Page 26 of My French Love Affair

He was the one who saw potential in me before anyone else. When I was a teenager busting my ass trying to break into this sport, it was Jacques who put me through hell on the track, who forced me into that sharp, merciless discipline.

My own family thought racing was a waste of time. My parents saw it as a hobby - something beneath our family name. Even now, after everything, they still keep their distance. They're still wary of how it reflects on the Moreau name, still not truly part of it.

My mother can’t even bring herself to watch me race -too terrified something might happen. That I'll injure myself, or worse.

But Jacques saw something else. He was the one who believed in me when no one else did.

And maybe that’s why I feel like I owe him, even now.

Even when I don’t like what he’s become.

“Ah - there he is!”

Jacques is already deep into his afternoon. Shirt unbuttoned, sunglasses on, a fresh drink in his hand. He’s lounging in one of the private booths inside, a long table in front of him covered in food, fresh fruit, and bottles of wine that arealready half-empty.

A couple of other guys are with him - some old acquaintances, others I don’t recognise. Most of them look like they belong to the kind of circles Jacques runs in now. The kind that moves from party to party, country to country, chasing the next high.

I sigh through my nose, pushing past my frustration.

“Didn’t think you’d still be alive by the time I got here.”

Jacques laughs, reaching over to clap a hand on my shoulder as I slide into the booth across from him.

“You wound me,mon frère,” he grins. “What, you think I can’t keep up anymore?”

“I think you’ll be dead before fifty if you keep living like this,” I mutter, reaching for the non-alcoholic cocktail already waiting for me on the table.

I have no intention of drinking today, but I also didn’t want to sit here nursing a fucking glass of water. It’s a mix of citrus and something tropical, and a little too sweet for my liking.

Jacques just laughs, stretching back into his seat, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.

“Always the responsible one,” he muses. “That’s the problem with you now. You used to be fun.”

I roll my eyes, taking another slow sip of my drink.

“I still win,” I say coolly. “That’s all that matters.”

His grin sharpens, but he doesn’t argue.

Because he knows I’m right.

Winning is everything in this sport. It’s what separates the greats from the ones who get forgotten. It’s what keeps your name at the top, what keepsyouat the top.

I know why Jacques pushes me to relax more, why he keeps trying to drag me into his world of indulgence. It's because he wants me to enjoy the things he never got to when he was in my shoes - and if I loosen up, then it justifies his choices.

But his career didn’t go the way he wanted. He neverwon.

Maybe, deep down, that’s part of why I let him pull me into shit like this.

Because no matter how far he falls, I still owe him.

I lean back, stretching out my legs, my mind already drifting.

I should be in the sim right now. I should be reviewing strategy, looking at last year’s telemetry, thinking about nothing but winning Monaco.

Instead, I’m here.Babysitting.

Jacques watches me over the rim of his glass.

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