Chapter Twenty-Two
Frederic
T he engine roars in my ears, the sound artificial yet still enough to send a familiar pulse of adrenaline through my veins.
My grip tightens on the wheel, every muscle coiled as I throw the car into the next turn, feeling the simulated resistance of the tires as they fight for grip.
Monaco. Tight, technical, punishing.
There’s no room for error here. No runoff areas, no space to breathe.
Just barriers waiting to punish the slightest misstep.
Good job I don’t make missteps.
"Sector two was cleaner that time," Matthieu’s voice crackles through the comms. "But you’re still losing a tenth in the hairpin."
I exhale sharply, jaw tight.
Not good enough.
"Box this lap," he continues. "Let’s adjust the brake bias and -"
"No." My response is clipped. "Run it again. "
There’s a pause, then a sigh. "Frederic…"
"Run. It. Again."
A small shuffle of movement from the engineering desk, then another voice. It’s Gilles, one of my performance engineers.
"Moreau, your tires are cooked," he says, not unkindly. "You won’t get better traction on this run. We should reset."
I know they’re right. I know that I should come in, tweak the setup, run the data. That’s the efficient way to do it.
But I don’t give a fuck about efficiency.
I give a fuck about winning .
And if I can’t nail this lap in any condition, then what’s the point?
"I’ll adapt," I say firmly, rolling my shoulders back. "Run it again."
Matthieu mutters something under his breath - probably about my stubbornness, knowing him - but the screen flickers as the sim resets.
I exhale, flexing my fingers against the wheel.
Nothing exists outside of this car.
Not the pressure. Not the crowd. Not the sponsors.
And definitely not a hot little blonde with a sharp mouth and sharper eyes.
I slam the throttle down as the lights go green, pushing harder this time, trusting the car, trusting myself. The world narrows to nothing but the track. Every bump, every turn, every inch committed to memory.
I brake later into Mirabeau, feeling the weight shift, feathering the throttle to keep the car steady. The low-speed sections are tricky, demanding precision rather than aggression.
There’s always understeer in Monaco.
I anticipate it before it comes, adjusting my angle through the hairpin.
The car almost sticks.
Better. Not perfect. But better.
I exit the corner and gun it towards Portier, the tunnel ahead swallowing me whole.
"Good exit. Don’t overcommit into Nouvelle Chicane."
Matthieu’s voice filters through my headset again, more relaxed this time.
"That was cleaner. Still a fraction down on Charles in sector two, but we can work with that."
I don’t want to ‘ work with that’ . I want to erase it.
" Again ," I demand, my voice steady.
"Frederic, I -"
"I don’t care if I have to run it all fucking day," I snap, throwing the car into the next turn. "I want perfection."
A pause. Then, finally -
"Copy. Resetting the sim."
I roll my neck, breathing deep.
No distractions.
No mistakes.
Only victory.
* * *
I’ve spent most of the day in the simulator, running lap after lap, refining my lines, chasing down fractions of a second with the kind of relentless precision that borders on obsession.
That’s where my focus belongs. That’s where I want to be.
Not here, sitting in front of a backdrop plastered with sponsor logos, forced to engage in a dance of well-rehearsed answers and carefully crafted smiles.
Unfortunately, though, this is part of it. And media duties are the absolute worst part of this job.
The microphone gets clipped onto my race suit, the cameras are adjusted, and then I’m left sitting across from the journalist assigned to interview me today.
I don’t recognise her.
Dark pin-straight hair, light blue eyes, perfectly manicured nails wrapped around the recording device in her hand. Her dress is professional but tight in a way that makes it clear she wants it to be noticed.
She’s pretty. Objectively .
And she knows it.
Her lips curve into a small smile as she leans forward, angling her body just slightly towards mine.
"Frederic Moreau," she says, her tone easy, confident. "The man of the hour."
I force a polite smirk. "That’s what they tell me."
She lets out a soft, lilting laugh, and I already know how this interview is going to go.
I’ve done enough of these to recognise the pattern.
The professional questions come first. Race prep, car setup, expectations for the grand finale.
Then, as we settle in, the flirting begins.
It’s subtle at first. The slow lean in. The slightly breathier tone. The little smiles like we’re sharing some kind of private joke.
I don’t blame her. It happens all the time.
It’s not arrogance - it’s just reality. A lot of these journalists are professionals, but that doesn’t mean they’re immune to the allure of proximity.
Besides, a young, rich athlete with a French accent and a reputation for being just a little dangerous? It’s an easy trap to fall into.
But it doesn’t work on me. I don’t mix business with pleasure.
And more importantly - I don’t do distractions.
"Your pole position in Miami was one of the best laps of the season so far," she continues. "Would you say Monaco presents a bigger challenge?"
"Monaco is always a challenge," I reply smoothly. "The circuit punishes mistakes more than any other. It’s about precision, not just speed."
" Precision ," she echoes, her lips curving. "That’s something you seem to have mastered."
I don’t reply, just offer a neutral smile.
She tilts her head, watching me.
"Some drivers say Monaco is a place where legends are made. What would winning here mean to you?"
"It would mean I did my job."
She laughs at that. "That’s a very Frederic Moreau answer. "
I lift a brow. "And what exactly does that mean?"
"Focused. Relentless. Impossible to fluster." She pauses, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Or is there something that does fluster you, Moreau?"
I smirk, shaking my head slightly. "I don’t fluster."
"Oh, I bet you do," she teases. "Maybe we just haven’t found the right thing yet."
I chuckle lightly, brushing off the comment.
The problem is, I already know what flusters me, and I fucking hate it.
A certain blonde English girl.
I shift in my seat, pushing the thought away.
The journalist watches me, clearly hoping for some kind of slip-up.
I don’t give her one.
Instead, I meet her gaze with an easy confidence, my voice smooth and unwavering.
"You’ll have to keep searching," I say simply.
She pouts, but her amusement doesn’t fade.
"Well," she says, flipping to the next page in her notes. "Let’s talk about something else that’s been making headlines."
I already know where this is going.
She glances down at her notes, reading directly from them.
"Rumors about your personal life have been swirling lately. There’s been some speculation -"
I exhale sharply through my nose.
Of course there has .
It’s always the same. Every season, every win, every event. The speculation, the gossip, the who is Frederic Moreau dating? headlines that litter the tabloids.
I have no interest in playing that game.
"No comment," I say smoothly, before she can even finish her question.
“Oh, come on,” she lets out a small, breathy laugh. "Just a hint?"
"Do I look like someone who gives hints?"
"Fine. You’re impossible, you know that?" she sighs, shaking her head.
"So I’ve been told."
The interview wraps up soon after, and as she stands, she flashes me one last smile.
"If you ever decide to break that no comment rule," she says lightly, "you know where to find me."
I nod politely, but my attention is already elsewhere.
I’ve got more training to do. More work to put in.
I don’t have time for this.
I don’t have time for anything outside of racing.
And yet, as I leave the media room and make my way back towards the paddock, my mind drifts again.
Not to the journalist. Not to the race.
To her.
To Poppy .
To the way she looked up at me on the dance floor, lips parted, eyes flashing with something both infuriated and intrigued.
To the way she resisted, the way she pushed back, only to fall in step with me so easily.
To the way she walked away, leaving me standing there, smirking like she hadn’t just managed to burrow her way into my head.
I shake my head to myself, exhaling sharply.
Get a fucking grip, Moreau.
I’ve got bigger things to worry about.
Like the fact that my phone is ringing, and it’s Jacques’ name that’s flashing on screen. He only calls me when he needs or wants something, and so I sigh as I raise the phone to my ear, dreading to think what he wants now.