Page 28 of Formula Freedom
The tires are locked in. The jacks drop. The car kisses the asphalt with a hiss. And just like that—gone. The driver slingshots back into pit lane in under three seconds.
I let out a slow breath.
It’s not just fast. It’s not just impressive. It’s beautiful.
A perfectly timed dance, every man in sync, every hand exactly where it needs to be. No one yells. No one flinches. The trust, the muscle memory—it’s astonishing.
I’ve been around racing my whole life. I’ve watched from stands and screens, read race reports and lap times like bedtime stories. But watching FI up close like this—feelingit from this angle?
It hits different.
And I find myself smiling, because despite everything that brought me here, in this moment, I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
Qualifying isn’t the race—it just decides who starts where on the grid tomorrow. Every driver goes out on the track trying to set the fastest lap they can. The quicker your time, the better your position at the start of the race. One lap can make or break your whole weekend.
The tension builds with every lap time flashing on the big screens—purple, green, yellow—the seconds slicing thinner and thinner. I split my attention watching Reid’s red-and-white car as it screams past the areas of the track I can see, then crane my neck to watch the large-screen TV on the side wall of the balcony when I can’t see him. Other members of the executive team surround me and it’s fascinating to be a part of this. They’re kind and include me in their conversations, and I can tell that Reid told them I’d be here and that I was important to him.
I’m so focused on the track and TV and the activity surrounding the VIP and pit lane that I almost don’t notice him at first. It’s only when I turn to glance at the sector times on the big screen that I see him.
Lance.
He’s standing a few meters away, just inside the VIP suite, his eyes locked on me.
My stomach drops. I know he’s not allowed in here and I look around the crowded suite. There must be at least thirty people, so I know I’m physically safe.
I’ve got two choices. Call security or confront him, and I choose the latter.
I step off the balcony into the interior lobby, weaving through tables, and Lance moves closer. He appears casual like he’s just here to chat. Like everything between us hasn’t shattered.
“Lara,” he says, voice heavy with feigned regret. “Thank you for talking to me.”
I come to a dead stop with a table between us that’s thankfully empty. “I’m not going to talk to you. I only came over to tell you to leave. You’re not allowed in here.”
His mouth tightens, anger simmering below the surface. “Please. Just a minute.”
“I don’t owe you anything, Lance. What you did is unforgivable and we are over. We can work out details later so I can move my items out of our apartment, but now isn’t the time.”
He leans in, letting out an angry hiss. “You’re making a mistake.”
I stare him down, every bit of my prior fear burned away by sheer exhaustion. “The only mistake was staying as long as I did. Especially after you cheated on me.”
Before he can say anything else, a security official approaches.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.”
Lance glares at me one last time, but he leaves—shoulders stiff, ego bruised.
My shoulders sag and I’m trembling, but proud.
“Are you okay, Ms. Candlish?” the guard asks.
“Yes, thank you for asking him to go. I appreciate it.”
He tips his head to me, and I return to the balcony. Something new flushes through me and I realize I feel lighter. I made my position clear to Lance, and I can’t see how he could even want to talk to me again. Like it’s… over.
And I can move on.
CHAPTER 9
