Chapter 25
Ronan
The house is unnervingly quiet when I come downstairs, race bag slung over my shoulder. Normally, mornings here mean clinking glass in the kitchen or the dull hum of the television bleeding out from behind Vivienne’s doors. Today it’s still, heavy as the gray Woking sky pressing down.
I’m almost at the front door when I hear the shuffle of slippers on tile. Vivienne appears at the end of the hall, silk robe knotted loosely, hair hanging lank around her face.
For half a second, I freeze, gut sinking.
I’d been hoping to slip out unnoticed, like I have the last two nights, dodging her presence the way you dodge debris on the track.
Since free practice, I’ve managed to avoid her completely.
She was in her rooms when I got home and still shut away when I left in the mornings.
No scenes. No questions. No demands. And I’d told myself that was better—because the last thing I needed was her sucking away my focus before the race.
But now she’s here, blocking my clean getaway. And I brace instinctively, waiting for sharp words, a demand, some drama to ruin the day before it begins.
Instead, she blinks at me with vague curiosity. “Where are you going so early?”
I stare at her. She really doesn’t know or remember. “It’s race day,” I say flatly. “Silvercrest.”
Her brows knit, then smooth. “Oh. Right.” A wan smile tugs at her mouth. “I’m not feeling well today, so I won’t be able to come cheer you on.”
Cheer me on? As if that’s ever what she’s done. I picture her at free practice—screeching in the paddock, drawing stares, leaving me exposed and humiliated in front of the entire grid. She doesn’t even remember.
For a moment the old instinct kicks in—the urge to snap, to rake her across the coals for everything she’s cost me.
But Francesca’s words cut through, steady in my head from our walk the other night.
You can’t fix her, Ronan… at some point, you’ve got to let go. Stop letting her take so much from you.
So, I don’t fight. I don’t explain. I just nod once. “Rest, then.”
Her gaze drifts away, already bored, already gone. I open the door and step into the cool morning air. As I cross the gravel drive toward my car, a strange clarity settles in. Maybe I won’t come back here after the race. Maybe I’m done letting these walls and the woman inside them bleed me dry.
But today isn’t about her. It’s about Silvercrest. The race is the only thing that matters right now.
?
I roll through the private entrance at Silvercrest, windows down on the Aston.
A few fans crowd the barricades, Union Jack flags waving along with homemade posters with my number scrawled across them.
The security team waves me into the lot, my FI credential flashing on the dash.
Car doors slam around me as other drivers arrive, one after another.
It’s the same circus every race day—the walk-in through cameras, journalists shouting questions, fans thrusting programs and caps to sign.
I do my duty—sign a few autographs, offer a nod, pose for a selfie—but it’s mechanical.
A polished smile here, a Sharpie scrawl there.
The “rock star” treatment doesn’t touch me the way it used to.
A pair of girls in miniskirts squeal my name from behind the barrier, makeup caked thick, eyes lit with possibility.
I don’t glance twice. They’re not Francesca.
We didn’t see each other last night, both locked down with team meetings and sponsor dinners.
I’d gone to bed restless, annoyed at the silence, itching for just a few minutes with her.
And now, walking through the paddock with cameras at my back, I weigh whether it’s worth the uproar if I seek her out.
A Crown Velocity driver strolling into the Titans garage…
it’ll set tongues wagging, guaranteed. But I find myself not giving a damn.
I duck my head and slip past a cluster of journalists, flash my credentials at security, and keep walking until I spot Nash coming out of the garage. “Have you seen Francesca?”
He gives me a once-over, brows lifted. “Yeah. Having breakfast in the hospitality suite.” Then, with a faint smirk: “You’re a brave man.”
I pause. “Why’s that?”
Nash folds his arms, grin crooked. “Because I saw the photo. You know… the one of you two holding hands in the paddock. Half the internet’s already convinced there’s something going on.”
I arch a brow, replying dryly. “Maybe they’re right.”
His smile fades and he becomes sharper, more protective. “So, there is?”
I don’t back down. “There is.”
For a second, he studies me, the easy humor gone from his expression.
Then he leans in a fraction, voice low and edged.
“Listen, Barnes. She’s my teammate, my friend, and she’s worked too damn hard to get here.
If you screw with her—if you so much as bruise her heart—I’ll run you down on the track myself. ”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “You’ll run me down? That a threat?”
“Not a threat,” he says, straightening, eyes steady. “A promise.”
I meet his gaze head-on, the amusement still tugging at my mouth. “You’d have to catch me first and I doubt you can, but relax, mate. I’d never hurt her.”
My tone must convince him, because his stance eases, the edge softening into a smirk. “Good. Then we won’t have a problem.”
“Glad we cleared that up,” I reply, and without waiting for more, I head toward the stairs, my pulse picking up with every step.
Every set of eyes follows me, some curious, some flat-out gawking. Titans’ colors everywhere, and me in Crown gear—it’s enemy territory. Still, I push on, and when I step into the suite, I see her.
Francesca’s head is bent, hair shining under the overhead lights, fork poised above her plate.
The sight of her is a gut punch. I want to stride across the room, pull her out of that chair, and kiss the hell out of her right here in front of everyone.
Let them all choke on it. But it’s race day and we’re supposed to stay focused.
She looks up and startles, then her whole face blooms into joy. I feel it through my entire body.
I drop into the seat beside her, the chair creaking faintly under my weight, and without asking, reach over to snag a strip of bacon off her plate. The salt and grease hit my tongue as I lean back, smirking.
“Enemy territory,” she teases, shaking her head, her words low but playful.
“Worth the risk.” I chew slowly, savoring it because it’s hers, not mine, and watch the corners of her mouth twitch as she fights back a smile. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath since yesterday and only now remembered how to let it out.
“I’m glad you came by,” she says softly, a note of sincerity slipping through the banter. Her lashes lower for a beat, like she’s almost shy to admit it. “I missed you last night.”
Her words are everything and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face, easy and unguarded. “Same.”
“How’d you sleep?” she asks, concern in her eyes.
My voice roughens, betraying me a bit. “I slept all right but had a run-in with Vivienne this morning.”
Her expression flares instantly, her brow knitting. I know that look—it’s protective, the way someone would look if they wanted to shield you from a storm.
Before she can dig, I wave it off. “I remembered what you said—about letting it go. So I did. I didn’t try to fight, just walked away.” I shrug. “Might be the only way to survive her.”
She sets her fork down. “You’ll figure it out,” she says, eyes steady on mine. There’s no hesitation, no doubt. “Whatever that looks like, and I’ll back you.”
The anxiety caused by my mum that’s lived in my body for as long as I can remember loosens, just a fraction, enough to make me swallow against it. God, I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that. Not from a teammate, not from anyone in the paddock—but from Francesca.
I clear my throat and glance at her plate again, anything to ground myself, then back at her. “How are you? Nervous?”
“Of course,” she admits without shame, the honesty refreshing. “It’s Silvercrest.”
I nod, leaning forward, elbows braced on my knees.
“You’ve raced here in FI2, so you know this track well.
But a few important things to remember… the braking zone into Turn 1 is trickier than it looks.
If you lock, you’ll lose half a second minimum.
” My hands mimic the motion without me realizing, carving the air like I’m steering.
“Watch the wind on the back straight… it shifts more than people think, can destabilize you if you’re tucked close.
And out of the last corner, don’t over-rotate the rear or you’ll kill your run onto the main straight. Trust yourself.”
She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t roll her eyes—just listens, quiet and focused, tracking every word. Then she tilts her head, the smallest smile tugging at her lips, and I know I’ve walked right into something.
“What?” I ask warily.
“You’re adorable.”
I blink at her, caught off guard. “Adorable?” I repeat, incredulous. No one’s ever called me that in my life, and I’m not sure I like it—except when it comes from her.
“For giving me a track walk like I haven’t been doing this for years.” Her eyes sparkle, mischief threaded through the sincerity. “And for forgetting I’m your competitor.”
Heat creeps into my face, burning the tips of my ears. I chuckle, shaking my head like I can play it off. “Stupid of me.”
“No,” she says firmly, leaning in enough that her shoulder brushes mine. “It’s sweet that you care. It’s why I’m crazy about you.”
And fuck me if that admission doesn’t undo me more than any podium ever could.
I swallow, watching her, the energy between us humming. Then, before I can say anything else, I push back my chair. “I should let you focus. I’ll see you out there.”
I leave the suite with my pulse hammering, lighter than I’ve felt in years.
The roar of the crowd filters in from the grandstands as I head back down, but all I can think about is Francesca—her smile, her faith in me.
It graces me with the realization that the future isn’t an unknown to outrun.
It’s an opportunity worth racing toward.