Page 14 of Formula Dreams
“Stop calling me Frankie,” I mutter, even though I know he’s doing it to take my misery off the race.“I didn’t do whatIasked ofmyself.”
Carlos looks over at me then, his expression thoughtful.“Francesca, this sport isn’t about one race.It’s not even about one season.It’s about learning and adjusting.Every lap, every call, every moment.You think Nash won today because he’s faster than everyone?”
I raise a brow.“Don’t you dare tell me it was luck.”
“No.Experience.That guy’s been through every kind of scenario and mistake.He didn’t just show up like this.Trust me… you’ll get there.”
I look back at the podium.Ronan’s uncorking his champagne but he’s not smiling the way Nash and Lex are.I wonder if he even cares that he’s on the podium, or maybe he’s already thinking about the next race.
I hate that he’s good.I hate that I care.But mostly, I hate that I wanted more—and didn’t get it.
Carlos nudges my elbow gently.“Come on.I guarantee your debrief will give you good insight.I can also guarantee everyone is going to be happy with your performance.”
I appreciate Carlos’s words and then it hits me with a wave of guilt.Carlos finished in the points, and I didn’t even bother to congratulate him.
“P5,” I say, bumping my shoulder into his.“You had a hell of a drive and I should have said congrats before I dumped on you.”
He shrugs, but I catch the flicker of pride he tries to hide.“Could’ve been worse.”
I turn toward him, sincere.“I mean it, Carlos.You were brilliant out there.And I’m really proud of you.”
“Thanks,chica.”
I hesitate.“And thank you—for having my back.Not just today.You’ve always been a good friend, but this?Being in my corner like this?”My voice dips.“It means more than you know.I won’t forget it.”
Carlos gives me a look that says I never have to ask for his support.“Always,” he says simply.Then, “But if you do forget, I’ll remind you to stop being a big baby and put your focus on the next race.”
A laugh escapes me, watery but real.“Deal.”
Not the debut I imagined.
But not the end either.
CHAPTER 5
Ronan
The wheels onmy Aston Martin Valour haven’t even come to a complete stop on the gravel driveway before I regret coming to see her.
I kill the engine and sit there a moment longer, eyes pinned on the oversized front door of the manor house where my mother lives when she’s not in rehab.My father moved her to Woking when I signed with Crown Velocity as their headquarters are located here.It ensured she’d be close enough that I could check in on her but far enough from London that my father never will.Back in the city, he can keep his mistress who’s half his age.The irony is he doesn’t care who knows about her but fears a scandal if he divorces my mother.Instead, I think he rather likes her staying drunk or high because she stays out of his hair.If he were truthful, he’d say, “It’s the cost of doing business.”
And besides… he has a son who will come along and pick up the pieces of her broken life.
The engine ticks as it cools and I’d love nothing more than to start it again and drive the hell out of here.This car is only one out of a hundred and ten made in the world—bespoke paintwork, carbon fiber trim, and a naturally aspirated V12 that sounds like war when unleashed.A symbol of my success.
My father called it juvenile indulgence, even though I didn’t pay a dime for it.Fast luxury cars are a perk at Crown Velocity and I’ll have a different one next year as part of my performance package.Even if they didn’t give me a fancy car, I’d have bought one for myself.I can afford a hundred of them with the twenty million dollars a year I get paid, not including bonuses.
People outside the racing world often can’t understand that type of salary for driving a car around a track, but when you think about it… there are only twenty people in the world who can do what I do.Ten teams, two drivers per.Only twenty slots to perform a job that could leave me maimed or dead.Some days I think my salary isn’t nearly enough.
I get out and the car door closes with a hushed, mechanical click.Gravel shifts under my boots as I walk toward the house.The morning is mild, pale light filtering through the thin English clouds, and I’m exhausted, having just flown in from Suzuka.I want nothing more than a hot shower and a long nap, but I have things to deal with first.
Most drivers live in Monaco.Tax havens and penthouses with views of nothing but water.However, I prefer to keep my primary residence in London because I like the city and the nightlife.When I need to be at Crown HQ for work, I stay here at my mother’s estate in a separate wing—it provides an added buffer.
The house looms ahead, three stories of Georgian stone and window boxes that garden staff keep filled with seasonally appropriate greenery.No one greets me when I let myself in and I’m hit with the scent of lilies and lemon polish.The front hall practically sparkles—gleaming floors, fresh flowers in a massive vase, and expensive artwork on the walls.But the deeper in I go, the more the cracks show.
A water ring stains the mahogany end table where she left a drink sweating overnight.Makeup smears the edge of an antique armchair.The air smells faintly of perfume and something stale beneath it—perhaps cigarettes?
The house is pristine where the staff have cleaned, and quietly decaying everywhere Vivienne Barnes lays her hands.Artificial calm over decay.
