Chapter 30 Crossing the Line #2
Juliette sent out a silent prayer. Then she rode the corner hard, pushing Dominic wide. He hadn’t been expecting it—she never overtook on the inside—and he was late under braking. Too late. She shot past, her pulse roaring in her ears as she fetched up beside Sinclair.
One last push.
That was all she needed.
The finish line loomed ahead. People shot to their feet, clapping and cheering.
Sweat dripped down the back of her neck.
Her car was overheating, warning lights flashing up on the dashboard.
Her front tire was so swollen that it threatened to pop.
Please. Juliette gritted her teeth. Just a little farther. Please.
Ten meters.
Her car whined. Juliette white-knuckled the steering wheel.
Five.
There was a pop sound.
Two.
Her car swerved. Juliette swore, jerking the steering wheel. She spun as she crossed the finish line, her teeth gnashing together. Something slammed into the side of her head. She blinked away stars, her ears ringing.
“Hamish?”
“You’ve won!” Someone thumped a desk. “You’ve bloody won!”
Tears pricked at her eyes. The crowd shouted her name, and the sound vibrated through her chest. Hamish was yelling, his Scottish accent thick with excitement, and even though she couldn’t understand a bloody word, the sound of it made her want to cry.
“Are you sure?” Juliette managed.
“Aye,” Hamish said. “Fucking brilliant, lass. What a drive.”
Another voice came on. “Juliette?”
“Hi, Ranya.”
“That was a brilliant drive,” Ranya said. “Especially on those tires.” She was smiling. Juliette could hear it in her voice. “I’ll be bringing that up with the shareholders during our next meeting.”
A lump rose in her throat. “Thank you.”
Juliette hoisted herself from the car. Blue figures crushed her, hands slapping her back, a million voices shouting.
She caught a glimpse of Baz holding up a phone, mouthing something about her parents and FaceTime, but then he was gone.
Cap. She twisted, searching for her twin brother.
Where was Cap? But it was pointless; the crowd was carrying her away.
Juliette went through the usual motions—weigh-in, post-race interview—but it was only when she was mounting the steps to the podium that it struck her.
She’d won.
She’d actually bloody won.
The enormity of it was staggering, like trying to hold pieces of the sky in her hands.
She hoisted the trophy over her head. The faceless crowd was a live animal, roaring and stomping its hooves.
Dominic caught her gaze. He was standing on the third step, and his gaze was warm honey, the flecks of gold unflinchingly prominent.
“Well deserved.” His warm breath tickled the shell of her ear. “I couldn’t catch you at the end.”
“Thank you,” she said politely. “You did well too.”
Anthony shoved a champagne bottle toward her. “Come on. Take a swig. You’ve earned it.”
She seized the bottle, and the crowd roared its approval.
The alcohol fizzed through her veins, and she felt drunk on the victory, her head spinning.
Anthony sprayed her with champagne, and she couldn’t stop grinning, couldn’t stop feeling that yes, it was worth it; in this moment, it was all worth it.
The music faded. Juliette stopped to shake hands with the trophy presenters; Dominic and Anthony were already gone, swallowed up by the crowd of supporters. She made her way down the steps, the gold medal bumping against her chest.
Hamish stood at the bottom.
Her race engineer was frowning, a bag of unopened prawn crisps dangling from one hand. Juliette slowed. It was never good, she reflected, when Hamish wasn’t eating crisps.
“What?” she asked suspiciously.
Had she damaged the car by pushing it too hard? But surely it was worth it if they’d won. Hamish ripped open the bag of crisps.
“Nothing.”
Juliette shifted her trophy. “Hamish.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t give the lad the time of day. That’s all.”
Juliette followed his gaze to where Anthony was posing for a picture with Vance. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve not seen the headlines?”
Warmth bloomed in her cheeks. “I don’t look at social media. Zoe sends weekly reports that…” Hamish waited, and she suddenly felt like a child covering their eyes to block out the monsters creeping up from the end of their bed. “Never mind. What’s your point?”
Hamish stuffed away the foil packet. “Forget it. Just remember what I said about Sinclair, aye?”
He disappeared into the crowd. Juliette waited a beat before pulling out her phone. A dozen missed calls and fifty text messages. She ignored all of them, opening a web browser instead, her thumb hesitating over the search engine. What had Dominic said when they were in that Monaco casino?
The things they’ve written about Sinclair…He’s not a good person. You don’t know the things he’s said.
She typed “Anthony Sinclair + controversy.”
The results came up on the third page.
Three articles, all dated from about four months ago.
The headlines were damning: Racer Sinclair Says Women Are Made to Ride, Not to Drive.
F1 Superstar Slams Fellow Driver: “Hastings Should Go Back to Where He Came From.” Duro Stallion had clearly done damage control, burying most of the articles under a mountain of positive press, but the results were still there.
She’d just been thick enough not to look for them.
Juliette stared.
She didn’t realize her hands were sweaty until the trophy turned slippery. So Sinclair had said some sexist things. Fine. That wasn’t exactly surprising; plenty of men in his circles held those sorts of beliefs. But the shit he’d said about Hastings?
She looked down at her phone. The hateful words were still there, half-obscured by patches of sticky champagne.
She took a breath. Maybe it wasn’t true. Didn’t the British press make things up all the time? But her heart sank as she clicked through the articles. Several were corroborated by eyewitnesses, and even if they hadn’t been, her gut told her they were true.
A reminder popped up on her phone. Drivers’ dinner, seven o’clock.
Juliette pocketed her phone. Her ribs were aching, an old wound reopened, and she had the sudden, violent urge to smash the trophy against the ground. She was going to speak with Anthony tonight.
And he was going to listen.