Read Chapter 20: Rival Gambit

The invitation arrived on cream-colored card stock, embossed with the gold phoenix of Ferretti Racing. They didn't even have the decency to use email.

Elise turned it over in her hands outside the team motorhome, the Montreal sun warm on her shoulders. Inside, a handwritten note from Ferretti's team principal, Laurent Girard, promised a "discreet conversation" about her future. A figure was mentioned—triple her current salary, plus a signing bonus large enough to buy an apartment in Monaco outright. The words *"given your unique perspective on safety systems"* were underlined twice.

They knew. Of course they knew. Word traveled fast in the paddock, and her FIA validation had put a target on her back. Ferretti wasn't just offering her a job. They were offering her a platform—and trying to pry her away from the investigation before she could finish it.

She crumpled the card in her fist.

"Nope," she said to no one, and tossed it into the recycling bin beside the motorhome steps.

But someone had already seen. Of course they had. The paddock was a fishbowl, and today the cameras were out in force, still hungry for the scandal that had broken this morning. A photographer crouched near the barriers, lens aimed in her direction. He'd been there for the handoff. He'd gotten the shot.

---

The team debrief ran long. By the time Elise escaped, the sun had dipped behind the grandstands and the paddock had emptied of all but the most dedicated mechanics and the most desperate journalists. She was crossing the service road toward the garage when Julien's voice cut through the evening air.

"Elise."

She turned. He stood outside the drivers' room, helmet bag slung over one shoulder, his face unreadable. He held up his phone.

"Care to explain this?"

The screen showed a photo. Elise, mid-stride, accepting the cream envelope from a man in a Ferretti polo. The timestamp was barely two hours old. The caption read: *MOREAU COURTED BY RIVALS AFTER ESPIONAGE DRAMA.*

"You're not seriously—" she started.

"I'm not seriously what?" Julien's voice was tight. "I'm not seriously wondering why my engineer is accepting gifts from the team that was just accused of sabotaging my car? Forgive me for being curious."

"It's not a gift. It's a job offer. And I threw it away."

"Did you?" He took a step closer. "Because the photo doesn't show you throwing it away. It shows you taking it. Smiling."

"I wasn't smiling. I was grimacing."

"Same thing, from a distance."

Elise felt heat rise up her neck. "Julien, I turned them down. I didn't even read the whole letter. I crumpled it and tossed it in the recycling."

"That's what you say now. But how do I know?" He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through his carefully maintained composure. "How do I know that this whole time—the investigation, the sabotage, the late nights in the data room—you haven't been building a portfolio to take back to Ferretti?"

"Because I've been sleeping three hours a night trying to save your championship, you ungrateful—"

"You think I don't see that?" He cut her off, stepping closer until they were nearly chest to chest. "I see everything you do. I see how hard you work. That's the problem. You're *too* good, Elise. You're so good that of course they'd come for you. And I can't compete with that."

She blinked. "Compete?"

"With a rival team's offer. With the validation of the FIA. With your own brilliance that makes everyone else look like amateurs." His voice cracked, just slightly. "You told me I doubted you because I was afraid. And I admitted you were right. But I didn't tell you the whole truth."

The service road was empty. The fluorescent lights above buzzed. Elise felt the weight of the moment settle between them.

"What's the whole truth?" she asked quietly.

Julien looked away, jaw tight. "I'm afraid that you'll leave. That once Monaco is over and the investigation is done, there'll be no reason for you to stay. And I'll be alone again with my talent and my ego and no one to tell me when I'm wrong."

The words landed like a blow to her sternum. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came. Because he wasn't wrong. She'd been so focused on the investigation, on proving herself, on surviving, that she hadn't thought about what came after. Whether there was an after. Whether she even wanted one.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said finally. "Not yet."

"Not yet." He repeated the words like a verdict. "That's the best you can offer?"

"Julien, I have a sister's death to avenge. I have a mole to catch. I have a championship to win. I can't—" She stopped, pressed her fingers to her temples. "I can't be your emotional anchor right now. I can barely hold myself together."

"Then let me hold you together."

The offer hung in the air between them, fragile and terrifying. Elise thought of the photo that had gone viral, the speculation about their relationship, the girlfriend who'd been sending her cold stares from the paddock all weekend. She thought of Marco Tessaro's face in the garage. She thought of her sister's casket.

"I made you a promise," she said. "After Monaco, I'll tell you everything. But I need you to trust me until then."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have."

For a long moment, Julien just looked at her. Then he nodded, once, and turned away. "Fine. Get your answers. Catch your mole. But Elise—" He paused at the garage door, not looking back. "When this is over, I'm going to need you to choose. Not the investigation. Not the justice. Me."

---

She found him later, in the garage's shadowed corner, pretending to review tire data on his tablet. He didn't look up when she approached.

"The offer," she said. "It mentioned my 'unique perspective on safety systems.' Ferretti knows about the brake investigation. They're trying to use it to pull me away before I expose whatever they're involved in."

Julien's thumb stopped scrolling. "They're involved."

"I don't know yet. But someone on Carmine's network has been feeding them information about my FIA audit. The timing of the sabotage—when I was away—matches a call record pattern on the burner phone." She hesitated, then pressed on. "Alain Voss shared the call logs with me this afternoon. Not officially. But he trusts me more than the team leadership right now."

Julien finally looked up. His eyes were tired, but the accusation was gone, replaced by something sharper. "The mechanic. Danny."

"He made one call to a number that's been inactive since the Canadian GP. But Voss traced the account holder. It's registered to a shell company with ties to Ferretti's logistics partner."

"So you weren't just being courted." Julien set the tablet down. "You were being circled."

"Maybe." Elise pulled out her phone, pulled up the file Voss had sent her. "Or maybe they wanted to see if I'd bite. A loyalty test."

"And you passed."

"I threw their letter in the recycling." A small smile tugged at her lips. "Figuratively flipped them off."

For the first time since the debrief, something like warmth crossed Julien's face. "Good. Because I need you. Not just for the championship." He stepped closer, lowered his voice. "I need you for the fight we're about to have. Whoever's behind this—they're not going to stop with one wheel nut. If they know you're closing in, they'll escalate."

The hum of the garage compressor filled the silence. Elise thought about the tire pressure data. The bribed engineer. The escaped mechanic. The unexplained presence of Marco Tessaro during the near-sabotage.

"We should have a contingency," she said. "For the next race. If they hit the car again, we can't afford to be caught off guard."

"We won't be." Julien met her eyes. "But that's a conversation for Montreal. Right now—" He hesitated, then reached out and brushed his fingers against her wrist. Just once. Brief enough to deny. "Right now, I should get to my debrief with the FIA. They still want to talk about your audit."

"And your press conference?"

"Let them speculate." He smirked, and for a second he was the cocky driver who'd once publicly doubted her. "I told the world you're on my car. Let them make of that what they will."

He walked away, and Elise watched him go. Through the garage's high windows, she could see the last streaks of orange fading from the Montreal sky, and somewhere beyond them, the promise of Monaco, where everything would be revealed—every secret, every truth, every feeling she'd locked away to survive.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Carmen.

*Found something in the Ferretti logistics records. Call me when you're alone. — C*

Elise glanced around the garage. Julien had vanished toward the drivers' room. The mechanics were packing up for the night. She stepped into the shadowed alcove by the tire racks and pressed call.

Carmen answered on the first ring. "The shell company that owns the burner phone? It doesn't just tie to Ferretti's logistics partner. It also has a minority stake in a brake component supplier that lost a multi-million dollar contract to Apollon two years ago."

Elise's blood went cold. "Which supplier?"

"The one that manufactured the parts for the car that killed your sister. And the one whose faulty component report was signed and buried by Marco Tessaro."

The phone nearly slipped from her fingers. She gripped it tighter, breathed through the sudden wave of vertigo. "That means Tessaro isn't just covering for Carmine. He's covering for himself."

"Or," Carmen said slowly, "he's the one who can connect Carmine to the sabotage directly. But Elise—if what I'm seeing is right, that connection runs through the crash that took your sister's life. And if you chase it, you're not just going after a mole. You're going after the whole rotten structure."

Elise stared at the garage wall, seeing nothing. The pieces were falling into place, each revelation heavier than the last.

"One race," she said. "After Monaco, I'll have the proof I need to bring them all down."

"Assuming you survive Monaco," Carmen said. "From what I'm seeing, Elise, someone knows you're getting close. And they're not going to wait for the checkered flag to stop you."