Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
GRIFFIN
Callaghan.
He blocked the inside line, hugging the racing line with expert precision. He knew I was quicker. He knew I would take it the second he slipped.
Al’s voice crackled back. “Box, box.”
My hands locked on the wheel. “No.”
“Griffin, we need fresh tires.”
“The tires are fine.”
“They’re not. Box now or we lose time.”
Rage burned through my chest, but I yanked the car into the pit lane, tires screaming as I braked. The team swarmed, a blur of red and black, slick efficiency honed over thousands of stops.
2.3 seconds.
Fast. But not fast enough.
I launched out of the pit box, gunning it down the lane. “Where’s Callaghan?”
“One-point-eight seconds ahead.”
I slammed my foot down, the car roaring as I rejoined the track. One-point-eight seconds. That was too much.
Singapore wasn’t a circuit where you could just reel someone in on raw pace. You had to force mistakes. Push them into dirty air, pressure them into braking too late, make them crack before you did.
But Callaghan didn’t crack.
I knew that better than anyone.
The gap hovered at 0.8 seconds. Then 0.7.
“Blue flags ahead, Turn 7,” Al said. “Watch out for backmarkers.”
Perfect fucking timing. I was closing on Callaghan, DRS range right there, and now I had to navigate around cars getting lapped while avoiding the marbles off the racing line. One mistake, one moment on the dirty side of the track, and I’d lose all the momentum I’d fought for.
Callaghan got through clean. I had to brake, swerving wide to avoid Nakamura, the car twitching as the rear stepped out on the dirty rubber.
Gap: 1.0 second.
Fuck.
I took a deep breath, forcing my hands steady on the wheel. Every muscle in my body wanted to attack. Dive-bomb him. Send it from a mile back. Make it stick.
But there were no gaps.
Every time I tried to close in, he found a fraction more grip. The Anderson Bridge section came up, shadows cutting across the track under the grandstands. Callaghan held the inside through every corner, textbook defense.
I clenched my jaw.
One more lap. One more shot.
Callaghan braked into Turn 14, half a second too early.
I took my chance. Up the inside, wheel to wheel, braking later than I should have.
Tires screamed.
The car twitched, the rear stepping out as I corrected, keeping us side by side.
For one second, I thought I’d made it.
Then he squeezed me wide.
No room. No exit. No choice.
I backed off before I hit the wall, biting out a curse as he held the place.
Final lap. Gap: 0.6 seconds.
“Griffin, let Stefano through.” The radio crackled with Julian’s voice, cold and sharp.
I almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, I stayed quiet. Gunned it into the next corner, the car twitching under me. Maybe I’d misheard.
Maybe he’d lost his fucking mind.
“Do you copy?” Julian asked. “Let Stefano through.”
He had to be fucking joking. I tightened my grip on the wheel, sweat stinging my eyes. Stefano, who was barely clinging onto P3?
“What?” My voice came out flat, lethal.
“You heard me. Stefano is—”
“If you say ‘faster,’ I’m driving this car straight into the fucking harbor.”
Al cleared his throat. “Griff—”
“No.” My pulse pounded in my ears. “Tell me why. Give me one good fucking reason I should move over for him.”
Silence.
Then Julian exhaled like he was speaking to a toddler. “Because it’s what’s best for the team.”
The bitter laugh ripped out of me. Right. Best for the team.
Not best for me.
Not best for the guy who’d dragged this car from P9 to a fight for the win.
Not best for the driver who’d spent the last twenty laps on the absolute fucking limit, sweating through his race suit, pulling off overtakes that should have been impossible.
This was punishment.
For the press conference.
For making him look like he didn’t have control over his own team.
For daring to do anything without his approval.
I could fight it. Could ignore the radio, push, take another shot at Callaghan, go for the win I fucking deserved.
But what would be the point?
Even if I ignored him, even if I won, Julian still held the leash. He’d find another way to punish me. This was never going to change.
Not unless I stopped playing by their rules. Stopped letting Julian pull the strings. Stopped giving a single fucking inch to a team that fixated on patting one man’s ego.
It shouldn’t have taken me this long.
I was fifteen when they scouted me. Twenty when they put me in an open-wheeled car. I’d built my career in Aedris red, bled for it, fought for it, won for it. Two world championships. Countless podiums. The kind of loyalty most teams would kill for.
And for what?
So I could be treated like a fucking pawn?
I should’ve seen it sooner. Maybe I had, in pieces. A contract renewal that had taken months longer than expected. Strategy calls that had put Stefano ahead when they shouldn’t have. The way Julian spoke to me.
But this was the first year it had felt like a fight.
Every race. Every decision. Every single time I so much as breathed without Julian’s fucking permission, I got pushed back in line.
And now, this.
I’d been blind. I’d spent years believing I was part of something, that I’d earned my place in this team, that what we’d built meant something.
That I meant something.
But I never had.
Not to Julian.
I was useful… when it suited them. When I was a golden boy, when I was doing exactly what they wanted. But the second I thought for myself? Stood up for myself?
No, I wasn’t going to waste another second fighting a war I’d already lost.
The next straight opened up.
I lifted.
Eased off the power.
Watched as Stefano zoomed past like he’d earned it.
Felt the final nail slam into the coffin of my time at Aedris.
This was the last time Julian Carter would ever control me.
Ipulled myself out of the car, lungs burning, sweat dripping down my spine.
Callaghan already stood on the podium, arms raised, soaking in the roar of his team. His fists punched the air, a smug grin plastered across his face like he hadn’t just spent the last twenty laps clinging on for dear life.
One step down, Stefano fucking Moretti waved to the crowd screaming his name. He smirked like he hadn’t been gifted the spot. Like he’d fought for it instead of having it handed to him.
I tore off my gloves, jaw tight. It should’ve been mine.
Julian clapped a hand on my back as I yanked off my balaclava. “Hell of a drive.”
I wiped sweat from my face, barely registering the cameras flashing around me.
Someone gestured for me to head up to the podium. I grabbed a fresh cap and tried to force my body to relax before stepping onto the platform.
The crowd screamed. The cameras flashed. The Marina Bay skyline glittered behind the podium, the Singapore Flyer lit up like some massive reminder that this city never stopped shining. Even when you wanted it to.
Callaghan stood on the top step, drinking in the moment like he was born for it.
I took my place on the third step.
I clenched my fists, rolling out my shoulders.
Champagne bottles were shoved into our hands. I uncorked mine, half-arsed a spray, let the fizz soak into my fireproofs.
Stefano, of course, soaked up the moment like he’d actually fought for it. Played to the cameras, grinning, raising his trophy like he hadn’t coasted into P2 off a team order he didn’t deserve.
Julian would be fucking thrilled.
Callaghan, of course, milked it for all it was worth. But with the podium done, I could finally get the fuck away.
I stepped down, shoving past the cameras, heading toward the garages, toward anywhere that wasn’t here.
I’d taken no more than five steps when a hand grabbed my shoulder. I barely had time to turn before I was yanked back, spun around. A fist smashed into my jaw. My head snapped sideways and pain exploded through my skull. My water bottle hit the ground. Gasps ricocheted around the paddock.
Callaghan stood inches away, shaking with fury.
“What the fuck, man?” I spat blood onto the concrete.
His eyes blazed. Jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to throw another punch.
“You put your hands on my sister?” His voice was low, sharp. Deadly. “You actually had the audacity?”
I met his glare, wiped blood from my lip with the back of my hand.
Callaghan’s fists clenched, knuckles white, chest rising and falling like he was keeping himself from swinging again.
“You arrogant, lying piece of shit,” he bit out. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Did you think you could knock her up, and just walk away?”
The press exploded. Cameras surged forward, microphones shoved closer. Every journalist in a twenty-foot radius had just gotten the quote of the year.
Julian shoved between us, a hand on my chest, voice razor-sharp. “Not here.”
He gripped Callaghan’s arm, and Selene stepped into my space.
“You want to get fined?” Selene hissed under her breath, voice low and lethal. “Or worse, banned?”
Julian shoved Callaghan back, hard.
“Inside,” he said. No room for argument. No room for anything.
Aedris security stepped in, forming a wall between us and the press. The cameras still flashed, reporters still shouted, but Julian was already steering Callaghan toward the Aedris motorhome.
Selene’s fingers bit into my wrist, dragging me after them.
I yanked free with a glare. “I can walk, thanks.”
“Then do it before you hand the federation more ammunition,” she snapped.
The press kept shouting, but in seconds, the four of us were shoved into a small meeting room, the door slamming shut behind us.