Chapter One
Lily
Or so everyone liked to tell me.
Sitting in the cockpit of your car during a race probably isn’t the time to be having this debate, I argued internally.
“Lily, we’re seeing more rain in sector two,” my engineer’s voice crackled through the headset, sounding almost bored, which pretty much described Mark to a tee.
He had beautiful blond curly hair that sort of radiated sunshine, but his demeanor rivaled that of a stern primary-school teacher ready to lecture at a moment’s notice.
“It’s getting heavier. Box this lap for new tires. ”
I clicked the radio. “Are you sure? Feels too early.” Changing tires to inters when the track was only a little damp could be disastrous for my race.
“Box, box,” was all Mark said back.
Heavier drops hit my visor as I backed off the throttle, approaching the pit entry.
The pit crew swarmed the car the instant I stopped in the box, and two and a half seconds later, I was released back onto the track, tires ready to deal with the rain beneath me.
I just needed to survive another twenty laps.
Fortunately for us, the tire change had worked perfectly.
Within three laps, I was picking off cars and going up the positions.
The rain intensified, exactly as predicted, and suddenly the order reshuffled in my favor.
By lap thirty-two, I was P6, which was great considering I’d started P12.
Since I had qualified so poorly, scoring points would feel like a victory.
And with the way I was driving, there was even a possibility for a podium.
Rain truly was the great equalizer.
“This is good, Lil. Keep pushing. We think the rain should stop in ten minutes.” Mark only called me Lil when he was pleased, Lily when he felt neutral about my performance, and then the worst, Lillian Blackwood, when he felt as though he’d ended up with the short end of the stick by becoming my racing engineer.
After last week’s Grand Prix, there’d been a bit too much Lillian Blackwood. I grinned inside the helmet. “Good” was an understatement. These were laps meant to win the race.
Another near-perfect lap went by. Considering it was raining, this was the pace we wanted—the pace we needed if we were going to get a podium in Miami. The car felt alive beneath me. The rain, and that earlier tire change, was working, allowing me to easily pass the cars in front.
“Take that!” I screamed into the air, the words swallowed by the loud roar of my engine. With a win in Miami, we would—
Without warning, the wheel twitched in my hands. Just a shudder, which I chose to ignore, as my hands tightened around the wheel grip.
Probably nothing.
Then it happened again, harder this time.
“Something’s wrong.” I wasn’t sure if I’d remembered to press the radio button.
The wheel felt different, like there was a disconnect between my inputs and the car’s response.
The car snapped right, then left, fighting me like she had decided we weren’t on the same team anymore.
The sensation was immediate and horrifying, like the wheel had suddenly become a decoration, disconnected from the car entirely.
“Shit!” I hauled left on the wheel, overcorrecting, and the car whipped in the other direction.
No, no, no! But the car had no desire to listen to my protests. It lurched forward, momentum carrying me toward the racing line, where—
A flash of bright purple filled my vision. A Hermes car was right beside me, trying to overtake me.
Not the time! my brain screamed, but there was no way to avoid what came next.
My car’s nose slammed into the Hermes’s sidepod with a terrifying squeal.
The purple car lurched sideways from the force, the right wheels breaking contact with the tarmac.
Time stretched impossibly thin as I watched the Hermes car tilt, tip, then flip with horrifying slowness, rotating through the air.
It arced toward the barrier, tumbling, carbon fiber pieces shedding across the tarmac.
My own car bounced from the impact, the steering wheel wrenching from my hands as I spun. The world became a blur of gravel and grass.
This is bad, this is bad, this is bad.
The screech of metal on gravel filled my ears, drowning out everything else. Every muscle in my body tensed against the spin, useless, just along for the ride. The car shuddered violently one final time, then went still.
Then came the silence, thick and suffocating. Or maybe it wasn’t silence at all. Maybe my ears were just ringing too loud to hear anything else. Smoke rose up from somewhere to my left as my eyes watered behind the visor.
“Lily? Lily? Are you okay?” The sound of my radio startled me.
“Yup,” I whispered, my voice coming out shaky, vowels stretching in my thick Liverpudlian accent the way they always did when adrenaline hit. “Stilllll here. Allllll gooood.”
Silence echoed on the other end, and I could picture the team in the garage, exchanging glances, trying to assess whether that slurred drawl meant I was actually fine or concussed and lying.
When I thumbed the visor up, cool air rushed over my face.
For just a second, it felt refreshing, and I welcomed the small breeze, even if it was filled with smoke.
Behind me, my own car sat stuck in the gravel, wafts of smoke escaping it.
It would need a tow, but surprisingly, the chassis looked more intact than I’d expected.
Some luck at least.
I scanned my surroundings, and my stomach felt sick at the sight in front of me. The Hermes car was strung up between the barrier and the fencing, with its debris littering the gravel.
“Shit, shit, shit.” The words tumbled out as I broke into a run. Marshals shouted from behind, their voices ordering me back, but I ignored them.
I have to know. I have to see if he’s okay.
My legs felt disconnected from my body, racing boots slipping on the loose gravel with every stride. The distance between my car and the Hermes felt infinite, and the air felt stickier as I got closer.
Please be okay, I begged the universe. The marshals were shouting louder now, words I couldn’t process over the squeal in my ears and the horrible thoughts running through my head: I hit him. I caused this. This is my fault.
For one horrible, endless moment, the driver inside was slumped forward against his seat belt. I went to reach down, but before I could touch him, his arm twitched, and he jerked himself backward.
He was moving.
The relief was so intense it nearly knocked me back, but it only lasted a split second before a new wave of horror washed over me. I’d just destroyed someone’s race. And possibly their car. I’d hit them, sent them barrel-rolling into the barriers. What if they needed a new engine—
Stop spiraling. Help first, Lily. Guilt later.
I leaned back into the cockpit, where I finally caught the glint of the driver’s helmet through my haze. Bright gold, scratched and smeared, but unmistakable. The number 72 glared up at me.
Of all the drivers on the grid, of course I fucking hit Henri.
The press was going to have a field day with this one. The chaos of hitting F1’s golden boy, and my number-one rival for the championship, would undoubtedly last until summer break. But there was no point in contemplating that now.
Henri fumbled with the harness, his gloves slipping against the latch.
“Hold on, I’ve got you.” My voice cracked as I reached down into the cockpit, fingers finding the stubborn buckle. I yanked hard until the latch snapped open with a click. Henri jerked his head toward me. His visor was streaked with dirt.
“I’ve got it.” His voice was strangely calm, but the steel in his eyes when he looked up at me was pure Henri.
“Shut up and let me help.” I yanked harder, ignoring his protest. His weight was solid, dragging against me as I hauled him upward. The rain was starting to let up, but his race suit felt slippery and hard to hold. “Good grief, you weigh a million pounds.”
Together we staggered out of the wreckage. My boots slipped in the gravel, but I clung to him stubbornly. The second we cleared the car, he shoved me away, falling slightly backward. He swayed for a second, legs shaky, as he ripped his helmet off in an effort to steady himself.
His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his face flushed. But his eyes… His eyes were blazing with something that looked an awful lot like hatred.
“I said I don’t need your help.”
I wondered if his words tasted as bitter as they sounded.
“I got that,” I mumbled, the sarcasm in my voice my only defense.
His eyes narrowed at me as he took a step forward, then stumbled.
His hand shot out, grabbing the twisted barrier for support.
Henri’s fingers were trembling, and not the subtle kind you could hide, but a visible, full-body shake that rattled through his shoulders and down into his knees.
He blinked hard, twice, like the world around him refused to stay in focus. Finally, he looked up again. “Let’s hope this isn’t a sign for how the rest of this season is going to go for you, Blackwood.” He paused, letting his words hit. “Or how you intend to race.”
He thinks I did this on purpose. My blood boiled—half-guilt, half-indignation at his insinuation—but still I reached out to help steady him again. And again, he tried to shove me back.
“Oh, come on,” I scoffed. “Do you really think I’d stoop that low?”
His look told me he absolutely did, and the certainty written all over his face felt like a knife in the back. Henri Dubois and I may not be friends anymore, but for him to think that low of me made my chest burn with anger.
Everything tumbled out in a rush. “Something went wrong with my steering, Henri. Why on earth would I risk not finishing this weekend?”
Unbelievable.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you knew I had that pass and that you couldn’t catch me in the rain.” I could feel his glare, cold and furious.