29

Marianna.

The tension in the paddock is almost unbearable. Oliver has climbed to P10—points position, which apparently means something very important based on the way the Alpine team members keep clutching each other like they're watching the birth of a child.

Duane is still leading. Has been leading for 66 laps straight, with a gap that fluctuates between three and five seconds depending on how hard the second-place Ferrari pushes. He's driving a masterclass. Even I can see that, and I barely understand the sport.

My nails are completely destroyed at this point. Little bloody half-moons where I've bitten too deep. Professional. Very professional.

"Come on, Ollie," I whisper. Nobody can hear me over the engines, over the crowd, over the blood pounding in my ears. "Come on, come on, come on—"

The cars snake through the final corners. Through the tunnel, the darkness swallowing them before they burst back into Mediterranean sunlight. Around the hairpin one last time. Down the straight toward the checkered flag.

P1: RICHTER P2: LECLERC P3: VERSTAPPEN ... P10: HALE

"YES!" The scream tears out of me before I can stop it. "YES! YES!"

Oliver Hale. P10. Points.

The hospitality area explodes. People are hugging, crying, spraying champagne—when did someone get champagne?—and I'm caught in the middle of it all, laughing and cheering for a driver I've known for exactly one week.

His first points of the season.

I helped make this happen. My hands on his back, working out the knots, keeping his body in racing condition. It's a small contribution—tiny, really, compared to everything else that goes into a Formula 1 weekend—but it's mine.

I did something. I mattered.

The feeling is... I don't have words for it. Like sunshine after weeks of rain. Like taking a full breath for the first time after being underwater.

The post-race chaos is a blur.

Interviews, debriefs, technical checks—apparently there's a whole protocol for finishing a Grand Prix, and I understand approximately none of it. I hover at the edges of the Alpine hospitality area, trying to look like I belong while also trying to stay out of everyone's way.

On one of the screens mounted around the room, I watch the podium ceremony.

Duane stands on the top step. He doesn't smile—of course he doesn't, because his face apparently lacks the necessary muscles—but there's something in his posture. A looseness that wasn't there before. The satisfaction of a job well done, even if he won't let himself show it.

The champagne sprays. The anthem plays. Cameras flash from every direction.

He's beautiful up there. Untouchable. Everything I'll never be.

I look away.

"Marianna!"

Oliver appears through the crowd like a golden retriever who's just discovered the location of all the tennis balls in the universe. He's still in his racing suit, sweat-damp and grinning so wide it must hurt, and before I can process what's happening, he's swept me into a hug that lifts my feet off the ground.

"We did it!" He's practically vibrating with joy. "First points! First bloody points of the whole season!"

"You did it," I correct, laughing despite myself. "I just pushed on your back muscles."

"You did so much more than that." He sets me down but doesn't let go entirely, his hands resting on my shoulders. "Seriously, Marianna. My back hasn't felt this good since... I don't even know when. You're magic."

"I'm not magic. I'm just—"

He kisses my forehead.

Just like that. No warning, no buildup. His lips press against my skin for exactly two seconds—warm, dry, affectionate in a way that feels more brotherly than romantic—and then he's pulling back, still grinning, apparently unaware that he's just short-circuited my entire nervous system.

"Thank you," he says. "For being my good luck charm."

I can't speak.

My brain has left the building. Closed for maintenance. Please try again later.

Oliver Hale just kissed me on the forehead in the middle of the Monaco Grand Prix paddock and called me his good luck charm, and I don't know what any of it means or how to feel about it or—

And then I see him.

Across the hospitality area. Through the crowd of team members and sponsors and hangers-on.

Duane.

Still in his racing suit, winner's trophy presumably somewhere nearby, dark eyes fixed on the exact spot where Oliver's lips just touched my skin.

He's not moving. Not speaking. Just... watching. With an expression I can't read from this distance.

Our eyes meet.

The noise of the crowd fades. The celebration around me dissolves into static. There's just him. Just those dark eyes that saw everything. That watched another man's mouth on my forehead. That—

Oliver says something. I don't hear it. I'm too busy drowning in whatever is happening across this room, this electric current that spans the space between us and makes my lungs forget how to function.

Duane's jaw tightens.

And then he turns away.

Walks into the crowd.

Disappears.

"Marianna?" Oliver's voice breaks through. "You alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I force my eyes back to him. Force my mouth into something approximating a smile.

"Fine," I lie. "Just... overwhelmed. A lot to take in."

"Yeah, Monaco will do that to you." He squeezes my shoulder. "Come on, let's get some champagne. You look like you need it."

I follow him toward the bar.

But some part of me is still standing in that spot.