Page 199 of My French Love Affair

I know next to nothing about car races, but what Idoknow is that this isn’t even the official qualifying session.

And yet everyone around me is completely locked in, conversations dropping to hushed murmurs and their eyes fixed onto the screens and on the track below.

Leah and Emma are still whispering between themselves, but I can’t focus.

Not when he’sright there.

Down in the Mercedes garage, standing beside his car with a helmet in one hand and listening intently as an engineer speaks to him.

He’s still in the same black race suit, although it’s zipped up properly now, the logo bold across his chest with every sponsorship patch meticulously stitched into the fabric.

I barely recognise him like this.

He seems so…Serious. So calculated.

Untouchable, even.

Then - movement.

I watch intently as he lowers the helmet over his head, and in a single, smooth motion, he’s gone.

The moment the visor snaps shut, I feel it: the complete transformation.

Frederic Moreau,the man, disappears.

Frederic Moreau,the driver, takes his place.

And then, he gets in the car.

A ripple of anticipation spreads through the suite as his car rolls out of the garage, slotting into position behind another vehicle. Around us, the screens flicker, shifting to display live footage from onboard cameras - one mounted just behind his helmet, another showing the full view of the track ahead.

I swallow hard.

Holy shit. This isreal.

A voice crackles over the speakers - one of the commentators providing updates as cars begin their first test runs, tires screeching against the tarmac as they weave out of the pit lane, slotting into position on the track.

The roar of engines vibrates through the suite, a thunderous, deafening sound, even through the thick glass. Cars streak past, flashes of color and movement. The speed is close to terrifying, and my heart is practically in my throat as my eyes flicker; watching the track through the glass and the many screens.

And then-

Him.

His black-and-silver Mercedes darts into view, moving with effortless precision, gliding around a corner so fast my stomach flips.

My eyes flick to the screen, catching the onboard view: Frederic’s helmet barely shifting as he navigates the turn, completely still, completely composed, like he’s hardwired into the car itself.

I can’t explain it, but Ifeelit.

The sheer power of it all.

The way the car responds to his every movement, the way he slots into a turn so perfectly it looks like the laws of physics don’t apply to him.

The way that, even at ridiculous speeds, even as he weaves through the tight Monaco circuit, he looks like he’s barely trying.

The lap times start appearing on the screen, each driver setting their first benchmark. Frederic’s name flickers into place -top three- and I barely stop myself from smiling.

I turn my attention back out of the large windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, when -

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