Page 26 of Formula Freedom (Race Fever #3)

Reid

S unday mornings in Zurich are slower than anywhere else I’ve ever been.

Maybe it’s the way the church bells ring gently from the hilltops or how the markets bloom with fresh-cut flowers along the cobblestone edges of the Limmat.

Or maybe it’s the rare sense of stillness before the noise of race week sets in.

Lara and I step out of the apartment just past eight. She’s bundled in one of my sweaters, sleeves rolled over her hands, her hair twisted into a messy knot she probably did without a mirror. And still, she looks more beautiful than is even imaginable.

We walk quietly for a few blocks, stopping at a bakery that’s just propped open its front door.

She orders a cappuccino and a croissant.

I go for an espresso and a warm buttered roll.

We eat on a nearby bench while the city comes alive around us—couples walking dogs, kids chasing pigeons, a man unloading a case of beer outside a pub.

It’s Easter morning and there are fewer people out than usual.

“This seems normal,” Lara says quietly, eyes tracking a family crossing the bridge with chocolate bunnies poking out of their shopping bag.

“It is normal,” I reply. “Or at least as close as I ever get.”

She smiles at that, but there’s a thoughtfulness in her expression I can’t quite read.

When we finish, I toss our trash and drape her hand through the crook of my elbow. “Want to see the team’s headquarters?”

Her eyebrows lift. “On a Sunday?”

“Sure. It will be mostly empty, but you’ll get the best behind-the-scenes tour ever given in the history of Matterhorn.”

Lara laughs, bumping me with her hip. “Now, how can I say no to that?”

The drive to Dübendorf doesn’t take long—twenty minutes northeast through tidy roads and pine-fringed suburbs.

I take the Audi RS7 today—matte gray, understated, fast as hell.

It’s the perfect car for Zurich. Luxury without flash, performance without ego, and it handles the back roads like it was born for them.

I’ve also got a Ducati Panigale V4 S in the garage—sleek black with red accents, tuned for speed and escape as only a motorcycle can be.

It’s for the rare days when I need silence and adrenaline at the same time.

Days when the only way to think straight is to go two hundred kilometers an hour with the wind ripping past my helmet.

Today isn’t one of those days.

Today I’ve got Lara in the passenger seat, and the Audi’s the smarter call. Smooth. Controlled. Capable of disappearing into the rhythm of the city without drawing too much attention.

Matterhorn FI Racing’s facility sits behind a discreet security gate.

The main building is angular and low-slung, all brushed steel, smoked glass, and pale Swiss stone.

It doesn’t scream for attention, but it doesn’t need to.

The architecture speaks the same language as the team itself—precision, purpose and quiet dominance.

The building stretches horizontally across the property in clean, calculated lines, with a subtle M-shaped roof profile that nods to both the team’s name and the Alpine legacy etched into its DNA.

Frosted-glass panels break up the facade like a circuit board, and the Matterhorn emblem is carved into a slab of white stone near the entrance—no sign, no name, just the peaked logo.

Even the landscaping is deliberate—neatly groomed hedges, low ground cover, and a single row of larch trees lining the front approach, as though nature itself has been engineered into submission.

The guard waves us through the gate and Lara leans forward in her seat as we pull into the private lot. “It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, eyes casting upward through the windshield. “But intimidating.”

“That’s the point,” I say with a laugh.

Inside, Lara tips her head back and turns in a circle to take it all in. The lobby is huge with polished, cream stone floors that shine under soft, recessed lighting. Floor-to-ceiling frosted glass floods the space with natural light and brushed metal accents offer a contemporary flair.

A full-size Matterhorn FI race car sits on a raised platform near the center—its sleek chassis and aggressive curves bathed in a dramatic spotlight, the circular platform rotating slowly.

Behind it, a curated wall of trophies glitters in tempered glass cases, spanning decades of dominance across series, continents and eras.

World Championship plaques, Constructors’ awards, and vintage relics are displayed with museum-level precision.

To the right, a minimalist lounge area offers low-slung leather seats and a gleaming espresso bar made from Alpine stone. The Matterhorn FI logo is carved deep into the main wall, not just etched—like it was cut from the same glacier that inspired the name.

It’s not a workplace. It’s the sanctum of an empire.

“Wow,” Lara breathes as we walk through the atrium. “This doesn’t feel like a racing team. It feels like NASA.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

When I first came here, I was brand new to FI and completely overwhelmed.

I remember walking through these halls and thinking I was a fraud—like at any minute, someone was going to pull my contract and tell me I wasn’t ready.

A complete contradiction to the deeply held confidence that I was good enough to not only be here but win podiums.

Now it’s different. Not exactly comfortable. Earned. Every inch of this place has a memory attached to it—late-night briefings, hours in the simulator fighting jet lag, early-morning debriefs with Tariq over bitter coffee and barely functioning brains.

I wouldn’t trade any of it.

I lead Lara upstairs first to the executive wing. “Max Riedel, our team principal, runs most of his ops from here,” I explain, pointing to a glass-walled office that overlooks the main floor. “That’s his war room during race weeks.”

“And the rest of the team?” she asks, curious.

I nod toward the corridor. “Anita Frey—performance analyst. She’s usually buried in data.

Felix Baumann is our chief race engineer.

He’s the guy in my ear yelling in three languages when I miss an apex.

And Tariq Masood—performance strategist. Probably the smartest man in the building and also the driest. They all have offices up here, but they tend to hang out in the development wing. ”

Lara nods, eyes round with awe, keeping pace beside me as we head back downstairs and deeper into the development bay.

This is where the heartbeat lives—carbon fiber panels, wings stacked like art, the scent of engine oil and cutting compound lingering in the air. A few engineers are around today, low-key but focused. They nod when they see me, and I gesture subtly for them to relax.

No meetings today.

Just a tour for a special woman.

Lara pauses near one of the newer chassis builds—bare bones, sleek and matte black. “Is this yours?”

“Next season’s prototype,” I say. “Still being tweaked.”

She runs her fingers lightly along the edge of the sidepod. “It looks like it could fly.”

“Hey, Hemsworth,” one of the junior engineers calls out as we pass. “You testing the new dampers this week?”

“Not yet. Suzuka’s too twitchy,” I reply. “Tariq’s still running numbers.”

He nods, clearly trying not to look at Lara, who’s drawing curious glances without even realizing it.

When we turn the corner, she leans in and whispers, “What does that mean—too twitchy?”

I smile. “Suzuka’s a technical circuit with a lot of quick transitions. If the suspension setup is too soft or experimental, it can overreact and make the car unpredictable.”

She processes that, then nods. “So you’re basically saying… it could kill you?”

I laugh under my breath. “Hopefully not. But yeah, a bad setup at Suzuka can ruin a lap. Or a weekend.”

She tilts her head. “And you still love this?”

I glance down at her, the corner of my mouth pulling into a grin. “I love it because of that. Because it’s a dance between chaos and control. And when it works? When the car does exactly what I want… there’s nothing better.”

She’s quiet after that, and I expect she’s finally seeing this life not just as a job but as an obsession.

A calling, really.

Next, I take her to the simulator wing, tucked behind biometric locks and privacy glass.

“This is the quiet room,” I tell her as we step inside. The walls are dark. The lighting’s low. There are two full-motion rigs set in the middle of the space, curved screens wrapping around like a cockpit.

She approaches one cautiously. “You train in this?”

“Sometimes five, six hours at a time.”

She climbs onto the side platform and peers in. “This resembles a real car when you’re in it?”

I nod. “And it punishes every mistake I make.”

“I’d crash in the first turn.”

“Everyone does at some point. Racing in a sim… you’re a little more reckless than out on the track.”

We finish in the drivers’ lounge—more casual, leather couches, a mini kitchen, the air faintly scented with eucalyptus from the physio room next door. Lara sinks into the couch while I grab two bottles of water.

She glances around, her eyes landing on a photo taped to one of the lockers—me on the podium from last year, soaked in champagne after a win.

“This is all so…” She trails off.

“Too much?” I ask, passing her a bottle.

“No,” she says. “It’s a lot. But it’s not overwhelming. It’s just… yours.”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. It is.”

She takes a sip of water and looks up at me. “Thanks for sharing it with me.”

I meet her eyes and smile. “You’re the only person I’ve ever brought here.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just reaches across the cushion and slides her hand into mine. We sit there a while longer, no cameras, no crew, no Monaco spotlights—just the two of us, in the quiet center of the storm.