“Copy.”
Lap after lap, the same thing.Henri flew through the tunnel, that brief respite from the rain where the car suddenly found grip, but the moment we emerged back into the downpour, heading toward the chicane, he hesitated.
What was going on in there?
By lap twenty, the rain had eased from downpour to persistent drizzle.Not enough to switch to better rain tires yet, but the track was slowly improving.The racing line started to darken as water cleared from the most used parts of the asphalt.
“Rain’s easing,” Mark reported.“Give it another ten laps, and we’ll look at changing tires.Most other drivers will probably pit between laps thirty and thirty-five.”
“Copy.”
I stayed glued to Henri’s gearbox, close enough to see every correction, every moment of doubt.The rain lessened, visibility improving from terrible to merely bad.And still, every lap, Henri hesitated after the hairpin.
By lap thirty, the rain had reduced enough to switch tires.
“Box this lap,” Mark said.“Window’s open, and we need to be aggressive.”Both teams had the same idea, and we both headed into the pit lane.
“Shit!”I yelled when I pulled out just behind Henri.Our stops had been almost the same.
“Rain’s holding steady,” Mark reported.“Just mist for the rest of the race.”
I had to find a spot to make my move.The track conditions were perfect for my driving style: commitment rewarded, hesitation punished, and this race wasn’t over yet.
Henri was still hesitating, and each lap, I closed the gap—three, two-point-five, then two.
“He’s losing time through that part of the track every lap,” Mark said, and I could hear the excitement building in his voice.Mark didn’t have to say the quiet part out loud.
Pass him here, or accept second place.
By lap fifty-five, I was right behind Henri, close enough to see his helmet moving in the cockpit.It was now or never.I went for it at the hairpin, diving inside, my front wing practically kissing his rear tire in the spray, but he was ready for me.His car went wide enough to box me out, forcing me to lift or lose the front of my car.
I swore under my breath, biting back the urge to punch the steering wheel in frustration.
“Not yet,” Mark said quietly, maddeningly calm.“Patience, Lil.”
I reset my breathing and waited.The city opened into the harbor straight, water glittering through the mist beside the track, mega-yachts bobbing in their slips as attendees watched from under awnings.
I found his rear tires again through the spray.He reached the turn again, heading toward the hairpin in the mist.
And again, as he exited, he lifted.
But this time I was ready, and I went for it.
The move was pure instinct, the kind you don’t think about or you’ll ruin it, the kind that separates drivers from champions.I dove inside through the mist and the spray, the walls close enough that I could have reached out and scraped paint off them if my hands weren’t locked on the wheel.For a second, we were side by side, two streaks of color threading through a space not meant for more than one car.
Hold.Please hold.
And then, just as I was sure we’d run out of space, he faltered.A tiny lift, a fractional backing off, that gave me the sliver of room I needed.
“Holy shit!”I’d passed Henri Dubois.
At Monaco.In the rain.
“Yes!”Mark screamed into the radio, and I’d never heard him sound like that—pure, unfiltered joy and disbelief.“Lily, you absolute mad genius!”
The last twenty laps blurred into a fever dream.Henri stayed close, but he never mounted a real challenge.Whatever demon he was fighting in that sequence, it held him back just enough.
The final lap barely felt real.The city passed in snapshots through the mist, and when the checkered flag waved through the light rain, I screamed into my helmet with everything I had, my voice going hoarse, my hands shaking on the wheel.