Chapter Thirty
Georgia
On the Monaco Grand Prix Sunday, my arrival at the paddock was truly madness. Fans flooded the streets, pressed up against barricades, shouting, cheering, and waving flags in every direction.
“Wow, Monaco really does show up for a race, huh?” Luca laughed. To be fair, I was shocked at the number of Valkyrie flags waving in the wind. Surrounded by a countless sea of blue, I was touched by the strong turnout for both me and Valkyrie.
“Morning, G!” Mel greeted. “Ready for the race? I know we’re starting second today, but I have a good feeling about this.”
A feeling I didn’t remotely share.
Starting second in Monaco felt more like a death sentence.
I hopped into the cockpit of my car, settling into the tight space as I checked my water and radio.
After yesterday’s tense qualifying session, Henri just managed to squeak out pole, leaving me starting second.
Overtaking was damn near impossible on this track, and the fact that the only person who intimately knew this track as well as I did was starting in P1 made my heart sink into my stomach.
Mel leaned over the halo, grinning down at me. “Let’s show these boys how Monaco is won.”
This was the tenth time I’d sat in my car this season, but there was something different about this moment. It was almost dreamlike, as if I were watching it all unfold from outside of my body.
As the formation lap ticked down and I pulled into my grid slot, my eyes locked on the lights above. My pulse quickened, each light igniting in sequence until they all vanished.
I launched off the line, holding tight behind Henri as we darted into the first corner.
The buildings blurred around us as we weaved through the tight twists and hairpins of our childhood city.
He had the edge, but I stayed close. Henri might have started this race pole, but unlike my brother, I had something special: a woman-run team with a point to prove.
Monaco wasn’t about raw speed. It was about strategy. Pit stops. Timing. Precision.
Half the race flew by, and Henri was still leading. My only real chance was in the pits. If I could nail my stop, I might leapfrog him.
But when I dove in for fresh tires, the left rear stuck.
Three seconds went by. An eternity.
“Fuck. What happened?” I snapped into the radio.
The response came, frustratingly calm. “Just keep driving. We’ll make up the time.”
Just keep driving? What else was I going to do?
“We’ll need a fucking miracle,” I bit back. Mel proceeded to respond to me, but I ignored her.
Lap after lap ticked by. Fifty. Fifty-one. Hope started to dwindle.
And then, on lap fifty-two, Henri dove into the pits for softs. But Hermes flubbed the stop. A fumbled tire gun.
Henri came out behind me in P2.
Suddenly, I was leading.
Narrowing my focus, I cruised through the next several laps with unnerving precision, driving within millimeters of the barriers. This was my race to lose and no man was going to take it from me.
Eight laps to go. Then six. Then two.
The car hissed as I turned into my last lap.
“Mel. Noise. Why?”
“Debris stuck in the floor,” Mel confirmed.
“Fuck. What do I do?”
There was a pause. “Remember when we went to that stupid fair in Paris?”
“How is this fucking relevant?” I bit back.
“We went on that silly go-kart track, and you were so mad you qualified behind me, so you just blocked the way for everyone like an absolute menace.”
“Yes?” How was this the time for that story?
“Now’s your time, G. Be that menace we all know and love.”
Mel didn’t have to ask me twice. Feeling the debris lodged in my car, I slowed down my pace and did something I’d never thought I’d have to do. I started to drive in the middle of the road, not caring about the racing line. For once in my life, I didn’t need to be faster than Henri.
I just needed to be in front.
The streets of Monaco were tight, almost impossible to pass. I could see his car swerving, trying to find an opportunity to get around.
But this was Monaco, and the only person who knew these narrow streets as intimately as I did was behind me.
I adjusted my line, started driving defensively, right in the middle of the street, cutting off any sliver of hope Henri had for a pass.
Monaco’s streets were barely wide enough for one car, let alone two.
He tried the inside. He tried the outside. But I gave him nothing.
As soon as the checkered flag came into view, I launched my car with all the might and power of a Valkyrie, like my car was a warrior from the Norse legends of old.
Henri’s car was gaining, our cars almost touching as he made one last attempt to get past me.
But it was too late. The waving of the black and white flag signaled the end of the race.
And I was officially a Monaco Grand Prix winner.
Every emotion I’d felt in the last year, all of the pain and suffering from the journalists, the teasing of my dedication to the sport, faded away.
Every ache and sacrifice I’d buried deep burst free as tears streamed down my cheeks.
I let out a half-choked sob, unable to contain it.
The roar of the crowd faded into a blur, replaced by a single truth echoing in my chest: we’d done it.
Not by luck. Not by accident. But through grit, precision, and a team that never once gave up on me.
We deserved this win.
The radio clicked on. “Georgie, this is Isabell—” A pause. “No, this is the entire Valkyrie team speaking. Well done, love, well done! Also, that’s third place for Lily. Double podium at Monaco, couldn’t have asked for a better race from you both. I’m so proud.”
My scream into the radio was raw. “Fuck yes! This trophy belongs to the team. You believed in me when no one else did.” I paused, taking a moment to wave at the crowd.
“This win is for every little girl who is told she can’t compete with the boys.
Let this be a lesson to those who want to keep women out of motorsports.
We’re here to stay.” I carefully maneuvered my car into the P1 spot before eagerly jumping out of my car, flailing my arms in my classic window-washing dance.
Henri barreled into me first, sweeping me into a tight hug, “I’m so proud, Peaches!”
I caught Lily’s eyes and barely had time to open my arms before she jumped into them, legs wrapped tight around my waist, squealing into my ear.
“You did it!” she cried. The moment I set her down, I saw my brother pull her into his embrace, his arms wrapped around her as she buried her head in his chest, too overwhelmed with excitement.
My eyes darted around the bustling crowd, searching for Luca.
And then I saw him. That familiar swagger, that impossibly wide grin. Luca swooped in and dipped me backward, his lips finding mine in a passionate kiss. I felt like Cinderella being kissed by her Prince Charming as Luca held me so tight I could feel his racing heart.
“Go and celebrate, amore. I’ll give you your real prize later,” he whispered, lips brushing over my ear. Part of me wondered how large of a fine I would be given if I missed the winner’s press conference and dragged Luca straight into my bed to see what kind of prize he was offering.
After the podium ceremony was complete, I made my way back to the garage to prepare for the media circus.
For the first time in the history of my Formula 1 career, I wasn’t feeling overwhelmed with crippling anxiety.
My car could have caught on fire, and I’d still be full of this inexplicable joy.
Nothing could ruin the magic of winning Monaco.
A knock pounded on my driver’s room door. “Come in!”
Isabelle stepped inside, setting a small gift bag with blue tissue paper on the coffee table. “This is for you.”
Opening it, I pulled out a Valkyrie team polo, giving Isabelle a confused look.
“Look at the back.” She grinned. Flipping over the shirt, I immediately understood why she was beaming with excitement. Isabelle had taken my team polo and embellished it with the phrase “Triple Crown of Motorsport”. The words I’d wanted to say since the beginning of my career.
24 Hours of Le Mans. Indy 500. And now Monaco. They were all mine.
Gazing up at her in awe, tears started to pour out of me. This shirt must have taken weeks to create.
Even before I believed in myself, Isabelle had never faltered.
“Th-thank you,” I whispered. She flashed me a lovely, pearly-white smile. With the way the season was going, I might have enough Isabelle smiles collected to fill up both hands.
“Wear it to the press conference, Georgia. Wear it and remind those journalists that a lioness has arrived, and she has a bone to pick with them.”
At the after-party I stuck to just a few drinks.
I fully intended on remembering every part of my Monaco win.
Luca, surprisingly, had also decided to drink less.
Ever since the kiss after the race, he’d been acting aloof.
Instead of being his normal, boisterous self, he was quiet as I got ready for the party.
It felt unnerving. Even at the bar, he was attentive when I needed him, but mostly kept to himself.
Truth be told, I was feeling annoyed. I’d won the Monaco Grand Prix, my home race, and for some reason, Luca had decided this was the time he was going to give me the space I had been craving.
Instead of grabbing me and giving me my prize, he’d kept his hands to himself all night, and if I was being honest, I was disappointed.
Was this how Luca felt back in Monza after his win? Suddenly, I was starting to understand how he felt.
It was infuriating watching Luca and Lily sit at the bar, innocently chatting away about their races. Green envy slowly crawled up my spine as I watched the two of them. Just as I was about to march up to Luca and demand he give me that prize he promised, I heard a voice call out behind me.
“Georgia, wait up!” Turning around, Anthony smiled at me.
Christ, not now, Anthony.