CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
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Mia
One Tuesday in late June—the leaves had well and truly gone, snow lined the alps and the air was frosty—Dana’s name lit up Mia’s phone.
She stared at it for a long moment. The screen glowed in the quiet kitchen, her mother’s scones cooling on the rack, the house still except for the distant bleat of lambs in the paddock.
She almost didn’t answer.
But she did.
“Mia?”
A long silence stretched between them—thick, heavy with everything unsaid.
Then, softly: “Hey, Dan.”
Dana’s voice cracked on the other end. “Jesus Christ. You’re alive.”
Mia laughed—small, watery, the sound startling even to herself. “Barely.”
There was a relieved exhale, almost a sob. “I’ve been checking the news like a lunatic, waiting for some headline that you’d… I don’t know. Disappeared for good. You didn’t reply to anything. Not one text. Not one call.”
“I know,” Mia whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just… talk to me. Please.”
They talked for three hours—longer than Mia had spoken to anyone since leaving Abu Dhabi.
Dana didn’t push about Vegas, didn’t ask why she’d vanished. She just talked: about the team’s new struggles without her steady hand on comms, about Jax’s terrible new haircut (“looks like he lost a fight with a lawnmower”), about how quiet the garage felt, how the debriefs dragged without her.
“Everyone misses you,” Dana said quietly. “Not just professionally. The place feels… empty. Like we lost the one person who actually gave a damn about keeping us human.”
Mia swallowed hard. “How’s… how’s Lucas?”
A pause. Dana chose her words carefully.
“He’s… picking up. Sort of. The season started rough—nothing flashy. He’s consistent, but there’s no fire. No spark. It’s like he’s driving on autopilot. Jax says he’s still carrying Vegas, still carrying you. But he’s trying. Showing up. Smiling for the cameras. He’s… functioning.”
Mia closed her eyes. The image of him—distracted, hollow-eyed—hurt more than she expected.
“He’s not the same,” Dana continued. “But he’s getting through the days. One race at a time. That’s something.”
Mia nodded even though Dana couldn’t see it.
They talked about small things after that—Dana’s new rescue dog, the way the factory canteen had started serving even worse coffee, how Jax kept asking if Mia was “ever coming back to save his image.” Laughter crept in—tentative, fragile, but real.
Near the end, Dana’s tone shifted—gentler, no pressure.
“Listen… I’m not calling to drag you back. I just wanted to hear your voice. But if you ever think about coming back—even just to visit—there’s something you should know.”
Mia waited.
“Ascari Racing. Brand-new team, starting up next year. Fresh money, ambitious owners, trying to build something real from the ground up. They’re looking for a comms lead.
They’ve been asking after you—quietly. Said they were impressed by your work at Ashworth.
The way you handled drivers, sponsors, crises.
They want someone who can shape the whole narrative from day one.
No rush. No pressure. Just… if you ever want to think about it. ”
Mia stared at the garden through the window—roses her mother had planted years ago, still blooming despite neglect.
“Who’s running their driver programme?” she asked.
“Sir Edmund Hale,” Dana said, voice dropping with familiar warmth.
“Eddie. He’s signed as lead driver—they got the world champion himself to headline the lineup.
But the owners also gave him a management role on top.
Unique setup: he races, but he’s also overseeing the young talent coming through, mentoring the rookie, helping shape the whole driver programme.
Apparently, they really wanted him in full management—thought having a legend like Eddie in the backroom would be gold for sponsors and development—but he wasn’t ready to hang up the helmet just yet.
So, they compromised. He drives, he manages, he stays in the fight. ”
Mia’s eyes widened slightly. Of course, she knew Eddie Hale.
Dana had talked about him plenty—how they’d met years ago when he was recovering from a nasty shoulder injury, how he’d become one of her closest friends in the paddock.
The man was a living legend: multiple titles, fearless on track, the kind of driver young kids still put posters of on their walls.
The idea of him still racing—still hungry—while also guiding the next generation felt electric.
“He’s been off lately,” Dana continued, softer now.
“Motivation’s taken a hit. Everyone can see it.
But this new team, this dual role… it’s lit something in him again.
The rookie’s a wild card—real talent, but raw.
Needs someone steady to keep him from crashing and burning.
They need someone like you, Mia. Someone who can handle egos, keep the narrative clean, and not flinch when things get messy—especially with Eddie splitting time between cockpit and strategy room. ”
Mia closed her eyes for a second, letting the picture settle.
Eddie Hale. Not retiring quietly. Not stepping away.
Still racing, still hurting, still fighting to prove he wasn’t finished—and now pulling double duty as driver and mentor in a brand-new team.
The thought of being the comms anchor in that high-stakes, hybrid environment felt daunting. And strangely compelling.
Mia exhaled slowly.
She didn’t say yes. Not yet.
But she didn’t say no, either.
“I’ll think about it,” Mia said quietly.
“That’s all I’m asking,” Dana replied. “No deadlines. No guilt. Just… know the door’s open if you want it.”
They said goodbye—promises to talk again soon.
Mia set the phone down.
Sat in silence.
Felt the first faint spark of something like purpose since she’d left.
She went into the kitchen. Her parents were there—her dad reading the paper, her mum chopping vegetables for dinner.
“Mum. Dad.”
They looked up.
“I need to tell you something,” she said.
And—for the first time—she did.
All of it.
The words came slowly at first, halting, like pulling thorns from skin.
Oxford. Second year. The party at Emma’s flat.
The drink she didn’t remember finishing.
Waking up disoriented on a strange bed, clothes wrong, body aching in places it shouldn’t.
The confusion that turned to sick dread when she pieced it together.
The way he’d smiled the next morning like nothing had happened, then told everyone she’d come on to him—drunk, eager, shameless.
The whispers that followed her across campus.
Emma’s silence first, then her anger. The group turning away one by one.
The isolation that swallowed her whole. Changing halls, avoiding lecture theatres, eating alone in her room.
She cried. They cried. Her father held her like she was still five and had fallen off her bike—arms strong, steady, rocking her gently while she shook.
Her mother stroked her hair, tears running silently down her own cheeks, whispering over and over, “You’re safe now.
You’ve always been safe with us. You didn’t deserve any of it. None of it.”
When the worst of the sobs eased, Mia stayed curled against her father’s chest, breathing in the familiar smell of wool and soil. Her mother kept one hand on her back, the other wiping her own eyes.
“I should’ve told you sooner,” Mia whispered. “I was… ashamed. Scared you’d see me differently.”
Her dad’s voice was rough with emotion. “Never, love. Never. You’re our girl. Nothing changes that.”
Her mother leaned in, pressing a kiss to Mia’s temple. “We’re proud of you. Every day. For surviving. For coming home. For telling us now.”
Mia exhaled—a long, trembling breath that felt like releasing a weight she’d carried alone for years.
Then she kept going—because once the dam broke, everything wanted out.
“I went into motorsport to take back control,” she said quietly. “To be behind the scenes, shaping stories instead of being in them. I got good at it. Really good. And then… I met Lucas.”
She told them about him—not the headlines, not the glamour, but the quiet moments: the way he’d listen when she talked, the way he’d thank her for small things, the way he’d looked at her like she was the only person in the paddock who saw him without the helmet.
How friendship had turned into something deeper, something she hadn’t let herself want in years.
How they’d tried to keep it hidden—because work, because optics, because she knew what happened when people found out.
How Vegas had shattered that secrecy: Marco’s words, Lucas’s fist, the brawl, the photos.
How probation had followed—her job hanging by a thread, her name dragged through lies she couldn’t correct.
How she’d walked away from Lucas under the Abu Dhabi floodlights, telling him she couldn’t be part of that machine anymore.
Her father’s arms tightened around her. Her mother pressed her forehead to Mia’s, tears falling freely now.
“You’re not the villain in anyone’s story,” her mum said fiercely. “You never were. And you never will be.”
Her dad’s voice was low, steady. “You survived Oxford. You survived Vegas. That’s strength, Mia. Not shame.”
Mia nodded against his shoulder, tears soaking his shirt. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“You’re our daughter,” her mum said simply. “You’re Mia. And you’re enough.”
They stayed like that—wrapped around her—until the tears slowed to hiccups, until the room felt quieter, softer. The clock ticked on the wall. Outside, a morepork called once, sharp and clear.
When the crying finally stopped, Mia sat up slowly, wiping her face with the sleeve of her hoodie. She looked at them—red-eyed, exhausted, but lighter. Like she’d exhaled something she’d been holding for years.
“There’s… maybe a job,” she said after a long silence. “In England. With a new team. Sir Edmund Hale’s driver programme. Mentoring their young driver. I don’t know if I’m ready. But I’m thinking about it.”
Her dad nodded slowly, thumb brushing her shoulder. “Then think. Take your time. Whatever you decide—whatever feels right—we’re here. Always.”
“I know,” she whispered.
She wasn’t fixed. Not even close.
But the secret was out. The shame had been spoken. And in its place—small, fragile, but real—was something that felt almost like relief.
She slept in her childhood bed that night, the quilt pulled tight, the window cracked to let in the cool Canterbury air. No nightmares came. Just quiet. Deep, unbroken quiet.
The next morning she woke to birdsong and sunlight slanting across the floor.
She lay there for a long time, listening to her parents moving downstairs—the kettle, the radio, the soft murmur of their voices.
For the first time in years, the thought of going back—of stepping into the world again—didn’t feel like walking into a storm.
It felt like walking toward something.
Not certainty. Not healing. Just… possibility.
She got up. Pulled on an old hoodie. Went downstairs.
Her mother was at the stove, frying bacon. Her dad was at the table with the paper.
Mia slid into her chair.
“Morning,” she said.
They both looked up—smiles soft, eyes still a little red, but steady.
“Morning, love,” her mum said, setting a plate in front of her. “Hungry?”
Mia nodded. “Starving.”
She ate slowly, tasting everything. The bacon crisp, the eggs soft, the tea strong the way she liked it. Her parents sat with her—no rush, no questions. Just presence.
After breakfast she walked out to the veranda, mug in hand, and looked at the hills. The sky was clear, the air sharp with early summer. She breathed in deep.
She wasn’t ready to say yes to the job. Not yet.
But she wasn’t ready to say no, either.
And that small shift—tiny, tentative—felt like the first real step she’d taken in a long time.