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Chapter Thirty-Seven

Shantal

I t’s Monaco up next on the calendar, second to last before the summer break. Darien and Miguel have been neck and neck in the tables for the Championship, with Miguel now a mere twelve points ahead, and although the Constructors’ title is clearly looking like a lead for Heidelberg, it’s everything to play for as we travel to this next destination. Endless thoughts bounce around in my mind the entire flight: the high of the points starting to rack up, the sim working its magic, everything that happened in Imola, including that Monday morning. I came into this with shaky hands, and they’ve finally begun to steady. It’s as if someone’s thrown my soul into the sky; it’s sitting high up in the clouds now.

Needless to say, the Monaco Grand Prix puts me back in my place the second my feet touch the country’s soil.

As we drive through the city, I gape at how very put-together everyone is here. The women are clad in Dior and Chanel, some with big, floppy hats and Ray-Bans, others shading their eyes using hands bearing lavishly painted acrylic nails. The men step out from glossy sports cars and adjust their button-down shirts with chins tipped slightly up as if they’re royalty. Is that the way I should be carrying myself at this race? I’m not completely sure, and I ask Celina as we make our way through the aisle fenced off from fans and into our hotel, which is a hotbed of the Monegasque wealthy.

‘Oh, honey, no,’ she replies. ‘Don’t let them get in your head. But also, don’t let them not get in your head. Make sure you put your outfits together well for the next couple days.’

I take her advice in stride. For the first race-related event, the press rounds on Thursday, I make sure I’ve washed my hair and have it in neat waves down to my shoulders. I wear a longer forest green sundress with a tight top and flared bottom that reaches just past my calves, along with small gold hoop earrings and, naturally, my trusty white Hokas. I may need to dress well for Monaco, but I also like to be prepared to walk fast whenever the need arises.

I love listening to Darien – his deep baritone voice is gorgeous, and that slight rasp I’ve come to love grips the entire audience whenever so much as a word leaves his mouth. But I’ve glimpsed Monte Carlo and now I’m itching to explore it. When else am I going to get to travel to a place like this?

Darien reads my mind, because the moment the press conference ends and a smattering of polite applause follows the drivers as they step off the panel, he immediately beelines my way with the most massive grin. ‘Why don’t we get out?’ he says over the buzz of the media. ‘Go see the car collection. You’ll love it.’

‘You mean you’ll love it,’ I tease him with a poke of his shoulder.

It’s hysterical how flustered he gets. ‘Oh, wait, I mean if you don’t want to … we can always—’

I laugh, pressing a palm to my forehead. ‘Yes, I want to see the cars. Let’s go.’

The Prince of Monaco’s car collection is sheltered in a museum in La Condamine. Inside, everything from the oldest of automobiles to modern Formula 1 cars is on display. What draws our eyes right away is a sleek black F1 model detailed with purple and white, as well as a host of sponsors. I recognize a makeup brand, one of my favourite sustainable choices, and an energy drink logo.

‘Diana’s 2022 Championship-winning Jolt,’ says Darien in total awe. ‘Imagine you make history, and then you get to say that your car is on display in the prince’s collection.’

I smile when I realize that there’s a childlike dreaminess in his expression, one I’ve come to appreciate deeply. I came to Heidelberg completely clueless, and now I’m determined that this man should see the highest level of success this season.

Once we tear our eyes away from the cars, we decide to walk the city. Darien’s been here before, and he navigates it with ease. He points out all the big casinos, located around turns of the racetrack. Monaco itself is small enough that the grand prix spans almost the entire country – a strange thought. His fingers lace themselves through mine, and his thumb runs over the ridges and dips of my knuckles while he shows me a huge painting on the side of a small local restaurant. It’s a remnant of last season, a section of track curving down the wall of the building, with Formula 1 cars of different liveries zooming along it so they appear to jump out from the mural.

When the coast comes into view, Darien tells me about all the yachts, massive leisure vessels decorated with flags and glossy gold names on their bows. He picks out the ones he recognizes by their owners, and I laugh when we see Miguel’s yacht, with the apt name Lady Diana .

‘You think he’ll notice if we hop on?’ I prod Darien with a chuckle.

That devilish look creeps over his face, the kind you might see on a five-year-old plotting to colour all the walls hot pink. ‘Well,’ he shoots me a smirk, ‘what Miguel doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’

‘Oh, my – Darien!’ I call as he rushes across the dock dramatically, vaulting over the edge of the boat and landing on the floor with a cheerful little thud. I could scold him, but I’m too amused to do anything but follow. He’s happily raiding Miguel’s beautiful yacht, popping open cabinets and mini-fridges on the inside till he finally emerges victorious, a bottle of – is that alcohol or water? – raised triumphantly in one hand.

‘Drinks all round,’ the menace proclaims as he grabs a picnic blanket off one of the benches, spreading it out on the ground. ‘He’s owed me this ever since I beat him in Bahrain.’

I bite my lip, but a loud laugh escapes anyway. ‘Please, Darien, pour some drinks, why don’t you?’