CHAPTER TWO
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Mia
Stepping out of the Ashworth corporate headquarters into the late-afternoon light, Mia decided against heading straight underground. Not today. She needed to walk, to let the city press in around her one more time, loud and unconcerned, before it might all slip away.
Rush hour was in full swing. Crowds surged along the pavements—suits loosening ties, smart coats flapping, voices carrying plans for the weekend.
Groups peeled off toward glowing pub doors: brass fittings catching the last of the daylight, laughter spilling out with the smell of beer and fried food.
Everyone moving toward company, toward the easy release of after-work drinks.
Mia walked against the flow, slower than the tide around her, letting people brush past without really seeing her.
The city felt more alive and more distant at the same time: red buses groaning at junctions, black cabs weaving through gaps, the low vibration of trains somewhere below.
Every detail—the wet gleam on the kerb, the sudden waft of curry and exhaust—registered sharper tonight.
She tried to fix them in her mind, quietly, in case this was goodbye.
By the time she reached her building, the sky had deepened to a bruised purple. She climbed the stairs, unlocked the door to the small flat that held only the faint echo of her own presence. Just quiet, and the soft click of the lock closing her in.
She shrugged off her heavy wool coat and tossed it over the back of the sofa. It landed with a soft thud, still carrying the faint chill of outside.
She switched on the single lamp, dropped her bag, and opened the banking app without sitting.
The balance stared back unchanged: rent scraped together for another month at best, but the flight home—￡700, ￡1,000, ￡1,300 one-way depending on dates and how many stops she could stomach.
Enough to buy the ticket if she had to, but it would leave her with almost nothing. She let the screen go dark.
She moved to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe.
A slow, mechanical inventory: jumpers starting to pill at the elbows.
Boots bought in a sale her first month here.
Notebooks from Oxford—pages filled with annotations on Austen, Woolf, the stories she’d once dreamed of writing herself.
The degree certificate she’d framed but never hung properly.
And the small, framed photo of her parents on the Amberley porch—smiles too wide, the familiar hills behind them impossibly far.
Oxford had been her everything: the scholarship that turned her love of books and stories into something real, something she could build a life around.
She had arrived starry-eyed, ready to lose herself in libraries and late-night words.
Then something had broken her there—something dark enough that she’d almost walked away, packed it all in and gone home.
But she’d stayed. She had finished the degree, told herself the work mattered more than the pain, that the stories she wanted to tell were worth enduring for.
She’d chosen to remain in London afterward, scraping by on part-time jobs and sheer stubbornness, convinced the hard-won qualification would open doors.
And now? If this interview was the end of the line, it all felt for nothing.
The years of gritting her teeth through the nights she couldn’t sleep, the decision to stay when every instinct screamed to run.
Wasted. Just another bright girl from a small town who thought she could outrun her own limits.
How would she tell them?
Her mother would try to sound practical—“We’ll make space, love, you can always come home”—but the concern would seep through every pause, laced with the unspoken question of why she hadn’t come back sooner.
Her dad would listen in silence, then disappear to the garage or the shed, the way he did when the weight was too much for words.
And Amberley: small enough that everyone still remembered the scholarship announcement like it was yesterday.
The high-school assembly where they’d cheered her name, the local paper photo under the headline “Amberley’s Literary Star Heads to Oxford.
” The proud nods at the dairy, the clubrooms, the butcher’s shop.
“Our girl’s going to write the next great novel.
” If she returned defeated, tail between her legs, the story would rewrite itself overnight.
Such promise… pity it came to nothing. Sympathetic smiles that stung worse than silence, the same faces asking gently how Oxford “really” was, never knowing how close she’d come to breaking.
She sat on the edge of her bed, elbows on knees, staring at the worn floor. She’d been the one who got away, the proof that a bookish kid from the Canterbury plains could chase big dreams and win. What if all she’d proved was how fragile those dreams really were?
Her phone buzzed on the table. Unknown number. Probably nothing. She let it go to voicemail.
Whoever was calling didn’t leave a message and chose to try again. She answered.
“We’d like to offer you the position,” Claire said.
Mia slid down the wall, stunned.
They believed Lucas was a future world champion—but only if the world believed in him too.
And somehow, they believed a scholarship kid from New Zealand could make that happen.
Relief crashed over her in waves, hot and dizzying. She pressed the phone to her forehead, breathing hard. She had it. The job. The lifeline.
And then the image of Lucas flashed back—his sharp eyes narrowing, the way his gaze had dropped for half a second to the soaked fabric clinging to her chest before flicking away. The crackle in the air between them, electric and hostile and something else entirely.
She’d have to work with him. Closely. Daily. Reading him, shaping his story, standing in rooms where that same charge might spark again.
Her stomach twisted.
She wanted this job—needed it—but the thought of facing that intensity every day, of trying to soften edges that cut like glass, left her uneasy. Concern coiled low, mixing with the relief until she couldn’t separate them.
Mia stared at the ceiling long after the call ended, heart racing—not with triumph, but with the knowledge that everything had just changed.
* * *
Lucas
The bass throbbed through the walls of the club like a second heartbeat, relentless and heavy, the kind of sound that sank into your bones whether you wanted it to or not.
Strobe lights sliced across the packed dance floor below, catching sweat-slicked skin and sequins in sharp, fleeting bursts.
Up here in the VIP booth—tucked high above the chaos on a raised platform edged with velvet ropes and low black leather sofas—the noise was slightly muffled, but it still pressed in, vibrating the ice in Lucas's glass.
He leaned back against the cool leather, one arm draped along the back of the booth, the other loosely holding a half-empty tumbler of something dark and expensive.
The short blonde currently draped across his lap was all soft curves and eager hands, her dress riding high on her thighs as she shifted closer, lips brushing his ear in what she probably thought was a seductive whisper.
Her perfume was sweet, cloying—vanilla and something floral that didn't quite mask the faint trace of cigarette smoke clinging to her hair.
Jax, his team mate, had left maybe twenty minutes earlier, one Eastern European beauty on each arm, both of them giggling and pressing against him like they were auditioning for something more permanent.
Lucas could still picture the wink Jax had thrown over his shoulder as he disappeared down the stairs.
"If I don't show up for work Monday morning," Jax had called back, grin wide and unrepentant, "don't come looking for me. I'll be somewhere warmer."
Lucas had laughed then—short, automatic. Now the booth felt too empty without his teammate's easy chaos filling it.
The blonde—Sophie? Saffron? He hadn't caught her name over the music—ground down against him slowly, deliberately, her fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt.
She was trying hard. Really hard. And under normal circumstances, he'd have appreciated the effort.
Let her take the lead. Let the night blur into something simple and physical that required no thought.
But tonight his body wasn't cooperating the way it usually did.
His mind kept dragging him back to the media suite earlier that day.
The cameras. The questions that had felt like traps.
The way his answers had landed flat, clipped, defensive.
He had seen the shift in the journalists' faces—the subtle cooling, the mental notes being made for tomorrow's headlines.
He could already picture the articles. The pressure wasn't new—he'd carried it since he was old enough to understand what "Moreau" meant—but tonight it sat heavier.
Formula 1 wasn't a playground anymore. He'd finally made it here, earned the seat, and the last thing he needed was to blow it by coming across like the entitled prick half the paddock already thought he was.
He tried to focus on the girl. Forced his hand to her hip, fingers digging in just enough to pull her closer. She moaned softly against his neck, pleased, mistaking the movement for enthusiasm. Her tongue flicked out, tracing the line of his jaw.
Nothing.
No spark. No rush of heat. Just the dull, mechanical throb of arousal that refused to catch fire.
Then—uninvited—another image cut through: the girl from earlier.
Coffee-drenched blouse moulded to her skin, the thin material outlining every curve, those dark, tight peaks pressing defiantly through the damp fabric.
The way her eyes had flashed with real anger when she'd called him an ass.
Not performative. Not calculated. Just raw.
His cock twitched sharply at the memory, thickening against the seam of his jeans in a sudden, inconvenient surge. The blonde felt it immediately—her hips rocked forward in triumph, a smug little laugh escaping her.
"There he is," she purred, voice low and pleased. "Knew you'd warm up."
She slid a hand down his chest, lower, palming him through the denim. Lucas exhaled through his teeth, the pressure good but wrong. Not enough. Not right.
She didn't wait for permission. Her fingers found his zipper, tugging it down with practiced ease.
Cool air hit heated skin as she freed him, his erection springing thick and heavy into her hand.
She stroked once, slow and firm, then sank to her knees between his spread thighs, the booth's low table shielding them from most of the room.
The music pounded on. Lights flashed. No one was looking.
She leaned in, lips parting, tongue flicking out to taste the bead of pre-cum already glistening at the tip.
For a second, Lucas let it happen. Closed his eyes. Told himself this was what he needed—distraction, release, the easy win.
But the moment her mouth closed around him—warm, wet, eager—his mind betrayed him again.
Not her.
The coffee girl. He didn't even know her name, but the face was burned in.
The fire in her eyes. The way she'd stood there soaked and furious and somehow more alive than anyone in that sterile headquarters corridor.
The way she'd looked at him like she saw straight through the polished exterior to the defensive kid underneath.
His hips jerked involuntarily, thrusting shallowly into the blonde's mouth. She hummed in approval, taking him deeper, thinking it was all for her.
But it wasn't.
The guilt hit next—sharp, unwelcome. The memory of the press room. How he had snapped at the last question. How he had walked out without smoothing it over. How he had left the room thinking he had handled it fine, only to realize later he'd looked exactly like the arrogant heir everyone expected.
His erection faltered. The heat receded as fast as it had come.
"Stop," he said, voice rougher than he intended.
She pulled away, blinking up at him in confusion, lips shiny and swollen. "What? Did I—"
"It's not you." He zipped himself back up with quick, jerky movements, the denim suddenly too tight and too constricting. "Just... not tonight."
She sat back on her heels, expression shifting from surprised to annoyed. "Seriously?"
He didn't answer. Just stood, smoothing his shirt, avoiding her eyes. The booth suddenly felt suffocating—the music too loud, the lights too bright, the scent of her perfume choking.
He muttered something vague—thanks, sorry, enjoy the rest of the night—and pushed past the rope, ignoring the way heads turned as he descended the stairs.
The crowd parted automatically; people always did when they recognized him.
He didn't look back to see if the blonde was still kneeling there or if she'd already moved on to someone else.
Outside, the Soho night air hit him like a slap—cold, damp, laced with exhaust and distant kebab grease.
The street was alive: taxis idling, laughter spilling from doorways, groups staggering arm-in-arm toward the next bar.
He pulled his jacket tighter and started walking, no real direction, just away.
He needed a few days, that was all. Time to let today's disaster fade. Time to reset. The media would move on to the next story. He'd do better next time—smile more, deflect less, give them the version of him they wanted.
And the girl—she was nothing. A fluke collision. A moment. He'd never see her again. No reason to. He'd be back to normal. Focused. In control. Ready to drive.
He turned toward the quieter streets leading home, telling himself he believed it.