Chapter Seventeen #3
Lily grabbed the mic, her knuckles going white. “Maybe the problem isn’t where I was, Henri. Maybe it’s that you apparently seem to see a ghost whenever there’s even a hint of rain.”
The words hit like a gut punch. My vision tunneled slightly, the edges of the room going fuzzy and indistinct.
My mouth hung open as I stared at her, desperately searching for words that would make this okay; that would deflect and smooth over and return us to the safe, professional territory we were supposed to occupy.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Henri, I shouldn’t have—” Lily’s voice dropped to just above a whisper.
The room felt unnaturally still, and even the moderator seemed frozen. His hand hovered uselessly near his microphone, like even he didn’t know what to say. With one hand pressed to her temple like she was physically holding back a migraine, Ruth’s face did nothing to control her evident fury.
Expectant faces and recording devices watched me like a hawk. The perfectly crafted answers that Ruth and I had rehearsed repeatedly disappeared entirely.
“Fuck this.”
My hands moved on autopilot, and I set the mic down on the floor. I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the stage floor with a harsh screech. The moderator’s hand reached out to me, but then he set it down, like he too could see I was done.
My feet dragged me out of the seat and away from the sea of journalists. On my way out I could hear their whispers, and I did everything to shut them out.
I’m sure Ruth will fill me in on what they said later.
As soon as I was outside the room and into the hallway, I felt a tear slide down my cheek, hot and unwelcome, like a physical betrayal of my carefully constructed facade. I swiped at it roughly with the back of my hand.
“Henri!” Ruth’s voice echoed through the quiet. She caught up beside me, breathless, her phone already buzzing with notifications. “What happened to not making a scene?”
“I answered their questions,” I said, my voice rough and unsteady.
“You detonated on live television!” She waved her arms in the air, her phone still clutched in one hand, the screen lighting up with what I could only assume were increasingly frantic messages from team management. “Do you even care how that looked?”
More footsteps joined us.
Georgia.
“Henri.” Her voice was gentle, concerned in a way that made my throat tighten. She was already reaching for my arm, that familiar protective instinct I’d known my entire life written across her face.
“Don’t,” I said sharply. “Please. Just… don’t.”
“Hey.” Her tone was careful. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.” My voice came out clipped and hollow, but my body told a completely different story. My hands trembled at my sides, fingers tapping my side. The slight tremor ran up my arms, into my shoulders. I could feel my heart racing against my ribs, like it might crack through the bone.
Ruth exhaled through her nose, the sound dripping with barely restrained frustration. “Just brilliant, Henri.”
“Enough,” Georgia said, stepping between us.
My PR officer threw both hands into the air with theatrical exasperation, her phone nearly flying from her grip.
“Fine. You deal with him then.” She spun on her heel, storming off down the corridor without a backward glance.
Within three steps, she already had the phone pressed to her ear, her voice rising as she began barking rapid-fire instructions into it.
The hallway grew quiet again.
“Henri, talk to me.” Georgia’s voice was stripped of any judgment, but I couldn’t even look at her. Every breath felt shallow and too close together. The walls felt larger, like they were starting to crowd me.
“I need—” I started, but the words wouldn’t finish.
“What?” Georgia’s hand hovered near my shoulder, not touching, but close.
“Air. I need air. I can’t—” I couldn’t finish. Couldn’t explain that the walls felt like they were pressing in; that my lungs wouldn’t fill properly; that every sound seemed too loud and too far away at the same time.
“Let’s go outside.”
The moment the door to the hallway opened, the humid Austrian air hit my face, thick and warm, but at least it was different.
And then I ran.
Not a jog or a quick walk, but a full sprint, footsteps pounding against pavement, my chest heaving, until I reached the entrance to the driver facilities.
My hand closed around a familiar door handle, and I slammed the door shut as soon as I was inside, letting myself fall against the door, head on my knees. Everything I’d tried to bury clawed its way back up. The flash of the crash, the interview with Ollie, the press conference.
Losing Monaco.
My chest hurt. My throat burned. I tried to slow my breathing, but it only made it worse, the inhale catching, the exhale coming too soon. I pressed my palms to my eyes until I saw stars. Lily had been right. I’d pushed her too far, and she’d said what everyone else was thinking.
For a few long seconds, I didn’t feel like a driver, or a brother, or anyone worth interviewing. Just a man sitting in a silent room, trying not to fall apart.