Page 21 of Overdrive (Speed Demons #1)

The flat was dark when I got home. Not because the sun had set, but because I hadn't opened the curtains. I didn't want to see the world today—not even Paris, not even the beautiful view.

There was no champagne. No streamers. No celebration. Just a tiny cupcake I'd picked up at a bakery around the corner. One with thick pink frosting and a sugar flower on top.

I'd told the cashier it was for a friend. It wasn't. It was for me.

I lit a single candle and set it on the counter. The flame flickered in the silence, casting long shadows across the cold, impersonal kitchen.

No one from the team had said anything. Not a text from the media manager or the PR team.

Not a post from Luminis. Kimi had messaged, which was nice.

My family had texted this morning. One big group thread with a few balloon emojis.

No calls. No voices. Just a few quick, typed-out bisous before they went about their day.

I scrolled my feed. Past birthday posts and tributes to my brother over the years. Archive footage. Childhood photos. Nothing had been posted for me.

I guess twenty-four didn't matter unless you were someone they wanted to celebrate.

The candle drooped in the center of the cupcake, wax curling where the flame had licked it too long. I hadn't meant to wait this long. To just sit on the barstool and stare, hoping the flame might turn into something else. Hoping I might become someone else.

I cleared my throat. Tried to sing. “ Joyeux anniversaire à moi... ” My voice cracked on the last word, a pathetic whisper that barely made it past the lump in my throat.

I choked, then started again.

“ Joyeux anniversaire à moi, Joyeux anniversaire à moi, Joyeux anniversaire, Aur… ”

I couldn't finish it. The sound broke before I could say it the third time. Because what was the point? It didn't matter if I said my name. No one else had.

I blew out the candle and took a bite of the cupcake. It was too sweet. I swallowed anyway.

Maybe next year would be different. Maybe next year, someone would remember. Maybe next year… someone would care enough to show up .

I set the half-eaten cupcake down and wiped the frosting off my lips with the sleeve of my hoodie, then the tears off my cheeks. The candle's smoke curled into the air like a ghost of a wish I didn't bother making.

No one from the team remembered. No surprise dinner. No banner. Not even a casual, How old are you now?

Not that they ever had. Growing up, birthdays were always étienne's spotlight. We shared a birthday—April 10—but the day never really belonged to me.

Double celebration! Shared cake! Twice the reason to party!

But only one of us got to blow out the candles. Only one of us got the praise.

Even now, he had half the paddock—which he wasn't even part of anymore—posting throwbacks, fans making graphics of his time in F1, his former teams posting videos of his old karting wins. I had… this.

A cupcake I bought from a bakery two blocks over. A melted candle I had to light myself. A cold flat in Paris with a half-packed suitcase, a couch I hadn't sat on in weeks, and a kitchen drawer full of nothing.

Proof that money couldn't buy happiness.

I could've gone out. Could've celebrated. Could've gotten drunk and told the world I didn't care. But I didn't want strangers. I just didn't want to feel forgotten.

I pulled the tiny wax stub from the frosting and wiped it off with a paper towel, placing it carefully into the back of the utensil drawer. Not because it meant something, but because if I didn't keep it, I'd have nothing to show that this day ever existed.

I sat in the silence until it got too heavy, then picked up my phone.

No new messages. No missed calls.

I tapped Callum's name on Instagram out of habit. It showed he was active, and I wondered if he knew what today was. Probably not, unless he was following the accounts showering my brother with birthday wishes.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard, but I didn't get the chance to type, because a message appeared from him.

Callum

Hey. Thought of you earlier. Some café in town had pistachio croissants and I remembered you ordered a pistachio latte in Shanghai. Hope Paris is treating you alright and you're getting some rest between races.

My heart tumbled. Just like that. One line, perfectly timed, that told me he was thinking of me. On a day that made me feel small and worthless year after year.

Maybe he didn't know what today was, or how it impacted me, but somehow still knew I needed something to hold onto.

I blinked through tears I hadn't even realized were welling again.

The memory of him reading that fanfic—his stunned silence, the way I'd had to physically pry his phone out of his hands—hit me like a gust from the past. That stupid café.

His laugh. The soft awe in his voice when he'd said my name.

The blush on his cheeks. I remembered the way he'd touched my wrist without thinking.

The way I'd kissed his cheek just to see what it would do to him.

That was the first time I'd realized how alive I felt around him. That maybe… maybe it wasn't one-sided. Maybe I wasn't just a di straction he tolerated. Maybe he saw me. Not just the driver, not just étienne's sister—but me .

He hadn't looked at me like I was someone to forget.

I choked on a sob, and my lower lip wobbled. He didn't know, couldn't have known, but it felt like he did. Like he could still see me, all the way from Monaco or Madrid or wherever he was now. I sniffled and typed back.

You really did think of me because of pistachios and caffeine? I feel honored.

But rude of you to be right. I was seriously considering a midnight pistachio espresso. Not sure if I needed the caffeine… or the comfort.

Callum

Next time you need comfort, message me instead of reaching for the caffeine.

It wasn't much, but it steadied me. It was a tether, a pulse, a quiet mercy from the only person who made me feel seen today. He made me feel like maybe I wasn't entirely invisible.

He had no idea what he'd just done for me.

I put the phone face-down and curled onto the couch, knees to my chest and arms tucked in tight.

No more sweets. No more crying.

Just me, Paris, and another year of trying not to disappear.