Page 194 of My French Love Affair

She’ll be there today.

Watching.

And whether she realises it or not, I’ll be winning this race for her.

* * *

By the time I step into the garage, I’ve locked it all away.

The hunger for her. The distraction.

The fuckingneed.

Now, I am exactly what I need to be:

Frederic Moreau, the most ruthless driver on this grid.

Everything outside of this - outside of racing - is irrelevant.

The scent of burning rubber and petrol thickens the air, mingling with the sharp tang of engine oil. The mechanics move in a seamless rhythm around the car, their movements sharp, efficient. Just outside the garage, the grandstands are already packed, the roar of the crowd filtering through the concrete walls, a steady thrum of anticipation.

The sun glares down, baking the tarmac, the heat clinging to the back of my neck as I stride towards the car. The air is electric and tense, humming with expectation.

Thisis Monaco, the most legendary track on the calendar.

A place where precision is king, where the smallest mistake means disaster.

And I am here to conquer it.

This is what I do. This is who I am.

And I am going to fucking win.

I pull on my fireproofs, the fabric snug against my skin as I roll my shoulders, flexing my fingers. The engineers are gathered around the monitors, their faces flickering between focus and apprehension.

The data is everything. Every millisecond counts here - every adjustment, every calculation.

“Talk to me,” I say, my voice cutting through the low buzz of conversation.

Philip, one of my race engineers, barely glances away from the screen.

“The car’s looking solid. We made some changes to the suspension overnight - should help with the low-speed corners, but you’ll need to watch your entry into the chicane. Tires won’t be up to temperature in the first few laps.”

I nod, rolling my neck, easing the tension that’s settled there since the moment I woke up.

“I’ll manage.”

Philip sighs. “Try not to do anything reckless in FP1.”

I smirk, adjusting the cuff of my race suit.

“What’s life without a little risk?”

From the corner of my eye, I catch Matthieu watching me closely, arms crossed, brow slightly furrowed.

He knows me too well. Knows that I’medgierthan usual, that I’ve been pushing harder, sharper.

That I’ve been trying to shake something off.

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