Page 25 of Formula Freedom (Race Fever #3)

Lara

I t’s not that I didn’t like Monaco—it was lovely and quite opulent.

But if I had to pick between it and Zurich, this beautiful city wins hands down.

I pressed my face to the passenger-side window watching everything go by as we drove to Reid’s apartment.

The streets are charmingly cobbled, the buildings timeless but not showy, and everything moves at a quieter pace.

It’s like this city has nothing to prove and for whatever reason, I’m more grounded, more peaceful, more home .

The people are different too. In Monaco, everyone looked like they were ready for a magazine cover—glamorous, styled, always performing for the next photo or VIP invitation.

Here in Zurich, it’s simpler. The elegance is quieter.

People walk to work with fresh flowers tucked under their arms or stop at cafés in wool coats and worn leather shoes.

They’re not trying to be seen—they just are , and that appeals to me very much.

“From my apartment balcony,” Reid says as we enter his building, “you can see the Limmat River and beyond that, the Alps, but only on clear days.”

His tone is one of excitement and connection, which tells me he likes Zurich better too.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from Reid’s home, but when we step inside, I stop just past the doorway.

The apartment is nothing like the sleek, modern edges of Monaco.

It’s old-world beautiful—high ceilings with exposed beams, hardwood floors aged to a deep walnut, arched doorways trimmed with carved moldings.

A wall of arched windows overlooks the city.

Between the rooftops, I can see the Limmat River, the thick window glass framed by gauzy linen drapes.

Bookcases flank the living room fireplace, the shelves filled with everything from technical racing manuals to weathered paperbacks.

A worn leather chair is draped with a Matterhorn hoodie.

A half-finished puzzle occupies a portion of the dining table.

There’s a motorcycle helmet on a sideboard and a single clean coffee mug resting near a drip coffee pot.

This isn’t the polished display of Monaco.

It’s lived-in and is more like Reid than Monaco could ever be.

I’m immediately comfortable.

“What do you think?” he asks, wheeling our suitcases to the bedroom.

“I love it,” I say honestly. “It’s… real.”

He shoots me a smile over his shoulder, setting our bags just inside the door. “Glad you approve. I definitely prefer Zurich to Monaco, but honestly the tax benefits are too good to give up my place there.”

I wander into the kitchen, stroking my hand along the granite countertops along the way. I peek in the fridge, open a cabinet and stop short. “Is that… my tea?”

Reid leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, smiling at me. “Yeah. I had someone stock a few things to make you more at home. Your tea, Tim Tams, that granola you like. I’m pretty sure you’ll find your weird dairy-free yogurt too.”

“You had someone? Who someone?”

Reid shrugs, dropping his arm. “An assistant who helps out doing mundane things I don’t have time to do. She’ll do shopping, run errands… stuff like that, which is helpful as much as we travel. Gunner uses her too.”

I blink. “That’s either thoughtful or mildly terrifying.”

“Call it both.” He laughs, an unguarded grin lighting up his face—the one that makes him look less like the man who races at breakneck speeds and more like the boy who once built sandcastles beside me. “Let’s grab dinner and walk around.”

?

I’m enchanted as we wander through the quiet beauty of Zurich’s Old Town.

The last traces of daylight have slipped behind the rooftops, and the city glows with a softer light.

Gold hues spill from windows, streetlamps flicker to life above cobblestone alleys, and the sky deepens into a velvet blue.

Dinner is cozy—fondue and crisp white wine in a tucked-away bistro where surprisingly, no one looks at Reid twice.

Either he’s just not recognized tonight, or he is and no one cares to bother him.

It’s like a different version of us compared to the last two days. No pressure, no flashbulbs. Just laughter and bread dipped in cheese and my leg brushing his under the table.

We’re halfway through our second glass of wine when Reid’s phone buzzes. Then again. And again.

He frowns and checks it.

“Whoa,” he says, eyebrows rising.

“What?”

“Carlos texted… apparently the Titans have signed Francesca Accardi to replace Matthieu Laurent.”

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“She’s a female driver who’s being moved up from FI2. This is huge news because she’ll be the first female driver in the top tier.”

“Oh… wow,” I breathe out in awe and a shiver runs up my spine at the implications. “Is she good?”

“She wouldn’t be in FI if she wasn’t phenomenal,” Reid says, his eyes scanning something on his phone.

“There’s been talk of someone signing her.

I’m not surprised at all that Brienne Norcross is the one to make the move to bring a female driver onto an FI team.

” Reid scoots his chair around the table closer to mine. “Here… there’s an article.”

I lean over as he taps a link and a sports article opens. We read silently together.

TITANS RACING SIGNS FRANCESCA ACCARDI, MAKING HISTORY WITH THE FIRST FEMALE FI DRIVER

By Lydia Schelling| Formula World

In a groundbreaking move, Titans Racing has signed Italian driver Francesca Accardi to a full-season contract, promoting her to Formula International’s top-tier roster effective immediately. Accardi, 24, becomes the first woman in history to earn a seat as a primary driver in FI.

The announcement follows the internal reassignment of Matthieu Laurent, who will move to a development role after reported tensions within the team and performance inconsistencies earlier this season.

Hendrik Voss, the team’s controversial chief racing engineer, is reportedly on administrative leave.

Brienne Norcross, majority stakeholder of Titans Racing, released a statement earlier today.

“Francesca has more than earned her place here. She’s proven herself repeatedly on the track, and we’re proud to offer her the opportunity she deserves.

Titans Racing is committed to championing talent, no matter what package it comes in. ”

Accardi, long considered a rising star in FI2, brings an aggressive, precision-focused driving style and a loyal European fan base. She captured three podiums in the past FI2 season and was instrumental in the development of newer tire management techniques now being tested across several teams.

In her own words, Accardi commented, “This has been my dream since I first touched a kart. I know what this means—not just for me, but for every girl who ever watched the podium from the sidelines. I’m not here for the headlines. I’m here to race.”

Women have long faced challenges breaking into FI, from limited feeder opportunities to the immense physical demands of the sport—including the high g-forces that drivers endure during races.

While female drivers have been successful in lower tiers and endurance events, none had previously cracked the top-level driver lineup in the male-dominated world of Formula International.

Accardi’s promotion is being hailed as a milestone, not only for her personal career but for the sport itself. Critics have noted the need for deeper structural changes across the driver pipeline to ensure that Accardi isn’t just a one-time exception.

For now, Titans Racing has thrown down the gauntlet. And Francesca Accardi is ready to race.

I let out a breath. “Wow. I got goose bumps.”

Reid nods slowly, moving his chair back in place. “She’s not just a token. She’s legit.”

“You sound… impressed.”

“I am. She’s got fight. She won’t sit back and play second to Nash, and that’s going to rattle him. It will make him better too.”

I watch the flicker of something cross Reid’s face—excitement, maybe challenge. “Does this change anything for you?” I ask.

“For me?” he says, settling back into his chair. “Not directly. But it changes the shape of the season. The press will be intently focused on this, as they should be. Suzuka just got a lot more interesting.”

“And for the sport?”

He smiles. “It needed this. It was time.”

I study his face. “She’s going to face hell for it, isn’t she?”

“Every race. Every lap.”

We finish our wine and step back into the night.

Zurich is quiet, dignified, timeless. I loop my arm through Reid’s as we walk slowly through the streets, passing shuttered bookstores and soft-lit cafés.

We come upon a corner shop tucked between two narrow buildings.

It has wood-paneled windows, an old brass door handle, and a golden glow inside.

“Come on,” he says, tugging me in. “You haven’t had real Swiss chocolate until you’ve had it from a place like this.”

Inside, the air smells like heaven—melted sugar, roasted hazelnuts and warm cream.

I inhale deeply and Reid laughs at me. The walls are lined with shelves of delicate boxes and hand-wrapped bars in shades of gold, cream and crimson.

There are tins filled with truffles, rows of candied orange peels dipped in dark chocolate, and a glass counter showing off jewel-like pralines nestled in paper cups.

I turn in a slow circle, overwhelmed in the best way. “How do you even choose?”

Reid walks confidently toward the back wall and picks up a rectangular gold-foiled bar, the label printed in looping script. “This one. Trust me.”

I raise a brow. “You’ve been here before?”

“Every race season. Same shop. Same bar.”

He pays in cash—crisp Swiss francs—and thanks the clerk in German. I’ve learned since leaving Torquay that Reid can utter common phrases in multiple languages.

We step outside, where the street is quiet and the air cool. A wrought iron bench waits beneath a flickering gas lamp, and we sit side by side, knees touching.

Reid unwraps the bar carefully and breaks off a piece, handing it to me like it’s sacred.

One bite and I groan softly. “Okay, I get it.”

“Told you.”

We eat slowly, quietly, sharing piece after piece, the world around us hushed and magical.

“I love it here,” I murmur eventually, watching a tram rattle past in the distance. “This city has a soul.”

He looks over at me. “Could you live here?”

I glance around—the cobbled streets, the tidy balconies, the rows of pale stone buildings with their shuttered windows and sloped, red-tile roofs against the sky darkening over the distant hills. “Yeah… I could.”

He’s quiet for a moment as his eyes roam around. “I could too. It’s honestly more my speed than Monaco.”

I look at him, surprised. “But you’d give up the tax benefits?”

He chuckles. “I make twenty million a year. I think I can afford to pay taxes.”

My jaw drops slightly, but I don’t say anything. He shrugs, like it’s not a big deal.

“I just want somewhere that feels like a life. Not a performance. We could make a nice home here.”

I lean my head on his shoulder, breathing him in, reveling in the chocolate and the city night, more grounded than I’ve felt in a long time.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “We really could.”

We return to the apartment just after ten, hands cold but fingers still entwined as we enter. Reid kicks off his shoes by the door and disappears into the kitchen. I hear the clink of mugs and when I round the corner, he’s already pulling out my favorite tea. “Sound good?” he asks, shaking the box.

“Sounds divine. Want me to do it?”

“Nope, I’ve got it.”

We chat as Reid gets the water boiling and we take steaming mugs into the living room where we sink down into an olive-colored couch.

I wrap my hands around the cup gratefully, letting the steam warm my face as I settle.

The soft throw draped across the back smells like him and I tug it over my legs.

Reid sits beside me, close but not crowding, his own mug perched on one thigh.

For a while, we don’t talk. Just enjoy the comfortable silence of being with one another.

He glances at me. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For coming with me. For this.” He gestures vaguely at the apartment, the tea, the space between us. “I know it’s a lot. All of it. But you being here… it makes it something as opposed to just another stop between races.”

I press my shoulder against his. “I don’t know exactly where I fit in your world yet,” I admit. “But this part? This I like.”

His hand finds mine beneath the blanket and he laces our fingers together.

“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I want you in all of it. Even the messy parts.”

I don’t say anything in return. I just lean my head on his shoulder and let the weight of the day fall away, knowing that—for the first time in a long while—I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.