Page 245 of My French Love Affair

Of course she does.

I can picture her now, sitting up in VIP, champagne in hand, wearing the dress I picked out for her, watchingme, cheering forme, betting onme.

Fuckingintoxicating.

I type out a quick reply.

You bet on me? Smart girl.

I send it, pocket my phone, and push the distraction away.

Right now, there’s only one thing that matters.

Winning.

* * *

“Five minutes until formation lap.”

The call crackles over the team radio as I step into the garage.

Mechanics are making their final checks: rear wing adjustments, last-minute tweaks on tire pressures, radios buzzing with last-second strategy confirmations.

I move towards the car, my heartbeat steady, my mind locked in.

The helmet is placed into my hands, and I lower it onto my head, the world around me muffling as the padding seals me in.

A deep breath.

I slide into the cockpit, feeling the familiar embrace of the machine around me, the seat molded perfectly to my body.

Straps tighten. Hands on the wheel. Fingers flex.

I toggle the radio. “Radio check.”

"Copy, loud and clear," Matthieu replies. "Final thoughts?”

I exhale, rolling my neck. "Let’s bring it home."

"That’s what I like to hear. Get ready for the formation lap."

Engines roar around me as the grid begins to form.

I look up at the grandstands; at the thousands of fans, at thegleaming yachts lined up along the harbour.

And then, just before my visor lowers - just before I shut out the world - my eyes flick up towards the VIP balcony.

Iknowshe’s up there.

And fuck, I hope she’s watching.

Because this race, this win -

It’s going to be forher.

* * *

Everything outside the car ceases to exist.

---