His Ultimate Prize

Beyond the bright lights of the circuit that turned night into day at the Singapore Grand Prix thousands of fans would be watching.

As would Marco.

He hadn’t spoken to her since that night on his sofa in London, but he’d attended every race since the season had resumed and Sasha knew he was somewhere above her, in the exclusive VIP suite of the team’s motor home, hosting the Prime Minister, royalty and a never-ending stream of celebrities.

Some time during the sleepless night, when she’d been looking down at the race track from her hotel room, she’d wondered whether he’d even bother to grace the pit with his presence if she made it onto that final elusive step on the podium. Or whether he would be too preoccupied with entertaining his latest flame—the blonde daughter of an Italian textile magnate who never seemed far from his side nowadays.

She tried desperately to block him from her mind. Taking pole position today—a dream she’d held for longer than she could remember—should be making her ecstatic. She was one step further towards removing the dark stain of her father’s shame from people’s minds. To finally removing herself from Derek’s malingering shadow.

Yet all she could think about was Marco and their conversation in London.

She clenched her teeth in frustration and breathed in deeply.

Luke’s voice piped through her helmet, disrupting her thoughts.

‘Adjust your clutch—’

She flicked the switch before he’d finished speaking. The sheer force of her will to win was a force field around her. Finally she found the zen she desperately craved.

Focusing, she followed the red lights as they lit up one by one. Adrenaline rushed faster, followed a second later by the drag of the powerful car as she pointed it towards the first corner.

She made it by the skin of her teeth, narrowly missing the front wing of the number two driver. Her stomach churned through lap after gruelling lap, even after she’d established a healthy distance between her and the car behind.

What seemed like an eternity later, after a frenzied race, including an unscheduled pitstop that had raised the hairs on her arms, she heard the frenzied shouts of her race engineer in her ear.

‘You won! Sasha, you won the Singapore Grand Prix!’

Tears prickled her eyes even as her fist pumped through the air. Her father’s face floated through her mind and a sense of peace settled momentarily over her. It was broken a second later by the sound of the crowd’s deafening roar.

Exiting the car, Sasha squinted through the bright flashes of the paparazzi, desperate to see familiar hazel eyes through the sea of faces screaming her name.

No Marco.

A stab of disappointment hollowed out her stomach. With a sense of detachment, she accepted the congratulations of her fellow drivers and blinked back tears through the British national anthem.

Dad would be proud, she reminded herself fiercely. He was all that mattered. Plastering a smile on her face, she accepted her trophy from the Prime Minister.

This was what she wanted. What she’d fought for. The team—her team—were cheering wildly. Yet Sasha felt numb inside.

Fighting the alarming emptiness, she picked up the obligatory champagne magnum, letting the spray loose over her fellow podium winners. Brusquely she told herself to live in the moment, to enjoy the dream-come-true experience of winning her first race.

Camera flashes blinded her as she stepped off the podium. When it cleared Tom stood in front of her, a huge grin on his face.

‘I knew you could do it! Prepare yourself, Sasha. Your world’s about to rock!’

The obligatory press conference for the top three winning drivers took half an hour. When she emerged, Tom grabbed her arm and steered her towards the bank of reporters waiting behind the barriers.

‘Tom, I don’t really want—’

‘You’ve just won your first race. “I don’t really want” shouldn’t feature in your vocabulary. The world’s your oyster.’

But I don’t want the world, she screamed silently. I want Marco. I want not to feel alone on a night like this.

Feeling the stupid tears build again, Sasha rapidly blinked them back as a microphone was thrust in her face.

‘How does it feel to be the first woman to win the Singapore Grand Prix?’

From deep inside she summoned a smile. ‘Just as brilliant as the first man felt when he won, I expect.’

Beside her she heard Tom’s sharp intake of breath.

Behave, Sasha.

‘Are you still involved with Rafael de Cervantes?’ asked an odious reporter she recognised from a Brazilian sports channel.

‘Rafael and I were never involved. We’re just friends.’

‘So now he’s in a coma there’s nothing to stop you from switching friendships to his brother, no?’