Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
A single message - from her.
Don’t let me down, Moreau. I’ve got money on you.
I smirk, a slow curl of satisfaction spreading through me.
Of course she does.
I can picture her now, sitting up in VIP, champagne in hand, wearing the dress I picked out for her, watching me, cheering for me, betting on me.
Fucking intoxicating.
I type out a quick reply.
You bet on me? Smart girl.
I send it, pocket my phone, and push the distraction away.
Right now, there’s only one thing that matters.
Winning.
* * *
“Five minutes until formation lap.”
The call crackles over the team radio as I step into the garage.
Mechanics are making their final checks: rear wing adjustments, last-minute tweaks on tire pressures, radios buzzing with last-second strategy confirmations.
I move towards the car, my heartbeat steady, my mind locked in.
The helmet is placed into my hands, and I lower it onto my head, the world around me muffling as the padding seals me in.
A deep breath.
I slide into the cockpit, feeling the familiar embrace of the machine around me, the seat molded perfectly to my body.
Straps tighten. Hands on the wheel. Fingers flex.
I toggle the radio. “Radio check.”
"Copy, loud and clear," Matthieu replies. "Final thoughts?”
I exhale, rolling my neck. "Let’s bring it home."
"That’s what I like to hear. Get ready for the formation lap."
Engines roar around me as the grid begins to form.
I look up at the grandstands; at the thousands of fans, at the gleaming yachts lined up along the harbour.
And then, just before my visor lowers - just before I shut out the world - my eyes flick up towards the VIP balcony.
I know she’s up there.
And fuck, I hope she’s watching.
Because this race, this win -
It’s going to be for her.
* * *
Everything outside the car ceases to exist.
This is where I belong.
The world beyond the grid - beyond the roar of these engines and the precision of these machines - fades into irrelevance.
I tighten my grip on the wheel, my gloved fingers flexing against the smooth material.
The engineers have done their job. The setup is exactly where I need it to be. The car feels responsive, sharp, like a predator coiled to strike.
Matthieu’s voice crackles into my ear through the radio.
"Alright, Frederic, you’re starting P2. Front left might need management toward the second stint. Eyes on Turn 1 - keep it clean, keep it tight. We go aggressive on strategy if we have the gap."
"Copy that."
One last deep breath. One last roll of my shoulders.
The lights go red.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Blackout.
I launch.
The rear tires grip perfectly as I shift through the gears, feeling the balance of power, the connection between me and the asphalt. We barrel down towards Sainte-Dévote, the tight right-hand corner that has decided more Monaco races than I care to count.
I’m alongside the pole sitter.
He covers the inside line, but I stay aggressive, forcing him to defend hard into the turn.
We go wheel to wheel, inches apart.
My car twitches as I hit the bump in the road just before the braking zone, but I hold firm.
It’s too narrow to make the move stick - for now.
I slot in behind him, keeping the pressure on.
Monaco isn’t about all-out pace. It’s about perfection.
Every lap. Every millimeter. Every single corner taken with ruthless precision.
Lap after lap, I stalk him. The soft tires feel good - balance is there.
By Lap 12, he’s struggling on traction out of Portier, just before the tunnel; and I see the gap before it’s even there.
I shift down, commit to the throttle early, and get the slipstream as we roar through the tunnel at almost 280.
We burst into daylight, nearing the Nouvelle Chicane.
I dart to the inside.
He sees it too late. He squeezes me, but I hold firm - elbows out, full commitment.
By the time we hit the braking zone, I’ve already won.
I cut across him, slam the car down into second gear, hit the apex, and power out onto the short straight.
"YES, MOREAU! You’re P1!"
I exhale sharply, barely allowing myself to register the satisfaction.
Now?
Now, the real work begins.
* * *
Monaco is a bastard to overtake on. Track position is king.
Which means the next phase of this race is about tire management, patience, and precision.
Every lap, every braking zone, I’m calculating, making micro-adjustments.
Turn 3, Massenet, is where I feel the rear start to slide a little. The degradation is coming.
"Box, box."
I dive into the pit lane, hitting the limiter perfectly. The crew is waiting - surgical, precise and lethal.
I hit my marks.
2.3 seconds.
The front jacks drop, and I launch back onto the track, rejoining in clean air -
Exactly as planned.
Now, I push.
I light up the new hard tires, building temperature into them through the tight Monaco streets.
The pit wall updates me. The guy I overtook is still out. His team is trying to overcut me.
Not a fucking chance.
I hammer out three consecutive fastest laps. Purple sectors everywhere.