Page 20 of My French Love Affair

This is what I live for.

I brake late.Toolate.

The rear snaps out, and instinct kicks in.

Fast hands. Quick correction. The moment costs me a tenth, but I hold it, and the car obeys.

Good.

"Bit too eager," Matthieu’s voice crackles through my earpiece, casual as ever.

"Noted," I mutter.

I don’t need casual observations. I needperfection.

The car dances between the barriers, centimeters away from disaster.

Kiss the apex at Rascasse. Nail the throttle at Anthony Noghes.

Rocket down the straight.

The checkered flag waves, and the leaderboard updates.

P1.

Damn right.

"Bring it in," Matthieu instructs.

The moment I roll into the simulated pit lane, the illusion shatters.

The speed -gone.

The deafening roar of the engine, the high-pitched whine of the turbo, the rhythmic crackle of the radio -silenced.

The visceral, gut-punching force of acceleration that shoves me back into my seat, the rush of G-forces twisting my body through the corners -vanished.

The danger -evaporated.

No risk of slamming into a barrier at 250 kilometers perhour, no walls closing in with every turn, no brutal, split-second consequences for the slightest mistake.

Instead - screens. Machinery. Artificial force feedback.

For now.

I exhale sharply, flexing my fingers against the wheel before releasing it, my body still thrumming with residual adrenaline. The simulation is good -toogood, almost. It mimics the weight shift, the grip loss, the perfect imperfection of the Monaco circuit.

But it isn’t real.

The car isn’t really under me. The track isn’t really beneath my tires.

I can’t feel the heat from the asphalt, the texture of the curbs, the way the air density changes at full throttle down the straight. I can’t hear the real engine screaming behind me, can’t feel the vibrations coursing through the chassis, can’t sense the real,livingmachine responding to my every command.

I rip off my gloves, rubbing at my wrists, the ghost of the steering wheel still imprinted in my palms. My fingers flex from the grip as I roll my shoulders back before tugging at the Velcro of my harness, ripping it free before pulling off my helmet, sweat cooling instantly against my skin.

The real thing?

That’s in ten days.

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