CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
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Mia
Las Vegas was the penultimate act. The Strip glittered under floodlights, the circuit weaving through casinos and neon.
Qualifying: Lucas took pole by three-tenths, the car dancing on the edge of grip.
Race day: he led from the lights, defended hard against the undercut attempts, managed tyres through the long straights, and crossed the line first—arms pumping as the chequered flag dropped.
The Ashworth garage erupted. Podium champagne sprayed under the Vegas sky.
He stood on the top step, eyes distant for a moment, then lifted the trophy like the season already belonged to him.
Mathematically, it was simple now: finish in the top three in Abu Dhabi, and the championship was his. No more chasing. Just one clean race to seal it.
Mia watched the Vegas podium from the Ascari hospitality suite, the broadcast feed playing silently on a monitor while she typed up post-race quotes for Etienne (P7) and Eddie (P9).
She kept her face neutral, her breathing even.
But when Lucas lifted the trophy, something inside her shifted—relief, pride, a quiet ache she couldn’t name.
She finished her notes, excused herself from the team dinner early, and slipped out into the cool desert night.
* * *
The hotel rooftop terrace was empty, the city lights sprawling below like scattered jewels. She leaned against the railing, letting the wind pull at her hair, needing the space to breathe. Footsteps behind her—soft, deliberate.
She turned. Lucas stood there in a black hoodie and jeans, hands in pockets, looking as surprised to see her as she was to see him.
“Mia.”
“Hi.” She managed a small smile. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
“Needed air.” He stepped closer, stopping a respectful distance away. “You?”
“Same.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the hum of Vegas distant below them.
“You okay?” she asked quietly. “With the pressure now? One race left.”
He exhaled, looked out at the lights. “I talked to my dad over the summer. Really talked. He told me everything—about my grandfather, the crash that took him, how he grew up with nothing but stories and a ghost to chase. How he thought pushing me was the only way to make it mean something. How scared he was in Barcelona, thinking history was repeating.” Lucas’s voice softened.
“He said he was proud of me no matter what. That I didn’t owe anyone a title—not him, not my grandfather.
If I win this, it’s because I want it. For me. ”
She watched him, the city glow catching the lines of his face. “And do you? Want it?”
“Yeah.” He met her eyes. “I do. More than ever. I feel… certain now. Like I’m meant to be here. Not because of legacy. Because this is who I am.”
They talked racing then—easy, familiar. Tyre strategies in the heat, the way the Vegas surface evolved over the weekend, the small adjustments that had made the difference in the final stint. It felt like old times, before everything fractured.
Then she asked, almost casually, “Will Sienna be in Abu Dhabi?”
Lucas looked down at his hands.
“No. We’re done. Mutually. Clean break. The wedding’s off.”
Mia blinked. “I’m sorry.” “
Don’t be.” He gave a small, wry smile. “She met someone—a hockey player in New York. Said he fits her vibe better. ‘Hockey’s hot right now, don’t you know.’”
He shook his head. “No hard feelings. It was never real for either of us. Just… filling space. I never loved her, Mia.”
The words hung between them.
“I loved you,” he said quietly. Simple. Honest.
She swallowed. “I know.” The past tense landed in her gut like a stone. Loved. Past. Done. Her throat tightened; she felt the familiar burn behind her eyes, the one she’d learned to swallow.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For how I left. For cutting you out like that. The messages, the silence—I just… everything from Oxford came crashing back. The judgement, the headlines, the way people looked at me like I was the problem. I felt like I’d lost control of the story, and I couldn’t even fight to get it back.
I was scared. I should have trusted you more. Trusted us.”
He stepped closer. “I understand why you needed space. I just wish I’d fought harder to keep you.”
She reached up, brushed her fingers lightly against his temple, then pressed a soft kiss there—gentle, lingering for a heartbeat. The warmth of his skin under her lips sent a tremor through her arm. She pulled back before it could spread.
“I should go.”
As she turned, his hand caught hers. Soft. Steady.
“Don’t go. Stay.”
She stopped. Her pulse hammered so hard she felt it in her fingertips, in her throat, behind her eyes. His arms slid around her waist from behind, cradling her against his chest. Warm. Familiar. Safe.
Too safe.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up—spine arching slightly into him, breath catching on a shaky inhale.
Every nerve lit up at the press of him: solid, alive, smelling faintly of champagne and the track and the Lucas she’d once known better than anyone.
Her hands trembled where they rested on his forearms. She should pull away. She should run.
“Come back to my room with me,” he murmured against her hair.
Her stomach flipped—half nausea, half longing.
The words landed like a match struck in dry grass.
One race from the championship. One clean drive.
She could see the headlines already: MOREAU DISTRACTED BY EX-FLAME ON EVE OF TITLE DECIDER.
She could feel the weight of it crushing him, crushing them both.
“Lucas…” Her voice cracked. “You’re so close. One race from the championship. You don’t need distraction. You don’t need complication.”
Her heart was racing so fast she felt dizzy. Part of her—the part that still remembered Oxford, the part that had learned control was the only shield—screamed to walk away. To protect herself. To protect him. To keep the story clean, contained, safe.
But another part—the part that had ached for him every night in Amberley, the part that still woke up reaching for him—whispered: Just once. Just tonight. Let yourself feel something again.
“It doesn’t have to be complicated.” His voice was low, earnest, vibrating against her back. “Just us. No pressure. No expectations. Just tonight.”
She closed her eyes. Her breath came in shallow bursts. She could feel the heat of him through her clothes, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumbs traced tiny, unconscious circles on her hips. Safe. Dangerous. Both.
Her mind raced—headlines, optics, the championship one race away—but his hand in hers felt like the only steady thing left.
She had spent so long protecting her own narrative, keeping distance to stay whole.
Tonight, though, the ache was louder than caution.
She wanted to feel him again, even if only for a few hours.
Even if tomorrow meant rebuilding walls.
She turned in his arms.
He looked down at her—pleading, open, the same eyes she’d fallen for years ago. The same eyes that had once looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Her hands came up to rest on his chest—feeling the rapid thud of his heart mirroring hers. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie. She should say no. She should step back. She should remember every reason she’d left in the first place.
But the ache in her chest was louder than reason.
She rose on her toes and kissed him—soft at first, tentative, testing.
His lips parted on a quiet exhale; his hands tightened on her waist like he was afraid she’d vanish.
The kiss deepened slowly, then all at once—months of distance collapsing in the space between them, tongues brushing, breaths mingling, a soft sound escaping her throat as his fingers slid into her hair.
When they broke apart, foreheads pressed together, she was trembling—legs unsteady, skin flushed, pulse roaring in her ears.
She searched his face—open, vulnerable, waiting.
She nodded—small, certain, terrified.
He took her hand—gentle, reverent—and led her back through the quiet corridors to his room.
The door closed behind them.
Outside, Vegas glittered on.
Inside, for the first time in too long, everything felt possible again.
And terrifyingly, heartbreakingly real.