Page 247 of My French Love Affair

I exhale sharply, barely allowing myself to register the satisfaction.

Now?

Now, the real work begins.

* * *

Monaco is a bastard to overtake on. Track position is king.

Which means the next phase of this race is about tire management, patience, and precision.

Every lap, every braking zone, I’m calculating, making micro-adjustments.

Turn 3, Massenet, is where I feel the rear start to slide a little. The degradation is coming.

"Box, box."

I dive into the pit lane, hitting the limiter perfectly. The crew is waiting - surgical, precise and lethal.

I hit my marks.

2.3 seconds.

The front jacks drop, and I launch back onto the track, rejoining in clean air -

Exactly as planned.

Now, I push.

I light up the new hard tires, building temperature into them through the tight Monaco streets.

The pit wall updates me. The guy I overtook is still out. Histeam is trying to overcut me.

Not a fucking chance.

I hammer out three consecutive fastest laps. Purple sectors everywhere.

By the time he pits, I’m already six seconds clear.

Game. Set.Match.

But it’s not over yet.

The worst part of Monaco -traffic.

Lapped cars ahead. Blue flags come fast, but it only takes one slow move to kill a lead.

I come up behind a Williams at the Swimming Pool chicane.

He hesitates.

"Blue flag, blue flag!" my race engineer yells in my ear.

I jink right, committing to an impossible gap.

Ijustmake it.

My tires are screaming. My body is screaming.

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