Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lily
I’d just finished tucking my hair into the fireproof balaclava when the door to my driver’s room opened behind me.
“Lily.”
I didn’t need to turn around to recognize my mother’s voice, that particular blend of disappointment.
“Not now, Mum.” I reached for my gloves, focusing on the familiar texture.
“Just popping by to wish you luck.” Her heels clicked against the floor as she approached. “Although, starting from pole, you shouldn’t need much of that. Though hopefully we don’t have a repeat of last year’s Silverstone.”
“How is that helpful, Mum?” Did she really think reminding me of last year’s failure was going to improve this year’s performance?
Her perfect mask slipped for a moment, eyebrows lifting as if I’d suddenly started speaking a language she didn’t recognize.
“No.” I put my hand up before she could say something. “You’re trying to make me doubt myself. I’m not hearing it today. Not at Silverstone.”
“Lily—”
“I can do this.” My hands were steady as I pulled on my gloves. “I am on pole today. I have the fastest car on track. And I’m going to go out there and win this race—not because you think I can or because you think I can’t, but because I’m bloody good enough to do it.”
This was why she needed to go as my manager.
Every pre-race conversation got twisted into some excavation of my failures, every pep talk laced with poison.
And the pattern became impossible to ignore: she’d hollow me out then build me back up on her terms, until I couldn’t tell whether my confidence belonged to me or was something she loaned me to repossess at will.
My mother’s perfectly composed face cracked just slightly, revealing something I couldn’t quite name.
I’d never seen Victoria Blackwood look stunned.
But just like today, there was a first time for everything.
A first time for Victoria, and a first time for me, when I would stand on Silverstone’s podium in first place.
“I need you to leave,” I said, quieter now but firm. “I need to focus, and I can’t do that with you here.”
For a moment, I thought she might argue. But she didn’t. For once in her life, my mother saw sense.
“Good luck, then.” The room felt considerably calmer the moment the door clicked shut behind her.
I exhaled slowly, letting every piece of tension I felt when she walked into a room with me disappear. On the TV, I could see the Silverstone crowds already gathering, a sea of British flags and team colors. My home race. My pole position. My chance to prove to myself exactly what I was capable of.
Mark appeared in my doorway, his headset already settled over his neck.
“Ready?” he asked simply.
I grabbed my helmet, running my thumb over the smooth surface, as I looked down at the design on it. Lillies had been painted all over it, along with photos of my early karting days. A specially designed helmet for a special race. A little piece of me, to remind me I could do this.
“Ready.”
The formation lap felt different from pole position at Silverstone: a position I’d never held here. It felt like I owned the place—which, considering half the fans were wearing my shirt, it looked like I did.
“Radio check, Lily.” Mark’s voice crackled through my earpiece.
“Loud and clear.”
“Weather’s holding, and the track temperature’s optimal. Remember, it’s a long race. Manage those tires, especially through those turns.”
The formation lap brought us around to the grid slots. I rolled the Rennen car into position at the front, the tarmac still bearing faint rubber marks from earlier sessions. Through my mirrors, I watched the field settle into place, all behind me.
This was it. Everything I’d worked for was ahead of me.
The red lights illuminated one by one. Five lights.
And then none.
I nailed the start, wheels gripping perfectly as the Rennen car launched forward. Behind me, the field surged, but I was already pulling away, claiming the racing line into Turn 1. The crowd’s roar was so loud I could almost hear it over the engine.
“Good start, Lily. P1. Henri’s close behind, two-tenths back.”
Good, I thought. I like a fight. Will make this win even more satisfying.
The first few laps settled into a rhythm.
Every time I glanced at my mirrors, there was his distinctive Hermes livery, never quite close enough to attack, but never far enough away to ignore.
He was studying me, learning my movements, waiting for the moment when I’d make a mistake. Like I had done in Monaco.
Lap twenty-seven, I pulled off the track so my crew could change my tires. They had me back out in under three seconds, and I rejoined the race still ahead of Henri.
But only just. He closed the gap somehow.
The next several laps became a chess match at two hundred miles an hour. Henri tried everything to get past—darting to one side, then the other, trying to bait me into a mistake. But I knew him. I’d studied the way he raced, the way he threw himself into every corner like he had something to prove.
More importantly, I trusted myself enough to hold my ground.
By lap thirty-five, he was right on me. I could feel him there even before I saw him—that prickle of awareness that came from knowing someone was inches away at speeds that could kill you both.
We emerged onto the straight, side by side.
He pulled alongside again at the next corner. It was a proper battle, the kind of racing that reminded me why I’d sacrificed everything for this sport.
But then he had the better position, and I could either back off or risk us colliding. For a heartbeat, Miami flashed through my mind. The sickening crunch, the terror of watching Henri’s car flip, the weight of knowing I’d caused it.
But this wasn’t Miami. This was clean, hard racing between two drivers who respected each other. Who wanted to win, but not at any cost.
I gave him the corner but stayed close. Then I used the speed I’d saved to swing back past him at the next turn. He tried to block me, but it was too late. I had the better position.
Now or never.
I held my line, leaving him no choice but to fall back. We roared through the next stretch side by side, so close I could hear his engine alongside mine. But I had more speed coming out of the corner.
One more straight, and I was clear.
“Seventeen laps to go. Bring it home.”
Behind me, Henri was fading. That was the thing about him—he drove with so much fire that he wore his car out before the race was over. He had the speed, but I had the patience.
The final laps blurred. Stay smooth. Stay focused. No mistakes. Henri pushed for a few more laps, but gradually he shrank in my mirrors until I could barely see him.
“Final lap, Lily. You’re going to win Silverstone.”
The words hit differently than I expected. Not triumphant or overwhelming, but steady and sure. I’d dreamed of this moment since I was eight years old watching races with my family. Since my first go-kart race. Since every sacrifice and setback and small victory that had led here.
One last time through the famous first corner, the crowd’s roar building like thunder. Then another turn. Then another. Then—
The checkered flag.
“Yes!” I shouted into the radio, the word ripping out of me with all the emotion I’d been holding back. “Hell yes! We did it! We actually bloody did it!”
“Lily Blackwood wins the British Grand Prix!” Mark’s voice cracked with emotion, and I could almost hear a sob in his voice. “P1, you beautiful, brilliant driver!”
Tears blurred my vision as I pumped my fist, the Rennen car carrying me on a cool-down lap past grandstands full of fans waving British flags and checkered banners. My radio filled with congratulations from the team, voices overlapping in a chaos of joy that matched the chaos in my chest.
I’d won at Silverstone. In my home race.
But that feeling, that insurmountable joy, lasted for exactly forty-seven minutes.
I was back in the Rennen garage, still in my champagne-soaked race suit, surrounded by celebrating mechanics, when Mark’s expression changed. He saw Felix in the back, coming toward us, a determined, angry look on his face.
“Lily.” Felix’s voice cut through the celebration. “We need to talk. My office. Now.”
The garage fell deeply quiet, and no one said a word as I followed Felix, with Mark in tow.
“What’s wrong?”
He motioned for me to take a seat.
“I’ve just come from the FIA offices.” He stared at me, watching my face start to grow with horror.
No, I thought to myself. Don’t say what I think you’re about to say.
“They did their usual inspection on the car, Lily. I’m sorry to say, but we’ve been disqualified. The ride height was too low by one millimeter.”
“No.” The word came out hollow. “No, that’s not— We can’t—” I stuttered.
“The car was too low to the ground,” he said again, quieter this time. “We pushed the setup too aggressively, and the plank wore down below legal limits. It’s a clear technical violation.”
I couldn’t even describe the feeling that hit my chest, almost like a million bricks had been dumped on top of me. All those congratulations, the champagne, the anthem, the podium.
None of it counted.
My dream?
It was still just a dream.
“Can we appeal?”
“Lily.” Felix’s voice held defeat. “The measurement is objective. There’s no gray area here. There’s nothing to appeal.”
“So, Henri gets the win then?” The trophy always went to whoever was P2. “I guess Silverstone will always just be a dream.”
Felix didn’t say anything else as he stared at me, heartbreak all over his face. I’d barely seen any emotion from my team principal, but now, when I finally did, it was the exact emotion I’d never wanted to see.
“I need…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I needed to get out; needed to be anywhere but here, watching the team’s joy curdle into devastation. “I’m leaving.”
“Lily—”
I was already moving, stripping off my gloves, unzipping the race suit. Someone—I didn’t even know who—handed me my street clothes, and I changed in the back of the motorhome, muscle memory taking over when my brain couldn’t process anything beyond the crushing weight of loss.
Security ushered me quickly to my car, and I kept my head down and walked faster, ignoring the cameras, ignoring the journalists calling my name, ignoring everything except the need to be alone.
As soon as I got into the hotel, I dropped my bag on the floor.
I made it three steps before I saw it. A white envelope on the bed, attached to some chocolates, identical to all the others.
My hands shook as I picked it up, already knowing what I’d find inside but unable to stop myself from looking. The same block letters that haunted me each time I saw a small piece of cardstock.
YOU REALLY FUCKED UP THIS TIME, LILY. SO MUCH FOR BEING A SURE BET, EH? DON’T LET ME FIND YOU AT THE NEXT GRAND PRIX.
I crumpled the note in my fist and sank onto the bed. The hotel room was silent except for my ragged breathing.
Someone had been in this room.
Someone who knew I’d be here, in this hotel, in this specific room.
I dropped the note like it burned and pulled out my phone.
I couldn’t wait until summer break to tell someone.
That plan was crazy. My fingers hovered over Henri’s name in my contacts.
Then over Mark’s. Then over the number for hotel security.
Instead I called no one. I sat there alone, letting the silence eat me alive.