CHAPTER TWENTY
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Lucas
The parc fermé exploded. He leaped from the car, helmet off, fists pumping to the sky. The barriers shook with cheers. Champagne sprayed in the podium ceremony, drenching him as he stood atop the step, the national anthem swelling. For a moment, the weight of expectation lifted—pure triumph.
* * *
Mia
The team celebration that evening was in a lavish private marquee near the circuit: fairy lights strung overhead, open bar flowing with champagne and craft ales, a DJ spinning upbeat tracks.
Jax was the life of the party as always, regaling a group with tales of his latest off-track adventure in some Aussie bar.
Mia attended as part of Jax’s media team, dressed in a simple black dress that hugged her figure just enough to turn heads, though she kept to the edges, sipping sparkling water.
She spotted Lucas across the room, surrounded by well-wishers—sponsors shaking his hand, engineers toasting him.
His family was there too: his mother, Eleanor, elegant in a silk blouse and pearls, beaming with quiet pride; his father, Richard, imposing in a tailored suit, glass of scotch in hand.
Lucas caught her eye through the crowd, a small, private smile tugging at his lips.
She nodded back, warmth spreading despite herself.
Eleanor noticed the exchange and waved her over. “Mia, dear! Come join us.”
Mia approached, feeling a touch out of place amid the family dynamic. Eleanor enveloped her in a warm hug. “Lucas has told us so much about you. The clever Kiwi who keeps these boys in line.”
Mia laughed lightly. “I try. Congratulations on the win—it was masterful.”
Richard shook her hand, grip firm. “Communications for Jax now, eh? Smart pivot.”
The conversation started pleasantly: Eleanor asking about New Zealand’s winters, Christmas at summertime and Mia’s parents’ quiet life in Amberley.
Richard shared anecdotes from Lucas’s karting days—early mornings at local tracks, the family’s Kent estate serving as a makeshift pit lane.
Lucas joined them mid-story, sliding an arm around his mother’s shoulders, his post-race glow still evident.
But as the champagne flowed and the night deepened, Richard’s tone shifted—subtle at first, then unmistakable.
“Podiums are all well and good, son,” he said, clapping Lucas on the back with a bit too much force.
“But let’s be honest—you’re twenty-five.
Time to step up. Your grandfather had a championship by twenty-six.
No reason you can’t match that. The car’s there, the team’s there. What’s holding you back?”
Lucas’s smile faltered, just for a second. “Working on it, Dad. Today was a good step.”
Richard waved a hand. “Steps are for stairs, not championships. You’ve got the talent—always have. But champions don’t settle for thirds and seconds. They dominate. No excuses, Lucas. Push harder.”
The words hung heavy. Eleanor shifted uncomfortably, changing the subject to the weather, but the damage was done. Lucas’s posture stiffened, jaw rigid. Mia felt a surge of protectiveness—she’d seen this pressure eat at him before, in quiet moments after tough races.
“Actually,” she interjected, voice steady and clear, “Lucas has been nothing short of exceptional this year. Two wins already, third in the championship, and he’s doing it in one of the most competitive fields in decades.
Most drivers would buckle under that kind of scrutiny—on track and off.
He hasn’t. That’s not settling; that’s thriving.
And today? He dominated. In front of his home crowd. That’s championship material.”
The table fell silent. Richard blinked, caught off guard, a flicker of surprise—and perhaps respect—crossing his face. Eleanor’s eyes shone with quiet thanks. Lucas stared at Mia, raw gratitude and something deeper flickering in his gaze.
Richard cleared his throat, raising his glass. “Well… fair point. Good drive today, son. To Lucas.”
They toasted, the tension easing slightly, glasses clinking in the marquee’s soft light.
But as the night wore on, Lucas grew quieter—his responses shorter, his gaze drifting.
When he murmured “I need some air” and slipped out with a quick smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, Mia felt a small tug of concern.
She kept glancing toward the entrance, half-expecting him to reappear with that easy grin, maybe a joke about the cold night air outside. He didn’t.
After a while she excused herself from the table. No sign of him. No quick text lighting up her phone. She stepped outside briefly, scanning the dimly lit paths between tents. Nothing.
By the time she returned to her London apartment later— the victory high dimmed by that low-level worry—she told herself it was fine. He probably just needed space. People did that. Still, sleep came fitfully; she woke more than once to check her phone, the screen stubbornly blank.
* * *
The next morning, dawn light filtered weakly through the curtains of her small London apartment.
Mia stirred, restless, the low hum of traffic already seeping in from the street below.
Her head felt fuzzy from a night of broken sleep—waking every hour or so, phone screen dark, a quiet worry gnawing at the edges of yesterday’s victory high.
She needed coffee—strong, black—and maybe a quick walk to shake off the fog.
Or perhaps the post had arrived early; she’d been expecting a parcel from her parents in Amberley.
She pulled on an oversized cardigan over her faded pyjamas, didn’t bother with shoes or properly brushing her hair—just raked fingers through the tousled mess—and padded barefoot downstairs.
The hallway was quiet, stairs creaking softly under her feet.
She reached the front door, pushed it open to check the mailboxes or steal a breath of cool morning air…
And froze.
Lucas was slumped against the doorframe, hoodie pulled low over his face, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees, fast asleep. A crumpled water bottle lay beside him, condensation beading on the plastic—proof he’d been out there for hours.
Her heart lurched. She crouched gently. “Lucas?”
He stirred, blinking up at her with red-rimmed eyes. “Mia… hey. Sorry.”
“What are you doing out here?” Her voice came out softer than she meant, thick with concern.
“Wasn’t sure this was the right address at first,” he mumbled. “Didn’t want to wake you if it wasn’t. Sat down to think… must’ve dozed off.”
She slid an arm around his waist and helped him stand, guiding him inside on unsteady legs.
The apartment felt suddenly smaller, cozier—bookshelves crammed with novels and old textbooks, the faint comforting smell of yesterday’s coffee lingering in the kitchenette.
“You look awful. Sit. I’ll make breakfast.”
He collapsed onto the couch like his bones were lead.
She moved around the tiny kitchen on autopilot: eggs cracking into the pan, toast popping, coffee brewing dark and strong enough to cut through fog.
She set a simple, hearty plate in front of him and sat across the low table, watching him eat slowly, head bowed, fork pushing scrambled eggs in lazy circles.
“Rough night?” she asked gently.
He nodded. “After the party… Dad’s words hit harder than usual. Drank too much trying to numb it. Ended up wandering, thinking. Always the same script: ‘Should be champion by now.’ ‘No excuses.’ I turn to the bottle sometimes—drowns the noise for a bit. Stupid habit. Vicious cycle.”
She reached across and squeezed his hand, feeling the faint tremor in his fingers. “It’s not stupid. It’s coping. But you don’t have to do it alone. Your dad—he loves you, but he’s projecting his own regrets. You’re not him.”
He looked up, eyes haunted, shadows bruising the skin beneath them. “Feels like I am sometimes. The pressure… it’s been there since I was a kid. And now, with the wins coming, it’s worse. Like anything less than the title is failure.”
She leaned closer. “You’re not failing. You just won Silverstone. At home. That’s huge. And you’re third in the standings—that’s not pressure; that’s proof you belong at the top.”
A small, grateful smile tugged at his mouth—the first real one she’d seen since the podium. “You defended me last night. In front of him. No one’s ever done that before. Not like that.”
“Someone had to say it,” she replied softly. “You deserve to hear it.”
Quiet settled between them, comfortable now, the kind that didn’t need filling. He finished his coffee, shoulders loosening a fraction, looking steadier. “Tell me about your family. They sound… grounding. Supportive. No wonder you’re so put together.”
She hesitated, tracing the rim of her mug with her thumb. “They are. Mum’s the heart—always baking, always listening. Dad’s the quiet strength, fixing things around the farm, teaching me to drive on dirt roads. But… it’s not all perfect. I’ve kept things from them. Big things.”
He tilted his head, curious but gentle. “Like what?”
The words came in a ragged rush before she could second-guess them: Emma’s party, Henry spiking her drink, waking up bruised and violated, his sick lie that she’d seduced him.
How everyone believed him. How she’d been left isolated, friendless, branded the liar.
How she’d never told her parents the full truth—couldn’t bear to see the worry carve itself into their faces.
Lucas’s expression changed in an instant—shock flashing, then fury rising beneath the surface, his fists clenching white-knuckled on his thighs. “Mia… fuck. That’s… I’m so sorry. He’s a monster. And they—Emma, the others—they failed you. Betrayed you.”