CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
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Lucas
The Yas Marina Circuit burned under the floodlights, the desert night thick with heat and the kind of tension that made every breath feel borrowed.
On the grid, Lucas sat strapped into the cockpit, visor down, the world narrowed to the glow of the dash and the thud of his own pulse against his ribs.
Lights out.
He launched hard—clean, aggressive—slotting into P3 by Turn 1.
The car responded like an extension of his will, every apex bitten off with precision, every straight devoured.
But the field was ferocious tonight. His nearest competition swarmed like wolves, their DRS trains snapping at his mirrors.
He defended Turn 4 with everything—brakes locked for a heartbeat, rear sliding wide, tyres howling protest—but he held it. Barely.
Inside the helmet, the noise was deafening—engine roar, tyre howl, radio clipped and calm—but his mind kept circling back to the garage before the formation lap.
Mia.
They hadn’t spoken since Vegas. Not a single message.
Not a glance across the paddock. Days of silence that had carved hollows under his ribs, deeper than any crash scar.
Then today, in the pre-race hush: her fingers on his collar, steadying the fabric, steadying him.
Her voice low, almost breaking: “I’ve always believed in you. Not just the talent. You.”
The words had hit like a delayed impact, cracking something open he’d kept locked.
Hope—sharp, dangerous, almost painful—had bloomed in his chest. He hadn’t dared name it.
Not with the title on the line. But it was there now, burning low and steady, fuelling every shift, every braking point.
Or maybe it was fear. Fear that if he lost tonight, he’d lose that fragile thing too.
The media buildup had tried to drag him elsewhere.
The split with Sienna had leaked mid-week—candid shots from New York, headlines sniffing for betrayal, for tears, for scandal.
They’d cornered him in every pen: Was it ugly?
Did she leave because of the championship pressure? Had she ever really loved him?
He’d kept his answers short, dignified. “Sienna and I grew apart. We’ve been separate for months.
I wish her nothing but happiness with her new relationship, and I know she feels the same.
” No drama. No fuel. But the questions had still landed like small cuts, reminding him how fragile everything was—reputations, relationships.
Lap 8: DRS open, he lunged past second place into the long straight, tyres screaming.
The overtake stuck, but the tyres were already graining, heat building in the rears.
Lap 12: another move on the outside of Turn 11, wheels kissing the white line, heart in his throat as the car twitched.
By the end of the first stint he was leading, but the margin was razor-thin—tenths, not seconds.
Every lap felt like walking a tightrope over glass.
Second stop: perfect undercut, but the out-lap was chaos—traffic, cold tyres, a near-miss at Turn 6 that left him cursing under his breath.
Final stint: tyres fading fast, track rubbering in, the car loose and twitchy.
The gap to second hovered at 1.2 seconds—close enough to taste the threat.
He pushed harder, felt the rear step out again on Turn 9, corrected in a heartbeat, sweat stinging his eyes.
No room for error. Not tonight. Not when everything he’d buried—the doubt, the anger, the desperate need to prove he was more than his grandfather’s shadow—was riding on this.
The radio crackled: “Push now, Lucas. You’ve got this.”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat was too tight.
Five laps to go. The second-place car closed to eight-tenths. He defended every corner like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Turn 16: a lock-up, smoke from the fronts, but he held the line. The crowd noise filtered through even in the cockpit—distant roar building.
The chequered flag waved. P1.
The radio erupted: “World Champion! World Champion! You’ve done it, Lucas!”
He pulled into parc fermé, killed the engine, and sat frozen for three long seconds, chest heaving. The weight of it crashed in—years of grinding, crashes that should’ve ended him, nights wondering if he’d ever be enough. His hands shook on the wheel. Then he climbed out.
The team mobbed him—mechanics roaring, engineers clapping helmets together, strategists pulling him into sweaty hugs.
His family broke through the crush: his mother first, tears streaming as she clutched his face, whispering broken thanks into his neck.
“My baby… my champion…” His father next—arms like iron, voice rough and thick: “My boy. My boy. I’m so proud.
” His brothers piled on, laughing through their own tears, ruffling his hair until it stuck up wild.
Jax grabbed him in a crushing bear hug, lifted him clean off the ground and shook him.
“You bloody legend! You actually did it!”
Lucas laughed—raw, ragged—then felt the dam crack wide open.
His vision blurred. All the years of doubt, the nights wondering if the ghost of his grandfather would ever stop measuring him—it crashed over him now.
He was crying openly, unashamed, shoulders shaking as the team circled tighter, holding him up like they always had.
They moved him to the media pen. The commentator thrust the microphone forward, cameras rolling tight.
“Lucas Moreau—Formula 1 World Champion. How does it feel?”
He exhaled shakily, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Like… like everything just landed at once. The team gave me a car I could fight with every weekend. I just tried to give it back what it deserved.” His voice cracked on the last word.
He glanced toward the barriers—his family there, waving, crying, proud beyond words.
“My family’s here,” he said, voice breaking again. “Mum, Dad, my brothers—they never let me quit. And my grandfather… he never got to see this, but I carried him every lap today. This is for him.”
The commentator leaned in. “Anyone else you’d like to thank?”
Lucas’s gaze swept the Ascari area. There—Mia. Standing just behind the barrier, arms folded tight across her chest like she was holding herself together, eyes shining. She hadn’t moved closer. Hadn’t presumed. But she was there. After all the silence. After everything.
His heart lurched.
He handed the mic back mid-sentence. “Excuse me.”
The cameras followed as he jogged over. Eddie stepped forward first, hand outstretched. “Congrats, mate. From one champion to another—I know exactly what this moment costs.”
Lucas shook hard, grin splitting wide despite the emotion still choking him. “Thanks, Eddie. Means everything.”
Then he looked at Mia.
Their eyes locked—raw, unguarded, everything they hadn’t said since Vegas hanging between them. The silence of months. The hurt. The quiet thing that had never quite died.
He reached over the barrier, hands under her arms, and lifted her clean over it. She gasped—half laugh, half sob—as he set her down and pulled her into him, arms locking tight around her like he was afraid she’d vanish. The crowd roared louder, phones flashing.
He took her hand—fingers threading through hers like they’d never let go—and led her back to the pen. The commentator raised an eyebrow, mic ready.
Lucas picked it up again. “Sorry.” He smiled—shaky, real. “You asked if there was anyone else. This is Amelia—Mia Brookes.”
He turned to her. She looked up at him, eyes glassy, lips trembling, like she was bracing for whatever came next.
“Mia was one of the first people who believed in me when I started in Formula 1 five years ago. She’s the reason I’m standing here as champion.
She taught me how to be human—how to show it—and that it wasn’t weakness.
It made me stronger. She helped me talk to all of you lot—she’s a miracle worker.
” His voice dropped, rough with everything he’d carried for so long.
“And she’s the person I want standing here with me tonight. I love you Mia!”
He cupped her face with both hands. She rose on her toes, and he kissed her—deep, desperate, pouring every unspoken word, every apology, every hard-won hope into it. The cameras zoomed.
The crowd exploded—cheers, whistles, applause crashing like thunder.
When they broke apart, breathless, Lucas kept her tucked against his side, arm locked around her waist like an anchor. The commentator recovered, grinning wide. “Well… I think that says it all.”
But Mia felt the words still burning in her throat, unsaid for too long.
She turned in his hold, hands rising to frame his face, thumbs brushing the sweat and emotion from his cheeks. The roar faded to white noise; the world shrank to just them.
Her voice came out low but clear, carrying over the nearest cameras and into his eyes: “I love you too, Lucas.”
The words hung there—simple, unshakable.
He laughed—soft, broken, joyful—forehead dropping to hers for a heartbeat. “God… say it again.”
“I love you,” she repeated, steadier this time, lips curving into a small, trembling smile. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”
He kissed her again—quick, fierce, sealing it—then pulled her tighter against him as the team began guiding them toward the podium area. Fireworks cracked overhead, gold and red bursting across the Yas Marina sky, reflections rippling over the water like the night was joining the celebration.
* * *
Mia
The noise still thrummed in her ears like a second heartbeat, but as Lucas’s hand stayed threaded through hers—solid, warm—she felt the last tight coil of fear unwind.
She had spent years in this world keeping everything contained: professional distance, careful words, emotions tucked behind smiles and schedules. It was safer. Safer for him, safer for her career, safer from the kind of headlines that could swallow a person whole.
But tonight he’d torn them down in one reckless, beautiful moment—declaring it to the world without hesitation. And she had met him there. Not just with a kiss. With words. Out loud. In front of everyone.
“I love you too.”
The phrase still echoed in her chest, strange and bright and terrifyingly real.
She waited for the old panic to rush back—what would the papers say tomorrow?
What would it cost her carefully guarded life?
—but it didn’t come. Or if it did, it felt smaller now, dwarfed by the steady press of his fingers around hers and the way his eyes kept finding her even as the team pulled him toward the steps.
She wasn’t disappearing into his spotlight.
She was stepping into it with him.
They reached the edge of the podium area. Lucas glanced back, that crooked smile breaking wide as he squeezed her hand once more before letting go to climb the steps. Champagne bottles waited; the trophy gleamed under the floodlights. The national anthem began, slow and proud.
Mia stayed where she was, arms folded loosely, eyes fixed on him as fireworks continued to bloom overhead. He lifted the trophy high, head thrown back in pure, unguarded triumph, then looked down through the spray of champagne and found her in the crowd.
He blew her a kiss—small, private, unmistakable.
She smiled back, throat tight with something warmer than fear.
The season was over.
And the story they’d both been too afraid to finish had just begun.