Page 17

CHAPTER 17

Senna

“And I said to her, ‘You want to be a racing driver?,’ and we all laughed, but she was a good driver until the accident,” my dad says to his guests.

He’s brought four men to the Spanish Grand Prix and hasn’t explained who they are. If they’re investors, he should introduce me so I can tell them about our team.

It doesn’t matter how many times I tell him I’m the boss; he won’t step away from the company. I need to get better at confronting him, but things like this remind me of the times he wouldn’t listen when I told him about the drivers who were bullying me.

He’s sat here for the entire race, sharing stories of his greatest moments as the team boss, lauding how excellent Niki was and adding me as a footnote. “And she became a great communications director.”

The men nod. The race has finished, and we’re waiting for Antoine and Connor to return to the garage as everyone packs up.

“And now I’m the boss,” I add, although the men aren’t listening.

“An incredible one,” Jacs says, but they’re not listening to her either.

I shrug as I watch videos from the day. Anything to not engage with my dad when he’s willy wanging. I shouldn’t let his adoration of Niki’s career and ambivalence towards mine affect me. At least he said I was a great comms director, though he didn’t want me to do that, either. I worked my way up from intern during my university years and then, over time, convinced the board I should have the job.

I rub my scar. It shouldn’t matter what he thinks. I know what I’ve achieved.

“Boss, can I show you something?” Jacs says. “One of the pit crew pointed it out to me earlier, and you should see it.”

Something to distract me from Dad’s booming voice. He moves to the edge of the garage, still sharing stories of the team’s wins. Obviously, he doesn’t mention all the damage he’s done to the company.

Jacs runs through the footage. It’s a hot day in Barcelona, and I fist my hair into a tiny ponytail and push my sleeves up. It looks a lot sexier when Connor pushes his sleeves up, and not just because he has tattoos relating to everything from his wins to his childhood on his body. My favourite is the map of the Silverstone racetrack on his bicep. It was the first race he won in Formula One. Since our truce, I’ve googled him a couple of times, and I may have languished over a semi-nude shoot.

“You okay, Sen? You’re red,” Jacs says.

I choke on my breath before stuttering, “It’s June, and we’re in Spain at a racetrack, and I’m dressed for business.”

“Someone, get this woman a handheld fan, please,” Jacs shouts across the garage.

My assistant, Jimmy, appears with three fans. He’s feeling guilty because I told him not to gossip with anyone about me. He’s apologised every day since. I explained there was a positive, as it helped bring a truce between me and Connor. He’s still been attentive as hell, though. He doesn’t usually join me at races, but his development is important.

“Thank you, Jimmy,” I reply. He nods sheepishly and walks away.

I turn one of the battery-operated fans on, catching a glimpse of my scar. It’s still something I hate and am ashamed of. I could have been an F1 driver and made my dad proud. Guilt creeps up on me for making that truce with Connor and enjoying his semi-nude photo shoot. Why hasn’t he apologised for the crash? He’s always attempted to justify his actions. My head tells me that he ruined my life, but my heart wants to believe that everything he’s said is true and that he looks after others no matter the consequences.

When my heart ruled me, I bought a fluffy toy for him that resembled Coults. He’s probably ditched it, thinking a fan left it for him. No one needs to know I slept with it a few nights before leaving it anonymously at reception.

“Watch this,” Jacs says, nudging me.

On-screen, the team are lined up on the grid before the race. As it’s a sweltering day, the drivers are getting into the cars while covered by umbrellas. I catch Antoine talking to another driver. He mouths the word crasher . The other driver, Antoine’s friend in those days when we raced together, throws his head back and laughs.

“That little shit. What’s he saying about me?”

Jac shakes her head. “I wasn’t sure whether to tell you that a couple of my team have said they’ve caught him talking shit about you. He always shuts up when my team walks in.”

I rub my scar more roughly now. That punk. He’s not my best driver. Although neither has reached the podium, Connor consistently beats him in every race.

“That’s not what I wanted to show you, though.”

She points at the screen where Connor is about to enter the car. The umbrella partially hides him, but the camera angle shows enough of his face and side. He blinks five times and then starts spinning. I lean into the screen and count the spins. Then, he taps his left hand on his right leg five times. The umbrella hides his movement, but from how his right arm crosses his body, I suspect he’s doing the same to his left leg. Then he shakes his head five times and gets in the car.

“What is he doing?”

“I don’t know. But he only allows Silas near him before races. Do you want to chat to him?” Jacs points her thumb towards Silas, who looks at anything but us.

I call him over.

“Silas, please explain what’s happening here,” I ask as I rewind the footage, and we watch it together.

He stares at the screen, unsurprised by what he’s seeing, before lifting his head to the garage ceiling. I fix my stare on him, waiting for him to make eye contact, but he doesn’t. “It's a normal pre-race tradition,” he squeaks.

“Try again, and I want the truth,” I continue my stare, challenging him to meet my gaze.

“Antoine, another excellent result,” my dad shouts so loudly it filters into the garage. Another situation I need to deal with. “Well done, Dane,” he says with much less energy. For fuck’s sake. The issues keep coming. Connor is our best driver, even better than Niki, and could help make this team great again. It’s time my dad treated him with respect.

Silas’s shoulders tighten when Connor enters the garage. He lowers his voice. “He does it before every qualifying race and grand prix race. I don’t know why. It started with the blinking, but since Australia, it’s worse. He swore me to secrecy.” Silas blusters through his explanation. “You can’t tell him I said anything.”

I’ve seen drivers with their rituals before—hell, I had my own—but the number of things he’s doing and the escalation have me clicking my teeth.

“I won’t. Thank you for telling me,” I reply. “You can go.”

Connor stares at the three of us, including a jittery Silas. His brows furrow as Silas rushes past him, not stopping to congratulate him on his race.

My dad and all his friends praise Antoine, but he makes a beeline for me. Who do I deal with first? Although both men need speaking to in a private space and probably not today, I sense them watching me.

“Ma belle,” Antoine says, and instead of the fake smile I usually respond with, I glare and grind my teeth. “Your dad invited me to dinner with you, him, and his friends to celebrate my driving.”

Before I can tell my dad no, Antoine brushes my ponytail, making it swing.

I flinch away from him as Connor barges into the group.

“Leave her alone, Antoine. I’ve told you not to touch her,” he shouts, grabbing his collar.

“Leave him, Dane. You always were a liability,” my dad grumbles. Connor tightens his grip on a flustered Antoine. As much as it’s nice to see Antoine managed, I can’t have a scene in my garage.

“I can handle this,” I snap at my dad and Connor. I shake my head, exhausted at men constantly needing to undermine my authority. “Let go of him.”

Connor’s mouth drops like I’ve betrayed him as he pulls his hands away. They hang by his sides.

“Guys, take a look around the garage. I need to speak to my little girl,” my dad says to his visitors. I throw my headphones down as the men walk away. They stare at me over their shoulders and smirk.

“I’m not your little girl. I run this damn team.” I fist my hands.

Connor’s eye twitches as he stares. Jacs eases back, leaving the situation to me.

“You’re still my?—”

I turn to Antoine. “I want you in my office on Tuesday at nine am. And if you ever touch me again, you’ll be out of this team before you call me or any of the women here belle again.” I catch Connor’s glance. “I won’t be going to dinner with my dad. I have a job to do that doesn’t include having dinner with my drivers.”

“Unless it’s Connor and pizza,” Antoine mumbles.

The bullshit I have to deal with. I glare at Connor, who shrugs. I can’t trust anyone.

“Get out, Antoine, before I do something we both regret. Tuesday morning in my office.” I dismiss him with a wave of my hand.

“Jumps,” my dad says, imploring me to change my mind. Antoine smirks before he turns.

“Don’t call me that,” I snap, turning on my dad.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “But it was funny when you used to jump the lights. Forgive me. After all, you’ve eaten dinner with Connor, so you’ve forgiven him.”

I turn to Connor. “I can’t believe you told Antoine. He’s telling everyone.”

Connor steps closer. “I didn’t?—”

“There are too many egos in here. I’m out.” I walk across the garage.

“Senna,” my dad says. I recognise his tone, but he’s not the boss anymore, neither of the team nor me.

“Leave it, Dad. Go for dinner and schmooze your friends. Talk about how brilliant you made this team and not the mistakes you left me to clean up.”

His jaw hits the floor, and his ears turn bright red. No one calls my dad out, and I hate that I’m already planning how to smooth things over later with a call and apology.

“And Dane, be in my office on Tuesday at ten,” I snap.