Read Chapter 31: Final Showdown

The desert heat of Abu Dhabi was a different kind of pressure. Not the damp, clinging weight of Monaco or the sharp, electric tension of Silverstone—this was dry, oppressive, a physical force that seemed to press every word back down Elise's throat before she could speak them. Beyond the glass of the engineering suite, the Yas Marina circuit gleamed under floodlights, a ribbon of black tarmac winding through the golden hour twilight.

Julien stood beside her, his race suit unzipped to the waist, his eyes fixed on the track where the support race was finishing its final laps. They had eight hours until the season finale. The numbers on her screen told a story she didn't want to read.

"Second place secures the championship," she said quietly. "If you finish P2 and Bjorn wins, you tie on points, but you have the countback advantage. Nine wins to his eight."

"And if I finish P3?" Julien's voice was flat, almost disinterested.

"Then the title goes to Bjorn, provided he crosses the line first. Which he will. He's been fastest all weekend."

Julien turned to face her, and she saw the question in his eyes before he asked it. "What does the math say if I push?"

Elise pulled up the secondary screen, the one with the simulation data she'd been running since midnight. The red lines and green curves painted a stark picture. "Your long-run pace on the soft tires is two tenths off Bjorn's. The mediums are closer—half a tenth. Mercedes has the outright speed here, and Ferrari's been sandbagging all weekend. We know they've got something in reserve."

"So a straight fight is a losing fight." Julien's jaw tightened. "Then we don't fight straight."

She felt a prickle at the back of her neck. The same prickle she'd felt at Austin when Pierre told her about the phone call. Visser's allies were still out there. The performance director's warning still echoed in her ears. She'd submitted the evidence, Marta was in custody, Bjorn had been stripped of his points—but the championship standings had reset after the FIA's decision, and Bjorn had clawed his way back to within five points of Julien. The title would be decided tonight.

"Two options," Elise said, pulling up the race strategy overlay. "Option A: Three-stop, conservative. We nurse the tires, stay out of trouble, and bank the points for second in the championship. It's safe. It's smart. It protects the team's constructors' position and guarantees you the drivers' title on countback."

"And if Bjorn retires?" Julien asked.

"Then you win anyway." Elise paused. "But if he doesn't, and he finishes P1, you're done. No title. And the sponsor walks."

"Option B?"

Elise took a breath. This was the part she'd been dreading. The numbers didn't lie, but they also didn't capture the human cost of a mistake at two hundred miles per hour. "Option B: Two-stop, alternate strategy. We start on the mediums, push hard in the first two stints to build a gap, then switch to softs for a final fifteen-lap charge. Your pace on softs has been exceptional all weekend—you've been quickest in every qualifying simulation on that compound. If you can hold position through the first two stints, you'll have clear track and tire advantage at the end. Bjorn won't catch you."

"And if I can't hold position?"

"Then you finish off the podium, Bjorn wins the race, and we lose everything. The championship, the sponsor, the development program for next season. All of it." Elise closed the screen. "The risk is real. The rear suspension we gambled on in qualifying has held up, but it's been optimized for one-lap pace, not race distance. If it fails mid-race..."

"The car could put me in the wall." Julien's voice was quiet, but there was no fear in it. "I understand the risk."

"It's not just the suspension." Elise stepped closer, lowering her voice so the technicians working nearby couldn't hear. "Pierre told me about the call. Visser's people are still out there. If they've compromised anyone else on the team, if they've found a way to interfere with the car tonight—"

"Then we'll deal with it when it happens." Julien reached out, his hand resting on her arm. The warmth of his touch cut through the dry air. "You said yourself—the evidence you gave the FIA was airtight. Marta's in custody. Bjorn's been stripped. Whatever remains, it's noise. The race is what matters."

Elise pulled up the team radio frequency on her screen. In the corner, the names of the mechanics and engineers who would be in the pit box during the race flickered. She'd vetted every one of them. Twice. But the unease remained.

"Julien, there's something else." She lowered her voice further. "The ultimatum. The sponsor—"

"I know." He cut her off gently. "I've known since Monza. I'm not an idiot, Elise. I saw the way you looked after that meeting. I did the math."

Her throat tightened. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you needed to tell me in your own time. Just like your sister." His hand moved from her arm to her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. "I'm not going to push you. But I need you to know—whether we win or lose tonight, I'm not going anywhere. The title matters. The sponsor matters. But you matter more."

For a long moment, Elise said nothing. The weight of all her secrets—her sister's crash, the cover-up, the months of lying—pressed down on her chest. She could see the truth in Julien's eyes. He waited.

She chose Option B.

"We're going to win this thing," she said, pulling up the strategy call on her screen. She typed a quick sequence, firing the revised plan to the pit wall. "I need you to trust me on this."

"I always have." Julien's smile was crooked. "Even when I doubted you publicly, I trusted you. It just took me too long to say it."

The garage door slid open as the support race ended. The mechanics moved into position, rolling the number eleven car toward the grid. Elise followed, her heart pounding against her ribs. The sun had fully set, and the circuit's floodlights painted everything in stark white and shadow.

"Two things," she said, catching Julien's arm before he climbed into the car. "First, the line through turn nineteen. At the end of the final stint, when your tires are at their peak and Bjorn's are fading, take the wide entry. You'll lose a tenth on entry but gain two on exit. He'll try to shut the door, but if you commit early enough, he can't."

Julien nodded, memorizing the instruction. "And second?"

Elise pulled out her phone. On the screen was a document she'd spent the last three hours composing. She handed it to Julien, who read it in silence, his expression shifting from confusion to recognition to something deeper.

"It's the full story," she said. "My sister. The crash. What I did. Every detail. I was going to give it to you after the race, but I realized—if something happens tonight, if I don't get the chance, I need you to know now."

Julien looked up from the phone, his eyes shining under the garage lights. "Elise—"

"Read it after the race." She gave him a weak smile. "Win first. Then we talk."

He folded the phone into the pocket of his race suit, its outline barely visible beneath the flame-retardant fabric. Then he pulled on his helmet and climbed into the car. The engine coughed to life, a low growl that vibrated through Elise's bones.

As the car rolled toward the pit exit, Elise turned to Pierre, who had appeared silently at her side. His face was drawn, his eyes scanning the pit lane with the alertness of a man who had learned to look for threats in every shadow.

"Any word from Visser's people?" she asked.

"Nothing since Austin." Pierre's voice was tight. "But that doesn't mean nothing's coming. The FIA surveillance report flagged unusual communications between the rival team and a non-credentialed number last night. Could be nothing. Could be them."

Elise's stomach dropped. She pulled up the race control feed on her tablet, watching the grid assemble. Julien sat in P4, behind Bjorn's Mercedes and two Ferraris. The aggressive strategy called for him to make up positions early, then hold the soft-tire advantage for the final charge.

"Find out who that number belongs to," she said. "I don't care what it takes. Before the race starts."

Pierre nodded and slipped away into the shadows of the garage.

Elise stood alone at the edge of the pit wall, watching the lights of the grid glimmer in the desert darkness. The championship would be decided in ninety minutes. The sponsor's fate would be sealed with the checkered flag. And somewhere in the shadows, Visser's unseen allies might be waiting to strike.

She pulled out her own phone, that one unread message still burning a hole in her pocket. The performance director's final warning, sent before his ban: *You think you've won. There are people who don't forget.*

Elise looked at the grid, at Julien's car gleaming under the floodlights, and typed a reply she never thought she'd send.

*Let them come.*