Chapter Two
Henri
Helmet on, gloves tugged tight, I sat in the cockpit and tried not to focus on the thud of my own heartbeat.
It’d been two weeks since Miami. Two weeks since Lily’s mistake had flipped me upside down, costing me the race.
The racing stewards had called it “an incident,” which made it sound like a casual coincidence rather than a car forcing me to flip and hit the wall hard enough that I could hear my bones rattle.
Rennen’s official apology had been pathetic.
Lily’s worse. She’d smiled that infuriatingly media-trained sunshine smile and blamed “unexpected behavior” and “a systems fault,” as if a gremlin had yanked the wheel right out of her hands.
Or that the car had decided to run itself across the track for fun.
According to my PR team, I was supposed to nod and say, “These things happen.”
Lily and I had spent all of pre-season testing trading fastest laps back and forth.
The press had already anointed us the rivalry to watch this year.
Him versus her, Hermes versus Rennen. Formula 1’s two oldest and most decorated teams were back at it again.
And the fact that Felix and Verhoeven had been bitter rivals back in their racing days? That only added fuel to the fire.
Not that I’d helped matters when I lost my temper in the post-race Miami press conference. Since then, I’d given the journalists two weeks’ worth of material, each day bringing a fresh headline about our “toxic feud.”
I missed what Lily and I used to be, but I’d killed that possibility the morning I walked out of Lily’s hotel room last year.
I could still hear her voice on the phone with her mother.
“I need to think about it.”
Just that inkling of doubt had made my stomach turn sour.
I couldn’t be the reason Lily put her dreams at risk, so I’d made the decision for both of us—told her I wasn’t interested in a relationship, made it about focus and competition, and given her an easy out.
I’d made it my choice so she wouldn’t have to.
Then I did the only thing I could do. I walked away to remove any pressure.
Looking at the mess between us now—the hostility, the headlines, the passive-aggressive press conferences—I was right. How could we maintain a relationship while fighting for the same championship? While her contract explicitly forbade it? While our teams could barely exist in the same paddock?
How could two rivals possibly date each other while fiercely vying for the world’s most famous racing title?
My only focus needed to be this championship.
For the first time in five years, my Hermes car was the fastest car on the track.
New engineering regulations had been introduced this year, and Valkyrie F1— the team that had crushed everyone for the past several seasons—was struggling to adapt.
My sister, Georgia, was no longer dominating races or the World Driver’s Championship.
This was finally my year to win the championship of my dreams; to earn the top spot. As long as I could keep Lily behind me.
I had hoped the Rennen car wouldn’t be as powerful as everyone expected, but the moment it hit the tarmac in Barcelona’s pre-season testing session, I knew this year’s fight was going to be between the two of us.
The media may have underestimated Lily, but I didn’t. She was ferocious and hungry to win, and now she had a new team and engine behind her. And as each race went on, the aggressive driving between the two of us only grew.
The fact was, only one of us could be crowned the driver’s champion, and I was hell-bent on it being me.
I forced a breath, feeling it catch in my chest. Miami’s race was behind me, and I needed to leave it there. There was no changing the past, and I had to focus on the Canadian Grand Prix.
Montreal was going to be my race.
In the simulator runs, our lap times had been promising—quick enough to put a cautious smile on my engineer’s face. That fragile optimism was exactly what I needed to hold onto, along with the promise that Hermes wouldn’t botch the race strategy.
“Okay, Henri. Free practice 1.” Michael’s voice slid into my headset. “Remember, this track really wears down those tires.”
My fingers drummed on the wheel impatiently—once, twice, three times—a nervous tick I’d never broken.
Michael kept going on about brake migration and delta targets, but the words blurred into white noise.
All I could hear was the thrumming of my pulse as I watched small droplets of rain tumble down outside the garage.
“Henri, did you copy the—”
“Yes,” I cut him off, sharper than I meant. My throat was as dry as sand, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. “I got it.”
He sighed but didn’t push. Michael had been my race engineer for almost eight years—long enough to know when I was being difficult; long enough to recognize when pushing would help and when it would just make things worse. Michael knew how to read me better than I could probably read myself.
The car dropped off the jacks with a thud. Gray sky flashed beyond the grandstands as the rain picked up.
Great, more rain. After the Miami incident, I felt like I’d had enough rain for a lifetime. Rain meant less control, more variables, more opportunities for things to go catastrophically wrong.
Or for your rival to send you crashing into the barrier.
Turn 1 arrived fast—faster than I expected, even though I’d driven this track a hundred times. I hit the brake a touch too early, feeling the car’s weight shift forward, the rear getting light. My intermediate tires, still cold, protested with a small slide.
“Nice and smooth,” Michael reminded me gently.
I ignored him. The next corners felt twitchy, and I was late and then early through the turns. Not bad enough to warrant a radio call, but not the kind of lap that got you P1. It was the sort of thing a rookie would call fine.
But I wasn’t supposed to be fine. I had to be perfect.
What the hell is wrong with you? I chastised myself for my lack of focus.
Somewhere between Turns 5 and 6, I realized I had stopped breathing again. I exhaled slowly, dragging air back through gritted teeth, into my burning lungs, just the way a sports psychologist had told me to years ago.
The sort of breathing I’d watched my sister do to quell her anxiety.
Breathe. One. Two. Three. Four. Out.
Except the breathing wasn’t doing shit. My hands continued to shake against the wheel, and I missed another key corner.
“More push this lap,” Michael said in my ear. “Find your marks. No heroics.”
I grumbled something unintelligible back into the radio. Michael, to his credit, ignored me. I started the lap, forcing the throttle earlier, trying to be brave in Turn 1, but I overdid it. Too much commitment on entry, too hesitant on exit. It all felt wrong.
Again, I forced myself to inhale deeply, to focus on the windy, wet road ahead instead of the chaos rolling around in my head. The next turn approached. My right foot hovered over the brake pedal, judging the moment.
Wait.
Wait.
Now!
And then, at the last second, something inside me hesitated. Some primal part of my brain that, heading into the barrier, remembered the sound of my tires straining on the gravel.
And that hesitation cost me.
I clipped the inside curb too aggressively, trying to make up for the late entry. The car jolted sideways, and pure instinct made me overcorrect. My hands yanked the wheel right.
The rear spun out, and suddenly I was half a lane wide, cutting across the racing line at completely the wrong angle.
No, no, no…
For a heartbeat that stretched into eternity, I froze. My hands locked on the wheel, my brain screaming commands my body couldn’t process.
In the mirror, a flash of black and silver appeared.
Lily. Her Rennen livery caught me completely off-guard. She was right there, closing fast on a flying lap of her own.
“I’m going to hit her. Oh god, I’m going to—” The words tore out of me.
She reacted instantly, her reflexes sharper than mine in that critical moment. Her foot came off the throttle, lifting just enough to slow. The black-and-silver Rennen darted to the outside, taking the long way around, giving us both room even though I’d left her none.
Controlled and composed. Exactly as we’d all been trained to be since our first days in karting.
The whole sequence had lasted maybe two heartbeats. Two heartbeats where I’d almost repeated Miami’s incident, except this time it would have been my fault. Unquestionably, undeniably mine.
But she’d saved us both.
Her sleek, black car disappeared around the next corner, carrying away with it whatever remained of my pride.
“Henri!” Michael’s voice sliced through the static, filled with worry. “You okay?”
The concern in his tone made something twist in my gut; made the heat of embarrassment crawl up my neck.
Say something. Answer him.
My pulse pounded behind my eyes, and I couldn’t seem to press the radio button. Couldn’t make my fingers move to that small switch on the steering wheel.
Frozen. You’re frozen again, just like—
“Henri,” Michael said again, softer this time. Not angry, just worried. That worry was somehow worse than anger would have been.
“I’m fine.” The words came out flat, mechanical, utterly unconvincing.
Liar.
The rest of my lap was an echo of the first. Slow, chaotic, untidy. Michael didn’t comment until the next lap went just as badly.
“Box this lap.”
Three simple words. I hated how much relief overtook me as soon as the pit entry appeared, hated myself for being grateful for the escape. This wasn’t me. I didn’t run from bad sessions. I fought through them, pushed harder, and found the speed through sheer determination.
Except today, I just couldn’t.
Back in the garage, I killed the engine and sat for a moment in the bleak silence, the cockpit feeling too small, too hot, despite the cool Canadian air. Finally, I unlatched the helmet, lifting it free.