CHAPTER ELEVEN
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Lucas
The pre-season team meeting wrapped up with the usual buzz—engineers scribbling notes, strategists debating tyre compounds, and the media team finalising the rollout for the car launch.
Lucas lingered at the back, his mind not on the details but on the brief, charged eye contact with Mia earlier.
The hurt in her gaze had lingered, but she hadn’t said a word. Professional as ever.
As the room cleared, Claire Whitman clapped her hands. “Alright, Lucas—media prep session in ten. Mia, you’re on point for the driver Q&A mock-ups. Jax, you’re with me on the team overview script. Let’s make sure our stars don’t trip over their words this year.”
Jax gave a lazy salute from across the room. “Aye aye, boss. I’ll keep it charming and Australian.” He shot Lucas a quick grin before following Claire out.
Mia nodded, gathering her tablet and notes. She glanced at Lucas, expression neutral now, last season already archived like some forgotten press release. “Ready when you are,” she said lightly.
They ended up in the small conference room, whiteboards covered in bullet points. Mia sat across from him, posture rigid, flipping through her prep document without looking up for longer than necessary.
The silence stretched, thick.
“Okay,” she said finally, voice even but quieter than usual. “Let’s start easy. Sky Sports: ‘Lucas, after a solid rookie season, what’s your mindset going into year two?’”
He tried for the grin. It felt wrong. “Focused. Hungry. The team’s made strides over the winter—can’t wait to get back on track.”
She tilted her head, appraising him like telemetry data. “Good. But add something human. Fans like vulnerability. Maybe how the break helped you reset.”
The word “reset” landed badly. Skiing. Sienna. The announcement still ringing in both their ears.
He swallowed. “Yeah. The break… helped.”
Her eyes flicked to her notes. No flinch, but her pen tapped once—sharp—against the page.
They moved on. The personal-life question came too soon.
“‘Rumours about your personal life—care to comment?’”
Lucas rubbed the back of his neck. “No comment. Next.”
Mia’s eyebrow lifted, the smallest crack in her composure—a wry, almost pained half-smile. “Deflect with charm. Try: ‘I’m all about the racing right now, but life’s good off-track too.’”
He repeated it. She nodded, but the nod was tight.
They pressed through more questions. The tension didn’t vanish, but it had to bend—they both knew they’d be in rooms like this for months.
When he botched a rival-team question—“Wait, no, I didn’t mean they’re slow, just…
strategically challenged?”—Mia’s lips twitched.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling what might have been a laugh, but it came out softer, sadder.
He caught it. “That bad?”
“Recoverable,” she said quietly, almost gently. “Try again.”
He did. She corrected. They laughed—small, tentative sounds, like testing intermediate tyres on a slick surface. Not the easy banter of last season, but a fragile truce. They had to work together. They had no choice.
After an hour, Mia leaned back. “You’re getting better. Less stiff. Almost… relatable.”
“High praise,” he said softly, no tease in it this time. “Thanks to you.”
She shrugged, cheeks warming just enough to notice. “Just doing my job.”
A pause. Loaded.
Lucas leaned forward. “Mia. About Abu Dhabi—”
His phone buzzed. Sienna’s name. Heart emoji. Miss you already! Dinner plans tonight? x
Mia’s eyes flicked to it, then away. The softness vanished.
“You should get that,” she said, standing. Voice even. “We’re good here.”
Lucas silenced the phone. “Mia—”
“Really. It’s fine.” Quick, professional smile. “See you at the sim briefing tomorrow.”
The door clicked shut.
* * *
Mia
Later that afternoon, Mia met Dana in the team cafeteria.
The place was quiet—post-lunch lull, only a few mechanics grabbing late coffees and the low hum of the fridge.
Dana slid into the booth opposite her with two mugs, ponytail still tight from morning sessions, sleeves faintly dusted with arnica gel.
She pushed one toward Mia without preamble.
“You look like absolute shit,” Dana said, voice low and rough.
“And don’t give me that ‘pre-season stress’ bollocks.
I saw his fucking Instagram first thing this morning—that cosy little shot with Sienna Vale, captioned like it was nothing.
I texted you the second I clocked it so you weren’t blindsided in that bloody meeting. ”
Mia wrapped both hands around the mug. The heat seeped through her palms but didn’t touch the cold knot in her chest.
“I saw the notification buzz in right as Claire started,” she said quietly. “Didn’t check it. Then she just… said it. Out loud.”
Dana’s jaw clenched so hard Mia could see the muscle jump. “Fuck. I’m so fucking sorry. I nearly dropped my phone when that post popped up. Thought—shit, Mia’s about to walk into a room full of people chatting about it like it’s the fucking weather. Tried to warn you.”
Mia stared into the black coffee. Steam curled up between them.
“It’s official now,” she said. “Everywhere.”
Dana exhaled sharply through her nose. “Yeah. And I’m fucking livid.
I’ve spent a whole year patching that bastard up—listening to his moaning, watching him actually try to pull his head out of his arse off-track, seeing him start to act like a human being for once.
Then he kisses you—properly, like it fucking meant something—and ghosts you for months.
No call, no text, fuck all. Then he slaps her all over his feed like it wipes the slate clean?
” Her voice cracked on the last word, raw.
“That’s not careless, Mia. That’s fucking cruel. I thought he was better than that.”
Mia’s throat tightened. She kept her eyes on the mug.
“He didn’t promise me anything,” she said softly. “We both said it couldn’t happen again.”
“Doesn’t make it okay to hurt you like this.” Dana leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You’re my friend. I hate watching you carry it alone. You’re sitting there drafting statements about how ‘happy’ he is while you’re bleeding inside. Are you okay? Really?”
Mia managed a small, unsteady smile. “Not really. But I have to work with him. Every day. Pre-season testing starts next week. So I’ll… figure it out.”
Dana reached across and squeezed her wrist—hard, grounding, almost bruising.
“You don’t have to figure it alone. And if that prick keeps acting like nothing happened—smiling at you in briefings while his girlfriend hearts his posts—I will have fucking words.
Physio privilege. I can make his next neck session a living hell.
Tape him so tight he’ll be begging for mercy. ”
Mia let out a short, surprised laugh despite everything. “Don’t. He’s still our driver.”
“He’s also a grown-arse man who should fucking know better.
” Dana exhaled, grip softening but not letting go.
“Girls’ night soon. No engines, no egos, no stupid fucking drivers.
Just us. Wine. Bad movies. You cry if you need to—I’ll bring tissues and the good chocolate.
And if you want to scream into a pillow about him, I’ve got plenty. ”
“Deal,” Mia said, clinking her mug gently against Dana’s. The fierce, loyal, anger in Dana’s voice loosened something in her chest—just a fraction. Not enough to fix anything. But enough to breathe through the next hour.
* * *
Lucas
Dinner with Sienna that night was at a trendy spot in Mayfair—low lights, fusion cuisine, her choice. She looked stunning in a silk dress, blonde waves cascading as she recounted her latest photoshoot.
Lucas nodded, smiled. “Sounds great. You nailed it.”
But as she talked influencers and brand deals, his mind drifted.
His phone stayed silent. No follow-up from Mia.
Earlier that afternoon, after the prep session, he’d cracked. Pulled out his phone in the car park, desperate for any scrap of contact. He’d texted her a lame excuse: Hey, what time’s the sim briefing tomorrow? Forgot to note it down.
Her reply had come quick, clipped: 10am sharp.
Nothing else. No emoji. No question back. No invitation to keep talking.
He’d stared at it for a minute, thumb hovering, then tried again—something friendly, light: Cool, thanks. How’s the rest of your day going? Drafting statements must be riveting.
No response. Hours now. The silence gnawed at him, louder than the restaurant’s ambient chatter.
Sienna was oblivious, pulling out her phone to snap photos of her artfully plated salmon tartare. “This looks insane. Lighting’s on point here.”
She angled the camera, flash off, capturing the dish from every side. Lucas forced a smile, leaning in slightly when she gestured for him to join the frame. “Smile, babe! This’ll get so many likes.”
He did—teeth and all—but his mind was elsewhere, replaying Mia’s quiet laugh in the prep room, the way her eyes had softened just for a second before the text shattered it.
Sienna set her phone down, satisfied, then leaned over suddenly, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. He heard the subtle click—another photo, well-placed, her hand on his arm for the shot. “You’re the best accessory,” she teased, posting it immediately with a flurry of taps.
Lucas chuckled, the sound hollow even to him. “Yeah. Lucky me.”
He picked at his food, pretending interest in her story about Milan’s runways. Pretending he wasn’t bored out of his mind. Pretending the ache in his chest was just fatigue from the day, not the silence from a phone that stayed dark.
A convenient distraction.
But the appeal was fading fast.