CHAPTER FORTY
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Lucas
The season had become Lucas’s again. Wins in Miami, Imola, Monaco—each one more commanding than the last. Pole after pole, flawless starts, untouchable pace.
The points gap stretched wide; commentators stopped calling it a fight and started calling it a procession.
Ashworth looked invincible, and Lucas looked unbreakable.
Every press conference he smiled the same measured smile, answered the same questions with the same calm certainty.
Inside, he felt the momentum like a tailwind—clean, relentless, carrying him forward. This was redemption. This was proof.
Barcelona was the last race before the summer break. The Circuit de Catalunya baked under a relentless sun, the air shimmering above the asphalt like a mirage. Lucas arrived early, focused, already in his race suit when his parents walked into the hospitality suite unannounced.
His mother hugged him first, eyes bright with unshed tears. “We couldn’t miss this one, darling. Look at you—leading the championship. We’re so proud.”
His father clapped him on the shoulder, grin wide and oblivious. “Finally living up to your grandad’s name, eh? He’d be grinning ear to ear seeing you dominate like this. About time the family legend carried on properly.”
The words landed like a punch to the gut. Lucas forced a laugh, but it came out tight, brittle. “Thanks, Dad.”
Grandad’s name. The weight of it crushed him in that moment—decades of stories about the fearless driver who never backed down, who won titles on sheer will, who’d been unbreakable even in the face of death.
Lucas had heard them all his life, idolised them as a boy, chased them as a man.
But now? Now it felt like an accusation.
Like his father was saying the previous years—the crashes, the doubts, the quiet unravelling after Mia—had been failures of character, not circumstance.
About time. As if he’d been slacking, not fighting for every inch.
He tried to shake it off in the grid walk, the pre-race rituals: helmet on, visor down, the world narrowing to the cockpit. But the anger simmered, hot and insistent, twisting in his chest like a bad setup. He sat on pole, engine revving beneath him, a row of red lights staring back.
Lights out.
He nailed the start—perfect clutch bite, rocketing into Turn 1 ahead of the pack.
The car felt alive, responsive, gripping the tarmac like it knew his secrets.
Lap 1: clean through the chicane, building a half-second gap already.
Lap 2: pushing harder, tyres heating up just right.
The radio crackled: “Good pace, Lucas. Keep it steady.”
But steady wasn’t what he felt. The anger gnawed—finally living up to your grandad’s name—and he braked a fraction late into Turn 4, the rear twitching but holding.
Close. Too close. He shook it off, focused on the rhythm: apex, throttle, exit.
Lap 5: the field spreading out, his lead stretching to two seconds.
But his mind wandered—flashes of his father’s grin, the casual dismissal of everything he’d bled for.
He clipped the kerb at Turn 9, the car jolting hard, vibration rattling through the wheel.
“Watch the kerbs,” his engineer warned. “Tyres okay?” “All good,” Lucas bit out, teeth clenched.
But the distraction built like pressure in a tyre wall.
Lap 10: a near-miss with a backmarker, too aggressive on the overtake, wheels brushing.
His heart hammered—not from the speed, but from the rage boiling over.
About time. As if this season was the only one that counted.
As if the man he’d become—scarred, rebuilt, still aching for what he’d lost with Mia—meant nothing.
Lap 15: pit stop flawless, out ahead again.
But the fury wouldn’t settle. He pushed harder, chasing tenths he didn’t need, the car protesting with every aggressive input.
Lap 20: through the high-speed sweep of Turn 3, he felt the balance shift—overcommitted, tyres screaming.
He corrected, but it cost him time. The gap shrank to 1.
2 seconds. His engineer again: “Easy, Lucas. We’ve got this. ”
No. He didn’t. The anger crested—family legend—and on Lap 23, diving into Turn 5, he attacked the inside kerb too hard.
The rear snapped viciously, tyres losing grip in an instant.
The world tilted: spin, wall rushing up, impact slamming through him like thunder.
Carbon fibre shattered, suspension crumpled.
The car came to a brutal halt against the barriers, smoke curling from the wreckage.
* * *
Mia
In the Ascari garage, Mia was mid-sentence with Priya—something about Etienne’s tyre management in the heat—when the crash echoed across the circuit. A sickening screech, then the thud of impact that reverberated through the stands. Silence followed, heavy and wrong.
The garage froze. Tools clattered to the floor.
Mia’s head snapped to the big screen, heart seizing.
Replay already rolling in slow motion: Lucas’s car snapping sideways, spinning wildly, slamming into the wall at full force.
Debris exploded outward—wing fragments, carbon fibre shards scattering like shrapnel.
The cockpit view showed the violent jolt, helmet whipping sideways. No movement after.
Her breath caught, sharp and painful. “No…”
The crowd’s collective shock rippled through the grandstands—a gasp turning to murmurs, then tense quiet.
Safety car deployed. Marshals sprinted across the hot tarmac, flags waving.
Mia’s hands gripped the edge of the pit wall so hard her nails bit into the paint.
Her mind raced: Get out. Move. Please, Lucas, move.
She couldn’t tear her eyes away. A marshal reached the car, leaned in.
Lucas’s hand lifted—weak, trembling. Relief crashed over her, but it shattered when the marshals signalled frantically for the ambulance.
Medics swarmed, tools flashing. They worked carefully, extracting him onto the stretcher, neck brace locked in place.
His body limp, unresponsive in that moment.
Mia’s vision blurred. Fear clawed up her throat—the kind that stole breath, made her knees weak. Not him. Not like this. The ambulance pulled away, lights flashing amber and yellow, siren cutting through the humid air like a knife.
The garage returned to quiet routine—Etienne still out on track, strategy calls continuing—but Mia’s focus was shattered. She checked updates obsessively on her tablet: bruised ribs, suspected fractured wrist, concussion protocol. Conscious, talking to the team. No internal injuries. Stable.
But stable wasn’t enough. She needed to see him.
When the day finally ended—Etienne P11, solid but unspectacular—Mia waited until the garage lights dimmed and the crew headed back to the hotel. Then she slipped away.
* * *
Lucas
Lucas lay propped against the pillows, left wrist locked in a fresh cast, bruises spreading dark across his collarbone.
The fluorescent lights made everything feel clinical and exposed.
Ribs pulled with every breath. He looked worn—shoulders heavy, usual edge blunted by pain—but he wasn’t about to let it show more than necessary.
The door opened quietly.
He glanced up.
Mia.
She stepped inside, closed the door with care. Her eyes found his—wide, searching, carrying something unsteady.
“Mia,” he said. Voice rough.
“Hey.” She paused near the door a second, then crossed to him. “I waited until everyone else left. I just… needed to see for myself that you were really okay.”
He managed a half-smile—small, controlled. “I’m okay. Bruised ego more than anything. Ribs hurt like hell when I breathe, but I’m here.”
She pulled the chair close and sat. Their knees almost brushed. Her hands stayed clasped in her lap.
“You scared everyone,” she said. Her voice cracked on the last word. “Scared me.”
“Yeah.” He looked down at the cast, flexed his fingers once—winced. “I scared myself. Thought for a second that was it.”
Silence settled—familiar, heavy.
He exhaled, gaze shifting to the dark window. “It’s been a parade in here all day. Mum and Dad got here first. Mum kept touching my face like she needed proof I was still breathing. Dad just held my good hand—quiet, but his grip was iron. They only left an hour ago.”
She nodded. He saw her throat move.
“Sienna rang when the news broke,” he continued, quieter. “I told her not to get on a plane. She sounded shaken.”
He shifted—winced at the ribs. “Claire and Marcus came by earlier. All business—wanted the telemetry, asked if I’d been distracted. They weren’t thrilled, but they didn’t bury me. Just rest, heal, come back stronger. Championship’s still there.”
A faint, wry smile tugged at his mouth. “And of course Dana and Jax had to check I wasn’t faking it.”
Mia smiled—small, pained, but real.
He looked at her then—really looked. “Didn’t know if you’d show up. After… everything.”
She reached out, rested her hand lightly on his good one.
The touch was warm, familiar.
“Of course I came,” she said softly.
He nodded once. “It was my dad,” he said, voice low. “Stupid comment about Grandad. Like I’d finally earned the name. Like the rest didn’t count. I let it get in my head. Got angry. Distracted. And I paid for it. Crashed like an idiot.”
She squeezed his hand. “You’re you. And you’ve already proven more than enough. More than anyone could ask.” Her thumb brushed once over his knuckles—slow, careful.
He met her eyes. “I let him down. Myself. The team. Everyone. Had the championship in my hands, Mia. Threw it away because I couldn’t keep my head straight.”
“No,” she said firmly, voice cracking. “You crashed. It happens. But things could have been so much worse today. The way that car hit… you could have—” She stopped, throat closing.
Tears pricked her eyes, spilled over. “You walked away. That’s what matters.
The car can be fixed. You’re still here. Alive.”
He held her gaze. Didn’t squeeze back right away. Just let her words land.
“Thanks for coming,” he said after a moment, voice even.
She nodded, tears still falling. “I had to know you were okay. I couldn’t just… wait. Not after everything.”
They sat in silence a little longer, her hand still on his. The air felt heavy—relief, old connection, things left unsaid.
“Get some rest,” she said finally. She stood, fingers trailing from his as she stepped back. “And Lucas?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re still the best driver out there. Don’t forget that. And don’t let anyone—not even your dad—make you doubt it."
He watched her go—every careful step to the door, the brief pause with her hand on the handle, the soft click as it closed.
The room felt quieter without her.
He leaned back against the pillows, eyes on the door she’d just walked through.
Summer break ahead. Time to heal.
He closed his eyes.
The ache in his ribs was sharp.
The rest he’d carry quietly.
He’d race again. He’d come back.
That was enough for now.