Page 69 of Formula Freedom
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.
CHAPTER 23
