Chapter 5 Anything else

~Valentina~

His jaw tightened. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he nodded once.

"Anything else?"

"Yes. If you think I'm making a mistake, explain it. Don't bark orders at me and expect me to obey just because you've won three championships."

"Four."

I blinked. "What?"

"I've won four world championships."

I stared at him. He stared back. Then it came to me: three consecutive titles with Blackthorn, and one earlier with his previous team. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Instead, I lifted my coffee and took another sip.

"Congratulations. You must be very proud."

"Extremely."

"Wonderful. Perhaps you can teach me how to count your trophies while we're at it."

His smile vanished, but something in his eyes suggested he was enjoying this far more than he should.

"Get in the car, Cross."

There it was, the first command of the morning. I set my coffee down on the workbench.

"Ask nicely."

"Please get in the car, Valentina."

My fingers went still. He had said my name. Not Cross, not the woman he'd been assigned to train. Valentina.

For one ridiculous second I was twenty-two again, standing in the rain outside a paddock while Joe held his jacket over both our heads because neither of us had thought to bring an umbrella. Then the memory slipped away.

I climbed into the car and the cockpit closed around me, familiar and reassuring. I adjusted the seat, checked the pedals, and fastened my harness while an engineer came over to confirm the setup. Joe headed up to the observation area beside the track, where he could monitor me through the telemetry system. A moment later, his voice came through my headset.

"Can you hear me?"

"Unfortunately."

"Excellent. Let's start with a few installation laps."

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. "You're aware I've been racing for years, right?"

"I'm aware."

"Then why are we starting with installation laps?"

"Because I want to see how you drive this car before you start trying to prove something."

My stomach tightened. I stared at the track ahead. "I don't have anything to prove."

"Then you won't mind taking it easy for the first few laps."

I hated him. I genuinely hated him.

"Copy that."

I eased the car out of the garage. The engine roared to life, vibrating through the seat and into my bones. For the first time in three years, I was back in a machine that belonged to a championship team, and my hands stopped shaking. My breathing settled. The world narrowed to the track.

The first lap was cautious. I checked the brakes, tested the steering response, and paid attention to how the car behaved through the corners. On the second lap I pushed a little harder, and by the third the familiar rhythm had taken over.

Brake. Turn. Accelerate. Breathe.

The car responded beautifully. I could almost forget Joe was watching.

Almost.

"Your entry into the third corner was too aggressive," he said.

"My entry was fine."

"You carried too much speed."

"I made the corner."

"That isn't the same thing as making it well."

I gritted my teeth, and on the next lap I attacked the corner harder. The car swept through, tyres gripping the asphalt as I accelerated out.

"There," I said. "Happy?"

"No."

I laughed in disbelief. "Of course not."

"You corrected your line halfway through the turn."

"Because I was adjusting to the car."

"You were adjusting to my criticism."

I opened my mouth, then closed it, then muttered a word that would have earned me a lecture from my English teacher.

His voice came back, maddeningly calm. "Your next lap is going to be slower."

"Would you like to bet on that?"

"No."

"Afraid I'll win?"

"Afraid you'll confuse proving a point with improving your driving."

I pressed my foot harder against the accelerator and the car surged forward.

For the next two laps, I gave him exactly what he wanted, or at least what I thought he wanted. I experimented with different braking points, paid closer attention to the car's response, and made myself stop treating every correction like a personal attack. It was infuriating. It was also working. By the sixth lap my times had grown more consistent, by the seventh I'd shaved several tenths off my previous best, and by the eighth I was beginning to understand why Blackthorn had insisted on assigning Joe to me.

The man knew what he was doing. That didn't mean I had to like him.

"Better," he said.

I smiled despite myself, then stopped immediately. I wasn't here for his approval. I was here to become the best driver on the grid.

"Your braking point into the final corner is still inconsistent," he went on.

My smile vanished. "Do you ever say anything nice?"

"When you give me a reason."

"I just improved my lap time."

"By four tenths."

"Four tenths is an improvement."

"Yes. And you could have made it six."

I let out a disbelieving laugh. "Do you hear yourself?"

"Constantly. It's one of my least favourite things about myself."

I almost laughed again. Almost.

Then his voice changed. "Valentina, slow down."

I frowned. "What?"

"Your next lap is a cooldown lap."

I glanced at the dashboard. The car was responding normally, the steering felt steady, and the brakes had behaved perfectly on the previous lap.

"I've got another fast lap in me."

"I didn't ask whether you had another fast lap in you."

I rolled my eyes. "You're not the boss of me."

"No. I'm the person responsible for keeping you from making stupid decisions when you're angry."

"I'm not angry."

"You're pushing too hard."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Valentina—"

I pressed the accelerator, and the car shot down the straight.

For a few glorious seconds, the noise drowned out everything else. The track opened ahead of me, and the old hunger returned: the need to go faster, to be better, to prove that no amount of pain or time away could take the one thing that had always belonged to me.

Then I reached the final corner and hit the brakes.

Nothing happened. For half a second, my mind refused to understand what I was feeling. I pressed harder. The pedal sank beneath my foot, and the car didn't slow. My heart slammed against my ribs.

"Brake failure!" I shouted.

Joe's voice exploded through the headset. "Valentina, take the escape route! Don't turn into the corner!"

I wrenched the wheel toward the escape lane. The car skidded, tyres screaming against the asphalt, and I fought to keep it straight as the barriers rushed toward me.

For one terrible instant, I was no longer at Blackthorn. I was three years younger, trapped in a car that refused to obey me. I could hear the collision before it happened, feel the impact, taste the blood in my mouth. I remembered the unbearable pressure in my leg and the desperate, useless attempt to move it.

No. Not again.

The car struck the gravel, bounced violently, and finally ground to a halt several metres from the barrier.

Silence.

I sat frozen, staring through the windscreen. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely release the wheel.

"Valentina!" Joe's voice crackled through the headset. "Valentina, answer me!"

I couldn't. My throat had closed, and my lungs refused to work. All I could see was the barrier ahead, the same kind of barrier that had ended the career I'd spent my whole life building.

"Valentina, can you hear me?"

I forced air into my lungs.