The Grudge •||• PA17

•||•

Ahead, Kimi's launch wasn't perfect. I was already alongside him as we barreled toward La Source, the tight right-hander at the top of the hill. My heart hammered as I braked late, tires squealing, nose inching ahead.

For a heartbeat, I thought I had him.

But Kimi fought back, braking even later, throwing his car into the corner with reckless precision. I had to back out or risk contact. My wheel shuddered as I tucked behind him on the exit, frustration bubbling in my chest.

"Good launch, Viviana," the radio said calmly. "Hold P3, nice and steady."

Nice and steady. Easier said than done.

Behind me, chaos. In the mirrors, two cars tangled, carbon fiber shattering in a spray of debris. Yellow flags waved briefly at Les Combes, marshals sprinting to clear the mess.

Through it all, one flash of blue and white cut through the grid like a knife. Paul. He had already sliced past two cars before Eau Rouge. By the time we climbed through Raidillon, he was P5.

"Of course he is," I muttered.

...

By lap three, the field had started to stabilize. Martens led, Kimi harried him relentlessly, and I stayed close behind, waiting, watching. The gap between us was never more than a second. The slipstream down Kemmel was strong enough to keep me in touch, but not strong enough to push me through.

The car felt balanced, alive beneath me. Eau Rouge was pure instinct, dive, compress, hold your breath, burst into the light at Raidillon before the Kemmel straight stretched ahead like a ribbon. Each time, I gained on Kimi, only for him to block me off.

And then there was Paul.

His pace was frightening. From P7 to P5 in one lap, and by lap five, he was looming in my mirrors, the dark shape of his car glued to me. He was patient, too. Not rushing. Studying me, corner after corner, as though he knew exactly where I'd crack. Which, he knew.

"Paul behind, 0.8 seconds," my engineer warned.

As if I hadn't noticed.

At Pouhon, he darted left. At Blanchimont, he closed in, testing me, forcing me to defend every line. My heartbeat matched the rhythm of the engine, quick and uneven.

For two laps, I held him off. But on lap seven, he finally found the opening.

Kemmel straight. DRS. His car surged past mine with clinical precision, barely an inch to spare. I tried to fight it, but he was gone before I could blink.

"Paul Aron, up to P4," the commentator's voice thundered over the speakers.

I clenched my jaw, half furious, half... something else.

...

Once Paul cleared me, he wasted no time. Within three laps, he had reeled Kimi and Martens in. I stayed close enough to watch, my eyes flicking between the track ahead and the dance playing out just beyond my reach.

Lap ten. Paul launched an audacious move on Kimi into Les Combes, late braking, locking briefly before slipping past. For a second, they were wheel to wheel, and I thought for sure they'd collide. My breath caught.

But Paul held firm, Kimi forced wide. By Bruxelles, the move was done.

"Paul Aron to P2," the commentator bellowed.

One lap later, it was Martens' turn. Down Kemmel, Paul tucked into the slipstream, waited until the last second, and dove. Tires screamed, sparks flew, but when the dust settled, Paul was ahead.

"Paul Aron takes the lead at Spa!"

The grandstands erupted.

The last two laps blurred. I pushed as hard as I could, chasing shadows, but the gap was too big. My tires were fading, my arms aching, and all I could do was hold onto P4.

Ahead, Paul crossed the finish line with a triumphant roar from the crowd, fist punching the air. Kimi followed in third, his voice tight with frustration on the radio.

I rolled across in fourth, my chest tight. It wasn't bad. It was solid. But compared to Paul's charge from seventh to first, it felt hollow.

...

The second I pulled into parc fermé, the contrast hit me like a punch.

Paul leapt from his car, mechanics swarming him, arms clapping his back, his grin blinding. The crowd chanted his name. Kimi ripped his helmet off, muttering angrily, though I knew he respected the fight deep down.

I climbed out slowly, helmet tucked under my arm. My heart was still racing, but it wasn't the adrenaline of finishing fourth. It was the way Paul looked across the chaos, champagne dripping from his hair, eyes locking with mine like it was just the two of us.

That smirk. Half victory, half something unspoken, sent my pulse skittering.

I turned away quickly, pretending to fuss with my gloves.

Tomorrow was Sunday. The real race. And after what I'd just seen, I knew one thing for certain.

Paul Aron was going to make it impossible for me to ignore him.

welcome guyss

this is a shorter chapter compared to the other one, but the next chapter will be long also. a lot of details coming up.

and we're getting closer to the race now, i'm super excited!!

hope yall liked this chapter, take careee💞

xoxo, your favourite author😋🫶🏻