’m not sure which version of the pressure I’m holding. Probably both.

The scent in the trailer is doing weird things to my nose. It’s a combination of rubber, oil and the faint trace of citrus from a diffuser someone plugged in near the engineering bay. I’m not sure I like it.

The air is electrified with excitement but tempered with tension.

Calling this building a trailer is probably an understatement.

It’s a custom-built, climate-controlled paddock unit that was flown here to Japan in a cargo plane.

It’s one of several the Titans’ team hauls from circuit to circuit and they are plush.

Inside, everything is lined in deep purple, gray and white, and there’s framed art that hangs on the walls.

The team’s branding is everywhere, from the telemetry screens to the stitched Titans’ logos on every chair back.

It’s all stacked together with different areas like the garage, the briefing room, data stations, private space to suit up, and a hospitality suite that provides breakfast, lunch and dinner.

It takes upward of a hundred people for every race including engineers, mechanics, electricians, pit-stop crew, caterers, waiters, chefs and medical staff.

Oh, and two drivers—me and Nash Sinclair.

When Brienne Norcross bought the Titans racing team last year, the reported figure was close to eight hundred million.

And that’s just the acquisition cost. Running it?

Easily another two hundred and fifty million a season once you factor in car development, travel, personnel, engineering, simulator tech, and media.

The engines alone are worth several million each.

The cars—built from handlaid carbon fiber, titanium and leading-edge tech—cost more than private jets and crash way more often.

Top drivers earn upwards of thirty million a year.

As a rookie, I can still only dream of that type of money.

Right now, I’m making a two and a half million base, with structured performance bonuses, and that’s fine by me.

I didn’t level up to FI for the riches but to set records and beat all the boys.

I’ve earned my seat.

Outside, I can hear the clink of tools, the distant whine of a tire gun, the deeper rumble of an engine being turned over for another driver’s out-lap.

I sit on the edge of the narrow bench seat in my designated space, fire suit peeled down to my waist. Gloves in my lap.

Boots laced. Heart steady. For now, at least.

My fingers brush against the bracelet on my wrist—a slim silver chain with three charms: a tiny race car, a star and a violet enamel number seven. My mother gave it to me last night at dinner.

“What does it mean, Mamma?” I asked as I studied it.

Her lilting Italian accent rolled over me like a warm blanket. “The star is me, always watching over you. The car is a reminder to never stop loving the speed more than the spotlight. And number seven is how old you were when you first beat Alessio on a karting track.”

I laughed with delight because the charms have such meaning. I tap the star with my index finger. It’s a ridiculous thing to wear under a fire suit. Completely sentimental and wholly impractical, and yet I’ll never race without it.

My eyes are closed. I focus on the rhythm of my breath—inhale for four, hold for two, exhale for six.

This is supposed to relax me, but instead I feel suffocated.

I pace my dressing room, getting my head in the game for this first qualifying round.

Not only is the spotlight on me because of what I represent to other females who want to be a part of this sport, but this is my Titans Racing debut.

Qualifying is simple on paper—three rounds, each one cutting the field smaller until the fastest ten fight for pole.

In Q1, everyone goes out, and the slowest five are eliminated.

Q2 repeats the process, trimming another group of five before the final qualifying round determines the order of the top ten.

The white Nomex of my undersuit clings to my arms, collar high against my neck. My boots are already on—black with matte purple trim, a perfect match for the updated Titans livery.

Thirty minutes.

I continue my strides back and forth across the room, trying to focus, but the memory of yesterday’s press conference flickers back like a video I didn’t ask to replay.

Some of the questions… ridiculous.

“Do you worry about how emotional you’ll be under pressure?”

“What message do you think your presence sends to little girls watching?”

“Is there a particular brand of foundation you recommend for under-helmet wear?”

That one was from a man, by the way.

I handled it exactly the way I was coached by our PR team by keeping my answers tight and professional.

This would prevent them from twisting my words.

They eventually got tired of my unwillingness to play and moved on to a dialogue that had to do with racing.

But afterward, I spent an hour walking the paddock to stop myself from punching something.

I don’t want to be a symbol. I most certainly don’t want to be a gimmick. I want to drive—fast, focused and feared. I want them to talk about my cornering, my braking zones, my times—not my chromosomes. Or my mascara.

An unexpected knock sounds at the door, and I cross the room.

Brienne Norcross, owner of Titans Racing and the Pittsburgh Titans hockey team, stands on the other side.

Beautifully chic in pale slacks and a structured black blazer, her platinum-blond hair pulled into a sleek twist. She looks like she belongs on a Parisian runway, but she’s one of the most powerful and shrewd businesswomen in the world.

I blink. “Ms. Norcross.”

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” she says smoothly, her blue eyes quiet and assessing. “I wanted to speak with you privately before the noise starts.”

I step back and gesture my welcome. “Of course.”

She enters with the confidence most women fake, and most men find threatening.

“I know I saw you a week ago in Tuscany,” she says, studying my perched helmet. “I wanted to see how things were going.” She smiles faintly.

“That was business. This is… different.” A week ago, she offered me the second driver’s seat at Titans Racing. Probably the best day of my life. “It’s all been beyond my wildest dreams.”

She turns to me, quietly assessing. “Today is a monumental day in this sport’s history. All eyes are on you.”

With a tight throat, I nod.

She offers an empathetic smile. “I imagine the pressure’s been… intense.”

I manage a small laugh. “You could say that.”

“I’ve seen the headlines,” she says. “Heard the soundbites. Watched the commentary clips.”

My stomach knots. “It’s a circus.”

“It is,” she agrees. “But it’s not forever, and most importantly, it’s not why you’re here.”

I meet her eyes. “Sometimes it feels like it is.”

“I understand,” she says. “When I bought this race team, they called me a socialite with a hobby. Said I didn’t know the difference between a gearbox and a grapefruit. They said worse when I took over the hockey team.”

I blink. “Just because you’re a woman.”

“Just because I’m a woman,” she agrees. But her gaze sharpens. “So do you know what I did?”

I shake my head.

“I let results speak louder than outrage. I want you to do the same.”

A long silence stretches between us.

“You’re not here to carry the sport on your shoulders, Francesca. You’re here because you’re fast and because you’re the best damn option for this team. You were not hired because you’re a female.”

That lands like a weight—but not a burden. Perhaps a tether?

“I expect great things from you,” she continues. “Eventually. But today, I want one thing only—”

“Run a clean race,” I murmur.

She nods. “Trust yourself the way this team trusts you, and the rest will come.” She touches my arm briefly, then turns to go. When the door shuts, I let out a relieved breath.

Then I grab my helmet from the shelf and walk out.

Time to qualify.

?