CHAPTER 4

The main briefings room smelled of cold coffee, dry-erase marker, and ozone. On the wall-mounted screens lining the far side of the room, neon telemetry squiggles—red for my chassis, icy blue for Julian’s—lay overlapping like jagged razor wire.

"Look at Sector Three," Victor Sterling said, standing at the head of the polished oak table, his heavy silver pen clicking rhythmically against his knuckles. He pointed a red laser dot at the display, tracking where the blue line surged ahead. "Julian is opening the throttle two meters before the apex on Turn 14. Maya, you’re feathering it. You’re floating into the corner instead of driving through it."

"I'm floating because the rear downforce drops when the ground-effect tunnel bottoms out over the curb," I said, leaning across the table with my palms flat against the cool glass. "I told Frank during the morning debrief to adjust the rear ride height."

"And if we raise it, you sacrifice your top-end speed down the Hangar Straight," Julian’s voice cut in from the far end of the room.

He was leaning back in his leather chair, his long legs stretched out under the desk, his hands clasped loosely over his chest. He wasn't even looking at the telemetry screens. His sharp, unreadable eyes were locked entirely on me.

"Which means Damon Cross breezes past you on DRS before you even reach the braking zone," Julian added calmly.

"I can hold Damon off through the technical chicanes," I shot back, turning my glare directly toward him.

"You can't hold off a machine that’s ten kilometers an hour faster on a straight line, Maya," Julian said, his baritone filling the room as he stood up. "Leave the setup alone. Control the snap with your steering input, not your throttle."

"Easy for you to say," I muttered under my breath, though the quiet room caught every word. "Your wrist wasn't rebuilt with titanium screws."

A heavy, awkward silence descended over the table. Frank looked down at his clipboard, and Sterling’s mouth tightened into a thin, merciless line.

"Your physical condition is your responsibility, Miss Vance," Sterling said, locking his briefcase with a sharp snap. "The setup stands as Thorne recommends it. You have night practice at nine. I expect to see those telemetry lines matching by morning."

Sterling walked out, taking the rest of the engineering staff with him. Within moments, the room emptied, leaving only the hum of the air conditioning unit and the bright neon glow of the monitors.

I slammed my notebook shut, grabbing my water bottle to leave, but Julian moved with terrifying efficiency. Before I could reach the threshold, he stepped straight into my path and engaged the heavy timber door's lock with a soft, decisive click.

"What are you doing?" I snapped, taking a sharp step back. "Practice starts in two hours."

"We're not waiting for practice," Julian said smoothly. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of black suede driving gloves, and tossed them onto the table beside my bag. "Put them on."

"Julian—"

"Put them on, Maya." He walked over to the corner of the suite where the team’s multi-million-dollar motion simulator sat—a carbon-fiber cockpit mounted on heavy hydraulic legs, wrapped inside a massive curved projection screen. "You want to prove to Sterling that you don't need my input? Show me on the sim."

I gritted my teeth, my pride refusing to let me back down. I pulled the gloves over my hands, climbed into the narrow simulator chassis, and pulled the steering wheel down until it locked into the steering column with a heavy metallic clack.

The triple screens flickered to life, rendering the dark, rain-slicked tarmac of Silverstone under artificial night floodlights.

"Full wet conditions," Julian’s voice came through my headset as he operated the control console beside the cockpit. "Turn 14. The corner where your suspension failed two years ago. I've programmed the exact track temperature, rain volume, and tire degradation from that night."

My breath hitched in my chest. The temperature in the room felt as though it had dropped twenty degrees. My left wrist began to ache—a ghost pain radiating straight through the healed bone.

"You're sadistic," I whispered, staring at the virtual track shimmering on the screen ahead. "You know what happened on that lap."

"Run the lap, Maya," Julian commanded coldly.

I slammed my foot onto the throttle. The hydraulic rig bucked violently, throwing my body forward as the virtual car launched down the straight. Rain blurred across the digital windscreen in heavy sheets. Turn 14 was fast approaching—a sweeping, terrifying right-hander surrounded by unforgiving concrete barriers.

My heart rate hammered in my ears.

I hit the brakes. The steering wheel kicked violently in my grip as the simulated rear end lost traction. Fear—raw, instinctual terror—surged through my veins. I lifted off the throttle completely, my brain screaming at me to brace for impact.

The car spun wildly out of control, slamming into the virtual barrier with a deafening audio crash that vibrated right through the motion rig.

Silence filled the room. The screens flashed bright red: [CRASH DETECTED – SESSION TERMINATED]

I sat there, my hands trembling against the suede steering wheel, my chest heaving as tears of absolute frustration burned the back of my eyes. The trauma was still there, sitting in the cockpit right alongside me.

The simulator canopy hissed open.

Julian didn't mock me. He didn't drop a condescending lecture. Instead, he unclipped my four-point harness, reached into the carbon shell, and lifted me out of the seat with effortless strength.

"Put me down," I choked out, trying to pull away, but his grip was unyielding. He sat down on the edge of the leather operator bench and pulled me down between his knees, trapping me within the warm, solid enclosure of his body.

"Look at the data screen, Maya," Julian ordered softly, his voice echoing right against my ear.

He reached around my waist, his broad chest pressed flush against my back, and guided both of my gloved hands back toward the telemetry display. He slid his fingers down my left arm, wrapping his warm hand firmly over my scarred wrist.

"You lifted off the throttle completely the moment you felt the rear slide," Julian whispered, his thumb pressing lightly into the tight muscle of my forearm, working through the tension that had locked my arm rigid. "When you lift, the weight shifts forward, the rear loses downforce entirely, and you spin. It wasn't just the rain that broke your momentum two years ago. It was your instinct to pull back when the car demanded more throttle."

"I was trapped in a burning wreck, Julian," I said, my voice trembling as a single tear escaped down my cheek. "I felt the heat through my suit."

"I know," he murmured, his voice dropping into a rough, painful register that made my chest ache.

He turned my arm over, pulling my left glove off with his teeth, and pressed his warm lips directly over the jagged scar on my inner wrist.

An electric surge shot straight up my arm, settling low in my stomach. I gasped, my head falling back against his shoulder.

"I won't let you burn again," Julian growled softly against my skin. His mouth tracked up from my wrist, tracing the sensitive skin of my inner arm to the curve of my shoulder. His hand slipped beneath the hem of my team shirt, his warm, calloused palm resting against my ribs, feeling the frantic, uncalibrated rhythm of my heart. "But you have to trust the machine. You have to let me show you how to master the rear end."

His breath burned hot against my jawline. I turned my head slightly, my lips hovering millimeters from his. The air between us was charged with a sudden, suffocating heat that made my heart race for an entirely different reason.

"Why?" I breathed, my fingers gripping the fabric of his jeans. "Why are you doing all of this?"

Julian’s icy-blue eyes darkened into a stormy twilight. His hand on my waist tightened, pulling me impossibly closer until I could feel the rigid, unyielding line of his body against mine.

"Because if you're not on this grid, Maya," Julian whispered, his thumb slowly tracing the line of my lower lip, "I have no one left worth beating."

He leaned down, his mouth brushing mine in an agonizingly slow touch that sent a shockwave through every nerve in my body.

The loud, shrill alarm on the telemetry console suddenly blasted through the room, signaling the ten-minute mark before the official track pit lane opened for night practice.

Julian pulled back slowly, his dark eyes burning into mine for one long, silent second before he released my waist. I stood up on unsteady legs, my cheeks flushed and my pulse racing.

Julian stood, adjusting his cuffs, his cold, disciplined mask sliding seamlessly back over his features as if the heat between us had never existed.

"Pit lane opens in ten minutes, Vance," Julian said, his voice entirely level as he picked up his headset. "Let's see if you can hold the line on real tarmac."

I grabbed my bag, my fingers trembling slightly as I pulled on my jacket. Julian’s mouth on my scar had left a trail of heat that seemed to seep deeper than bone, melting away the bitter wall I had spent two years building.

He pulled my glove off with his teeth.

The memory burned in my mind, far louder than the roar of the engines already warming up down in the pit lane. He wanted me to trust him. He wanted me to hand over my instincts, my fear, and my setup to his calculation. But even as my pulse throbbed from the ghost of his mouth against my skin, the dark anomaly in his record loomed between us like a wall of concrete.

If he cared so deeply about my survival, why was the telemetry file from that very lap—Packet 21:04—locked behind his private encryption?

I stepped out into the damp, chill air of the paddock walkway. The night sky above Silverstone was dark, punctuated by the towering stadium floodlights that turned the asphalt into a gleaming silver ribbon. Pit crews in bright fire suits scurried back and forth, dragging tire stacks and diagnostic carts.

As I made my way toward the Apex garage, a shadowy figure stepped out from behind the Veloce transport rig.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost, Maya."

I paused, turning to face Damon Cross. He was already suited up in his sleek silver Veloce kit, his helmet resting against his hip. Under the harsh halogen lights, his sharp features were shadowed, but his dark eyes were intensely focused on me.

"Just preparing for night practice, Damon," I said, holding my voice steady. "You should be in your garage."

Damon took two slow, deliberate steps toward me, stopping just short of my personal space. "I saw you step into the simulator suite with Thorne an hour ago. And I saw the door lock." His eyes narrowed, scanning my flushed face and the slight tightness in my posture. "He’s getting in your head, isn't he?"

"Julian is analyzing my telemetry," I replied defensively, hating how quick I was to erect a barrier.

Damon let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Is that what he calls it? Maya, listen to me. Julian Thorne doesn't share anything—not telemetry, not glory, and certainly not control. He’s feeding you just enough guidance to keep you dependent on him, but he’ll never let you outpace him."

"I don't need your protection either, Damon," I said, my voice hardening. "I can handle Julian."

"Can you?" Damon asked softly, taking another step closer. He reached into the inner pocket of his team jacket and pulled out a small, metallic silver flash drive. He held it out between us, the metallic casing glinting under the lights. "Because while you're letting him play savior in the simulator, he’s actively keeping you in the dark about what really happened two years ago."

My blood ran cold. My eyes snapped from the flash drive to Damon’s face. "What is that?"

"It’s an encrypted trace of the pit wall communications from the night of your crash," Damon murmured, his tone dropping into a dangerous whisper. "Apex erased it from the official FIA archive. But Veloce keeps meticulous records."

My heart pounded violently against my ribs. "Why are you giving this to me?"

"Because I want a fair fight," Damon said, his eyes locking onto mine with undeniable sincerity. "And you can't fight a man when he’s holding the map to your past. Take it. Look at the time stamp at 21:04. Then ask your 'coach' why his radio went completely dead thirty seconds before your rear wing failed."

He slid the flash drive into the open pocket of my jacket, his fingers brushing gently against my hip before he stepped back into the shadows of the compound.

"See you on the grid, Maya," Damon called softly, turning and disappearing into the Veloce garage.

I stood frozen under the glare of the pit lights, my hand plunging into my pocket until my fingers wrapped around the cold, sharp edges of the drive.

Packet 21:04.

The exact file Julian had locked down in the team database.

Down in the Apex garage, the twin-turbo V6 screamed to life, shaking the concrete beneath my boots. I looked toward the pit box where Car 01 sat waiting, Julian’s dark helmet already visible inside the cockpit.

He had promised to teach me how to master the rear end. He had sworn he wouldn't let me burn again. But as I clutched the secret in my pocket, I realized the real danger wasn't losing control on Turn 14.

The real danger was that the man teaching me how to drive was the same man who had helped extinguish my light two years ago.