Chapter Eight
Henri
I lost the race an hour ago, but the real punishment was just beginning.
Bright lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glare across the cramped space packed with vultures who made their living picking apart every mistake you made on track. The weight of second place settled like lead in my chest, and now, an hour later, it had only gotten heavier.
Another second place. Another race where I’d done everything right except in the moment it mattered most.
My mind replayed that moment on a loop: that split second where I’d overcorrected, and Lily had slid past on the inside line. And I’d just watched her pull away.
Now I sat at a table, draped in sponsor logos and a fake smile, while Lily glowed beside me. We were only separated by a few points, but it felt like a mountain’s worth.
I reached for my purple water bottle, if only to give my hands something to do besides tap my knee repetitively. The cold plastic against my palm gave me something else to focus on.
“Lily, congratulations on a brilliant drive today.” The first journalist leaned forward. “That overtake on Henri was fearless. Can you walk us through it?”
“Honestly, I just saw the gap and went for it.” Lily’s genuine smile spread across her face—the one that had graced magazine covers and sponsorship ads for years. “Henri defended brilliantly, but in those conditions, you have to commit fully or not at all.”
A small jab from Lily and a reminder of why I’d lost this race.
I couldn’t defend against her—not in those conditions.
Not in the rain. The part of me that knew how to drive in wet weather had disappeared.
My driving hadn’t caused the accident in Miami, but my brain wouldn’t let me keep going today. Fear and anxiety were funny like that.
“And Henri.” The journalist turned to me. “That must have been frustrating, especially since you started on pole. You seemed to lose pace in the final stint. Were you finding it harder to push in today’s conditions?”
Yes. “No. Today was about execution, and Lily executed better.”
Another hand went up, and the moment I saw who it belonged to, I had to plant my feet on the floor just to stop myself from running.
Oliver Johnson. I guess they’re letting anyone into the post-race interviews now.
That smug face stared at me from across the conference room, pencil poised above his notebook.
The memory of him at dinner with Lily burned through my chest as Ollie smiled at me from his seat.
He looked different from our F2 days—taller, more refined, carrying himself like he belonged in rooms he used to sneak into.
Apparently, a hundred thousand followers had transformed him from paddock hanger-on to front-row journalist with a laminated press badge.
Judging by the fact he was at dinner with her last night, I knew Lily’s mother at least approved of him. No way Lily would be allowed to attend a dinner like that without her mother’s approval.
“Henri, after watching you struggle in wet conditions twice now, do you think there’s a psychological component?” Ollie’s voice carried that same easy confidence he’d displayed last night. “Some drivers develop mental blocks after crashes.”
The blood drained from my face before rushing back twice as hot. My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth might crack.
“There’s no mental block.” The words snapped out of me. “I made a mistake. Drivers make mistakes. That’s racing.”
“But given your Miami crash—”
“I didn’t crash in Miami.” My voice rose before I could stop it. “Lily crashed into me. Big difference.” Lily shifted beside me, her shoulder brushing mine for just a second before she pulled away.
“Of course,” Ollie continued, scribbling something in his notebook with deliberate slowness. “Though some might argue that developing caution after such a violent incident is natural.”
“I’m not cautious.” My hands found the table edge, gripping hard enough that my knuckles went white. “I led the race for almost all of it. That’s not cautious driving.”
“Until the hairpin.”
The room was dead silent, except for a few scribbles from various journalists, and the occasional cough.
Every camera lens was pointed at me, waiting for me to break.
My heart hammered against my ribs, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I should smile and deflect like the media training taught us.
But Ollie’s smug expression, the same one he wore last night when he’d deliberately touched Lily’s hand while looking straight at me, made something snap.
Something I couldn’t explain.
“You want to talk about that corner?” I leaned forward.
“Fine. I pushed the limits in conditions that would make most drivers back off. You know, Ollie, if you want to write about psychological problems, maybe focus on why you’re asking questions designed to get a clickbait headline instead of doing actual journalism. ”
The F1 moderator stood, hands raised. “Let’s keep this professional—”
But I was already up and moving toward the door, my vision tunneled, every sound magnified—the scrape of chairs, the rustle of notepads, the explosion of camera clicks that followed me like a swarm. The questions kept coming, voices overlapping into white noise, but I didn’t stop.
The hallway air hit me like a slap, cooler than the press room, and I forced myself to walk instead of run.
To maintain some shred of composure even as my heart felt like it was about to explode.
People stared as I passed: mechanics, engineers, other team personnel.
I could feel their eyes tracking me; could practically hear the whispers that would start the moment I turned the corner.
I shouldered through the garage, past my car, and finally reached my driver’s room. The door had barely clicked shut before Ruth, Hermes’s Head of PR & Communications, materialized, as if she’d been waiting in the wings for exactly this moment.
“What was that?” No preamble or sympathy. Just Ruth in full crisis-management mode.
I didn’t answer. No part of me trusted any of the words that would come out.
“The FIA are probably drafting a reprimand as we speak.” Her voice was tight.
I yanked my team polo over my head, the fabric catching on my chin before I wrestled it off and threw it toward the couch. It missed, crumpling on the floor. “Then send me the fine.”
“It’s not about the money, Henri.”
“Then what?” I spun to face her. “I just spent thirty minutes being asked if I’m too traumatized to drive in the rain. If I’ve developed some psychological problem. Like one mistake erases everything I’ve done this season. Like I’m some fragile—”
“Stop.” Ruth’s voice cut through my rising anger.
Her expression softened, but her tone stayed firm.
The epitome of professionalism—everything I apparently couldn’t be today.
“It’s about maintaining composure when they’re trying to get a reaction.
Which is exactly what that journalist wanted, and exactly what you gave him. ”
“Oliver.” His name tasted bitter. “And he’s barely a journalist.”
“If he’s in the press room, then he matters.
You’re a public figure. He has every right to ask difficult questions.
” She took a seat on the armrest of my couch, perching there as she watched me.
“This is the job, Henri. Racing is only half of it. The rest is managing your image, handling these questions with grace.”
“I’m not going to sit there and let people question my ability,” I said, but even I could hear how hollow and defensive it sounded.
Ruth studied me for a long moment, and I wondered what she saw. A driver cracking under pressure? A liability? A PR disaster waiting to happen?
When my sister joined Valkyrie three years ago, she was the paddock’s worst nightmare—impulsive, emotional, prone to exactly this kind of outburst. Now it was my turn to be the one who couldn’t hold it together.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you this season, Henri, but we need you to snap out of it.
Racing is only part of your job. Don’t forget that.
” She stood with a sigh, giving me one last glance before exiting the room, leaving me with my thoughts.
The door closed behind her with a finality that felt like judgment.
Silence crashed over the room like a tsunami.
No more cameras or questions. No more eyes watching my every minute expression for signs of weakness.
I stared at my reflection in the darkened television screen mounted on the wall.
My hair stood in every direction where I’d run my hands through it, and my face looked almost unrecognizable with exhaustion.
Nothing this weekend had gone to plan. Absolutely nothing.
The hotel lobby was all polished marble and cold elegance, the kind of place designed to make you feel underdressed.
Tonight’s post-race team dinner had run three hours longer than it needed to, and I was tired.
Tired of everyone’s forced smiles over pasta, tired of awkward conversations about next weekend’s race, all while they carefully avoided mentioning today’s disaster.
I’d escaped as soon as was socially acceptable, citing my throbbing head as an excuse, which wasn’t entirely a lie. After practically sprinting to the elevator, I just caught the doors before they closed.
“Oh.”
The sound caught me off-guard, and my head snapped up.
There, standing in the corner, was Lily.
She wore a black dress that hugged her curves perfectly, and her hair was loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back in its usual ponytail. With her champagne-flushed cheeks and slightly smudged eyeliner, she looked more relaxed than I’d seen her all season.
My throat went dry, and the elevator felt several sizes too small.
That floral scent she wore filled the enclosed space, cutting through the lingering smell of the team’s cigar smoke that clung to my jacket.
It invaded my senses, making it impossible to think about anything except how close we were in this small space.