Chapter Twelve
Lily
“Morning,” I managed, accepting the earpiece he held out.
He handed it over with careful fingers, like I might shatter if he moved too quickly. “Car’s all ready to go!” His cheerfulness was almost contagious, and I appreciated the effort.
Monaco was unlike any other circuit—narrow streets flanked by barriers, no room for error, no forgiveness for mistakes.
The harbor sparkled in the morning sun, yachts bobbing gently against their moorings.
Millionaires watched from balconies above the streets where our cars were threading at top speeds.
At eight years old, I’d sat cross-legged on the carpet, nose inches from the TV screen, watching the race. My fingers would grip an imaginary wheel, turning it in perfect sync with whatever F1 driver the film crew were following.
Monaco may not be my home race, but it was still one of the crown jewels of motorsport.
Every driver wanted to win here. There was no street race like Monaco.
Everything about this race brought me to life, and I wanted this win.
The only problem? I was sitting behind the one person who knew this track better than me.
Yesterday, no one had been surprised when Henri squeaked out pole. He’d driven with cool, calm precision.
Which meant this race was going to come down to strategy—and pit stops.
Or one hell of a pass from me. Something that hadn’t been done in years. Even Georgia hadn’t managed to do it when she’d beaten Henri last year, and the year before—her wins had come purely from pole position or better pit stops that had allowed her to come out ahead.
Truly daring passes were so rare at Monaco, because if you were one millimeter off, your whole race was over. These streets were old and narrow, not exactly designed for high-speed racing.
I lowered myself into the cockpit. The harness straps tightened across my shoulders with familiar clicks—one, two, three, four, five—and my hands found the wheel. For the first time that morning, my pulse felt steady. Henri’s car sat ahead on pole, almost teasingly.
Rain had started falling an hour before the race, turning Monaco’s streets into a skating rink.
The forecast said it would ease but never fully clear.
The purple-and-gold livery of Henri’s car gleamed under gray skies, water already beading on the bodywork, rain falling steadily.
Twenty-three hundredths of a second had separated us in yesterday’s dry qualifying.
Less than the length of a car. Nothing, really.
But he’d gotten the better time.
The track cleared for the formation lap.
I followed Henri through the streets, the spray from his rear tires obscuring my vision, making the already tight track feel claustrophobic.
The wet setup felt good beneath me, responsive and balanced, but this was Monaco in the rain.
One wrong input, and you were in the barriers.
The city walls pressed in on either side, closer than any other track, painted lines barely visible through the standing water.
We settled on the grid, rain drumming against my helmet. Not hard enough to stop the race, but enough that passing now was inconceivable.
Five red lights blinked above the track, holding us in suspended animation.
Mark cut in. “Starting on wets. It’s going to be raining all race.”
I exhaled once, twice, then the world launched forward as soon as the lights went out.
Henri had the cleaner start, but it was chaos into Turn 1.
The wet surface amplified everything. He sliced ahead of me through the first part of the track, but it was survival mode for all of us drivers in this rain, trying not to get swallowed by the chaos of twenty cars fighting for position through a corner that was barely wide enough in dry conditions.
Someone locked up behind me. I felt the spray hit my rear wing; heard Mark’s sharp intake of breath over the radio.
“Just focus forward.”
“Copy.”
Lap after lap, we threaded the city together in the rain. Henri was perfect through most of it, impossibly fast despite the conditions. The spray from his rear tires created a gray curtain between us.
Through Casino Square, he was flawless. Past Mirabeau, committed and precise. Down to the hairpin where most drivers were lifting early, playing it safe in the standing water.
But then, right after the hairpin, threading through turns seven and eight, I saw it.
The hesitation.
His car twitched, just slightly. A correction that didn’t match the Henri I knew. He lifted earlier than he needed to, even for the rain. The gap between us closed by a tenth, then another.
The radio crackled on. “He’s braking early after the hairpin. Keep pressure.”
“Copy.”
Lap after lap, the same thing. Henri flew through the tunnel, that brief respite from the rain where the car suddenly found grip, but the moment we emerged back into the downpour, heading toward the chicane, he hesitated.
What was going on in there?
By lap twenty, the rain had eased from downpour to persistent drizzle. Not enough to switch to better rain tires yet, but the track was slowly improving. The racing line started to darken as water cleared from the most used parts of the asphalt.
“Rain’s easing,” Mark reported. “Give it another ten laps, and we’ll look at changing tires. Most other drivers will probably pit between laps thirty and thirty-five.”
“Copy.”
I stayed glued to Henri’s gearbox, close enough to see every correction, every moment of doubt. The rain lessened, visibility improving from terrible to merely bad. And still, every lap, Henri hesitated after the hairpin.
By lap thirty, the rain had reduced enough to switch tires.
“Box this lap,” Mark said. “Window’s open, and we need to be aggressive.” Both teams had the same idea, and we both headed into the pit lane.
“Shit!” I yelled when I pulled out just behind Henri. Our stops had been almost the same.
“Rain’s holding steady,” Mark reported. “Just mist for the rest of the race.”
I had to find a spot to make my move. The track conditions were perfect for my driving style: commitment rewarded, hesitation punished, and this race wasn’t over yet.
Henri was still hesitating, and each lap, I closed the gap—three, two-point-five, then two.
“He’s losing time through that part of the track every lap,” Mark said, and I could hear the excitement building in his voice. Mark didn’t have to say the quiet part out loud.
Pass him here, or accept second place.
By lap fifty-five, I was right behind Henri, close enough to see his helmet moving in the cockpit.
It was now or never. I went for it at the hairpin, diving inside, my front wing practically kissing his rear tire in the spray, but he was ready for me.
His car went wide enough to box me out, forcing me to lift or lose the front of my car.
I swore under my breath, biting back the urge to punch the steering wheel in frustration.
“Not yet,” Mark said quietly, maddeningly calm. “Patience, Lil.”
I reset my breathing and waited. The city opened into the harbor straight, water glittering through the mist beside the track, mega-yachts bobbing in their slips as attendees watched from under awnings.
I found his rear tires again through the spray. He reached the turn again, heading toward the hairpin in the mist.
And again, as he exited, he lifted.
But this time I was ready, and I went for it.
The move was pure instinct, the kind you don’t think about or you’ll ruin it, the kind that separates drivers from champions.
I dove inside through the mist and the spray, the walls close enough that I could have reached out and scraped paint off them if my hands weren’t locked on the wheel.
For a second, we were side by side, two streaks of color threading through a space not meant for more than one car.
Hold. Please hold.
And then, just as I was sure we’d run out of space, he faltered. A tiny lift, a fractional backing off, that gave me the sliver of room I needed.
“Holy shit!” I’d passed Henri Dubois.
At Monaco. In the rain.
“Yes!” Mark screamed into the radio, and I’d never heard him sound like that—pure, unfiltered joy and disbelief. “Lily, you absolute mad genius!”
The last twenty laps blurred into a fever dream. Henri stayed close, but he never mounted a real challenge. Whatever demon he was fighting in that sequence, it held him back just enough.
The final lap barely felt real. The city passed in snapshots through the mist, and when the checkered flag waved through the light rain, I screamed into my helmet with everything I had, my voice going hoarse, my hands shaking on the wheel.
I’d done it. I’d won Monaco.
“P1! P1!” Mark shouted, and I could hear other voices in the background, the whole garage erupting.
Static laughter filled my radio, joy and relief and triumph all tangled together.
I slumped against my belts, cold sweat coating my skin beneath the race suit, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might break through my chest. Outside, the harbor erupted with noise and color despite the rain, horns blaring from yachts, crowds screaming from the grandstands.
But for a single moment, that pure triumph had a dollop of anguish threaded through it, because in my mirrors during that pass, I’d seen something. The hesitation that didn’t belong to someone second in the championship—especially not Henri Dubois.
Why had Henri done that? He’d raced this track over and over again, never flinching like that. What had happened to the driver who threw his car into gaps that didn’t exist; who won previous races through sheer audacity and skill, regardless of conditions?
Something was wrong.
Marshals waved flags as I pulled into parc fermé, my car coming to a stop. I climbed out to blinding flashes, raising trembling hands to the crowd as I waved. My team waited by the barriers, their smiles wide and welcoming.
But a part of me couldn’t stop staring at Henri. While his team greeted him with such excitement, his response was anything but joyous.
I wrapped my arms around Mark, and his embrace was brief but genuine, his hand clapping my back, both of us soaked. “You drove like a champion,” he said into my ear, rain running down both our faces, and I had to blink hard against sudden tears that mixed with the rainwater.
He deserved this win too. He’d worked tirelessly on the wet setup, spent countless hours in the simulator with me preparing for exactly these conditions, believed in me even when the results weren’t coming.
The podium came and went in a blur of champagne sprays and bright, flashing lights.
Henri stood one step down, face carved in restraint.
He clapped once when I lifted the trophy, his face wide with a fake smile.
Afterward, I was dragged from one journalist to the next as I told them time after time how incredible it was, that I was proud of the team, that Monaco was a dream.
Through the circus of the celebration, Henri’s eyes never met mine.
For all his quirks, he’d never not congratulated me after a race.
Not once in three years. Even when I beat him, even when we were barely speaking, there was always a handshake, a nod, a quiet “good drive” when the cameras weren’t looking.
I let Bertha usher me through the crowd. Somewhere behind us, I heard Henri’s voice, low, distant. I almost turned. Almost waited for him to say “good job” the way he always did.
But he didn’t.
Monaco’s air was thick with excitement. Yachts glittered like chandeliers, champagne popping on million-dollar decks as the crowd’s noise followed me to the waiting car.
I replayed the moment I’d passed him in my head, analyzing it frame by frame through the spray and the mist. The way the car seemed to shudder like it didn’t trust him anymore. Or he didn’t trust it anymore.
My car turned up the hill toward the hotel, the city’s party fading behind me. By the time I’d reached the suite, I’d decided I was done worrying about him. I was going to take a shower, eat something that wasn’t an energy gel, and get ready for some drinks tonight.
I kicked off my shoes and tossed my bag on the table. My body ached for a hot shower, but something stopped me halfway across the room.
Another fucking envelope. White, unmarked, and on the ground by the door. Someone had just slid it under. I walked closer, watching it like a bomb about to go off. The handwriting on the front was the same blocky, all-caps scrawl as before. The envelope had just my name.
“Bertha?” I called out as I opened the door, half-hoping she’d somehow followed me up, praying, for the first time ever, to hear my PR officer’s voice.
The silence that came back was deafening, and the hallway was empty.
Picking it up, my fingers tore the flap before my brain caught up.
HE WAS SUPPOSED TO WIN. YOU’RE NOT GETTING THIS, ARE YOU, LILLIAN?
I read it once, then again, because the words didn’t want to make sense the first time.
He was supposed to win.
I crumpled the letter in my fist, the edges biting into my palm.
Everyone wanted Henri to win this weekend. Everyone expected Henri to win. But then I came in and stole his win. I beat him on the track, fair and square, with a pass that would be replayed for years. And what did that make me?
The villain who stole Monaco from F1’s golden boy.
And yet, now I had the honor of receiving this note, written by some lunatic who clearly had strong opinions about who should’ve won, and apparently enough money riding on the outcome that they felt entitled to threaten me about it.
They had the nerve to invade my personal space, to make me feel small in a room that was supposed to be my safe haven.
More anger started to flood me. I didn’t think, just moved. Jacket in one hand, crumpled note stuffed in my pocket, I stormed out. When I jabbed the elevator call button, pain shot through my thumb. The mirror inside caught my reflection. Eyes blazing, hair frizzed, I looked like a woman crazed.
My fist hit his door harder than I meant to, three sharp thumps that echoed down the hallway.
The door opened after a moment, and Henri stood there looking startled.
“Lily?” His voice was rough, confused. His eyes searched my face, taking in my disheveled appearance, the fury that must’ve been written all over me. “What are you—”
I shoved the note against him before I could lose my nerve. The paper crumpled between us. He just stared at me, then down at what I had shoved into his hand, then back at me.
“What is this?” He shook his head, confusion and concern warring on his face.
“Just fucking read it,” I snapped.