Read Chapter 32: Collision Course

The vibration through the steering wheel wasn't just the track—it was the engine note rising past 12,000 rpm, a scream that Julien felt in his teeth as he swept through Turn 11, the rear end skating just millimeters from the gravel trap. Ahead, Hartmann's Red Bull had pulled a half-second gap in the final stint, the German's tires a lap fresher, the advantage compounding with every corner.

"Two laps to go, Julien. Hartmann's pushing too hard into Turn 1. He's been locking the fronts. The line we ran in FP3—outside on entry, square off the apex, carry the exit speed down the hill. He won't expect you there."

Elise's voice in his ear was calm, almost clinical, but Julien could hear the tension beneath it. She had been like that all race—measured, precise, a scalpel where his own instinct wanted a hammer. He'd fought her on the rear wing setting in the morning briefing, insisting on more downforce, and she had shown him the telemetry from Hartmann's last three races, proving the German's car understeered in traffic. Elise had been right. She was always right.

"Copy. Outside in Turn 1."

He flicked the DRS open on the main straight, the drag reduction pulling the car forward as Hartmann weaved defensively, a late block that Julien read a full second early. He swung left, then right, giving the Red Bull just enough doubt, then cut back to the outside line. Hartmann's car twitched as he saw the movement, overcorrected, and Julien was alongside by the braking zone.

They entered Turn 1 side by side, carbon fiber nearly touching at 180 miles per hour.

Julien held the outside line, the track falling away beneath him as he carried more speed through the curve, the tires howling in protest. Hartmann tried to squeeze him, the Red Bull's nose edging toward Julien's cockpit, but there was no room. The outside line Elise had given him was wider through the apex, and it meant he could hold the throttle a fraction longer. He emerged ahead by half a car length.

"Clean pass. He's dropping back. One lap to go. Bjorn is running P4—he's not a threat to the championship if you finish here."

Bjorn. The name still tasted wrong in Julien's mouth, the teammate who had been racing him all season, unknowingly buoyed by a conspiracy that had nearly destroyed them both. But that was over now. This was just the track, the car, the final lap of a season that had nearly killed them both.

Lap 71. The last lap of the longest year of his life.

Julien pushed through the final chicane, the car dancing on the edge of adhesion, every input from his hands born of a decade of racing instincts, sharpened by Elise's relentless preparation. Hartmann had fallen to 1.2 seconds back, no longer a threat. The championship was his if he could just keep the car on the black stuff.

Then the engine note changed. A high, metallic whine beneath the normal scream.

"Julien, box box—I'm seeing a fuel pressure anomaly."

"No. We finish this."

The radio crackled, and for a moment he heard Elise inhale, ready to challenge him, and then the whine stabilized. He could have laughed. She'd built this car with her own hands, calibrated every sensor, and still she trusted his instincts on the one thing that mattered most: knowing when the car would hold.

He crossed the line.

The checkered flag snapped above him, and the crowd's roar reached him even through the helmet, a wall of sound that swallowed the engine noise. For a heartbeat, nothing existed but the white line at the edge of the track, the vibration of the tires, the absurd realization that he had done it. World Champion.

"Julien. Julien, you did it."

Elise's voice cracked on the last word, and it was that—not the crowd, not the flag—that broke something loose in his chest. He slowed the car, the radio filling with the team's screams, the garage erupting in pandemonium that he could only imagine, but all he could hear was her.

"Where are you?"

"Pit wall. We're all here. Everyone's—Julien, you won."

He didn't remember pulling into the cool-down lap or parking the car. He only remembered the helmet coming off, the heat of the Abu Dhabi sun, and then he was climbing out of the cockpit and she was there, running toward him in her fireproofs, her hair escaping from the bun she always wore at the track.

He caught her before she could stop, lifting her off the ground as she laughed, a sound he'd rarely heard from her, pure and unguarded. She smelled of motor oil and sweat and something floral that didn't survive the garage, and he held her for a moment longer than he should have, the noise of the team fading around them.

"You called the line," he said, setting her down. "That pass was yours."

Elise shook her head, tears streaking clean lines through the grime on her cheeks. "You drove it. I just—I just did my job."

Julien looked at her, at the engineer who had rebuilt his car and his faith, who had trusted him when the whole world whispered sabotage and betrayal. The man who had once questioned her in front of the paddock stood there now, wordless.

"No," he said, quiet enough that only she could hear. "You did so much more than your job."

The team surged around them, champagne exploding in the air, and Julien let himself be pulled into the madness, one arm still wrapped around Elise's shoulders, holding her close as the trophy waited and the cameras flashed.

She was the reason he was standing here.

For now, that was enough to say.