Page 74 of My French Love Affair

The caralmoststicks.

Better. Not perfect. But better.

I exit the corner and gun it towards Portier, the tunnel ahead swallowing me whole.

"Good exit. Don’t overcommit into Nouvelle Chicane."

Matthieu’s voice filters through my headset again, more relaxed this time.

"That was cleaner. Still a fraction down on Charles in sector two, but we can work with that."

I don’t want to ‘work with that’. I want to erase it.

"Again," I demand, my voice steady.

"Frederic, I -"

"I don’t care if I have to run it all fucking day," I snap, throwing the car into the next turn. "I want perfection."

A pause. Then, finally -

"Copy. Resetting the sim."

I roll my neck, breathing deep.

No distractions.

No mistakes.

Only victory.

* **

I’ve spent most of the day in the simulator, running lap after lap, refining my lines, chasing down fractions of a second with the kind of relentless precision that borders on obsession.

That’s where my focus belongs. That’s where Iwantto be.

Not here, sitting in front of a backdrop plastered with sponsor logos, forced to engage in a dance of well-rehearsed answers and carefully crafted smiles.

Unfortunately, though, this is part of it. And media duties are the absoluteworstpart of this job.

The microphone gets clipped onto my race suit, the cameras are adjusted, and then I’m left sitting across from the journalist assigned to interview me today.

I don’t recognise her.

Dark pin-straight hair, light blue eyes, perfectly manicured nails wrapped around the recording device in her hand. Her dress is professional but tight in a way that makes it clear she wants it to be noticed.

She’s pretty.Objectively.

And she knows it.

Her lips curve into a small smile as she leans forward, angling her body just slightly towards mine.

"Frederic Moreau," she says, her tone easy, confident. "The man of the hour."

I force a polite smirk. "That’s what they tell me."

She lets out a soft, lilting laugh, and I already know how this interview is going to go.

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