Chapter 1
Francesca
Suzuka City is home to the Japanese Global Prix circuit and has often been called the holy grail of motorsport. The figure-eight track was built in the early sixties as a test track for the major Japanese automotive titans and is known to be a significant test of a driver’s skill.
It’s the kind of race that reveals the drivers who truly belong in Formula International.
There are three tiers in Formula International. FI3 is where you learn how to race professionally—still brutal, still competitive, but more forgiving. FI2 is the true proving ground with heavier, faster cars and tougher competition. You either stand out or you vanish. My entire life in this sport has been a battle and I’ve clawed my way to the top by winning in wet conditions, passing veterans who thought I didn’t belong, and learning to hone my mental fortitude.
Now I’m in the top tier and the first woman in Formula International. I’ve got more to prove than I ever have.
I’ve raced Suzuka before—both times at the FI2 level—but leveling up to FI means my car is faster and stronger. That means the track is more dangerous. In FI2, the car gave me room to breathe, a steppingstone to the big leagues. Engines maxing out at 620 horsepower and top speeds of 322 kilometers per hour made for decent grip and control as you slingshot yourself around the track. You could even afford a slight misjudgment here or there and come away relatively unscathed.
FI doesn’t give second chances. These machines are heavier and hit 370 kilometers per hour on the straights. They corner with twice the downforce and pull Gs hard enough to leave bruises on your body. A millisecond of hesitation and you’re in the wall.
So while I’ve raced this before and have done sims of this track more times than I can remember, it’s a completely different beast today. One that could devour me whole.
The reality of that comes in waves. Sometimes it feels like it might drown me—the high expectations of Titans Racing pressing onto my chest like a cinder block. But there are times it sharpens and clears my focus.
Today… I’m not sure which version of the pressure I’m holding. Probably both.
The scent in the trailer is doing weird things to my nose. It’s a combination of rubber, oil and the faint trace of citrus from a diffuser someone plugged in near the engineering bay. I’m not sure I like it.
The air is electrified with excitement but tempered with tension. Calling this building a trailer is probably an understatement. It’s a custom-built, climate-controlled paddock unit that was flown here to Japan in a cargo plane. It’s one of several the Titans’ team hauls from circuit to circuit and they are plush. Inside, everything is lined in deep purple, gray and white, and there’s framed art that hangs on the walls. The team’s branding is everywhere, from the telemetry screens to the stitched Titans’ logos on every chair back.
It’s all stacked together with different areas like the garage, the briefing room, data stations, private space to suit up, and a hospitality suite that provides breakfast, lunch and dinner. It takes upward of a hundred people for every race including engineers, mechanics, electricians, pit-stop crew, caterers, waiters, chefs and medical staff.
Oh, and two drivers—me and Nash Sinclair.
When Brienne Norcross bought the Titans racing team last year, the reported figure was close to eight hundred million. And that’s just the acquisition cost. Running it? Easily another two hundred and fifty million a season once you factor in car development, travel, personnel, engineering, simulator tech, and media. The engines alone are worth several million each. The cars—built from handlaid carbon fiber, titanium and leading-edge tech—cost more than private jets and crash way more often.
Top drivers earn upwards of thirty million a year. As a rookie, I can still only dream of that type of money. Right now, I’m making a two and a half million base, with structured performance bonuses, and that’s fine by me. I didn’t level up to FI for the riches but to set records and beat all the boys.
I’ve earned my seat.
Outside, I can hear the clink of tools, the distant whine of a tire gun, the deeper rumble of an engine being turned over for another driver’s out-lap. I sit on the edge of the narrow bench seat in my designated space, fire suit peeled down to my waist. Gloves in my lap. Boots laced. Heart steady. For now, at least.
My fingers brush against the bracelet on my wrist—a slim silver chain with three charms: a tiny race car, a star and a violet enamel number seven. My mother gave it to me last night at dinner.
“What does it mean, Mamma?” I asked as I studied it.
Her lilting Italian accent rolled over me like a warm blanket. “The star is me, always watching over you. The car is a reminder to never stop loving the speed more than the spotlight. And number seven is how old you were when you first beat Alessio on a karting track.”
I laughed with delight because the charms have such meaning. I tap the star with my index finger. It’s a ridiculous thing to wear under a fire suit. Completely sentimental and wholly impractical, and yet I’ll never race without it.
My eyes are closed. I focus on the rhythm of my breath—inhale for four, hold for two, exhale for six. This is supposed to relax me, but instead I feel suffocated. I pace my dressing room, getting my head in the game for this first qualifying round. Not only is the spotlight on me because of what I represent to other females who want to be a part of this sport, but this is my Titans Racing debut.
Qualifying is simple on paper—three rounds, each one cutting the field smaller until the fastest ten fight for pole. In Q1, everyone goes out, and the slowest five are eliminated. Q2 repeats the process, trimming another group of five before the final qualifying round determines the order of the top ten.
The white Nomex of my undersuit clings to my arms, collar high against my neck. My boots are already on—black with matte purple trim, a perfect match for the updated Titans livery.
Thirty minutes.
I continue my strides back and forth across the room, trying to focus, but the memory of yesterday’s press conference flickers back like a video I didn’t ask to replay.
Some of the questions… ridiculous.
“Do you worry about how emotional you’ll be under pressure?”
“What message do you think your presence sends to little girls watching?”
“Is there a particular brand of foundation you recommend for under-helmet wear?”
That one was from a man, by the way.
I handled it exactly the way I was coached by our PR team by keeping my answers tight and professional. This would prevent them from twisting my words. They eventually got tired of my unwillingness to play and moved on to a dialogue that had to do with racing. But afterward, I spent an hour walking the paddock to stop myself from punching something.
I don’t want to be a symbol. I most certainly don’t want to be a gimmick. I want to drive—fast, focused and feared. I want them to talk about my cornering, my braking zones, my times—not my chromosomes. Or my mascara.
An unexpected knock sounds at the door, and I cross the room. Brienne Norcross, owner of Titans Racing and the Pittsburgh Titans hockey team, stands on the other side. Beautifully chic in pale slacks and a structured black blazer, her platinum-blond hair pulled into a sleek twist. She looks like she belongs on a Parisian runway, but she’s one of the most powerful and shrewd businesswomen in the world.
I blink. “Ms. Norcross.”
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” she says smoothly, her blue eyes quiet and assessing. “I wanted to speak with you privately before the noise starts.”
I step back and gesture my welcome. “Of course.”
She enters with the confidence most women fake, and most men find threatening.
“I know I saw you a week ago in Tuscany,” she says, studying my perched helmet. “I wanted to see how things were going.” She smiles faintly.
“That was business. This is… different.” A week ago, she offered me the second driver’s seat at Titans Racing. Probably the best day of my life. “It’s all been beyond my wildest dreams.”
She turns to me, quietly assessing. “Today is a monumental day in this sport’s history. All eyes are on you.”
With a tight throat, I nod.
She offers an empathetic smile. “I imagine the pressure’s been… intense.”
I manage a small laugh. “You could say that.”
“I’ve seen the headlines,” she says. “Heard the soundbites. Watched the commentary clips.”
My stomach knots. “It’s a circus.”
“It is,” she agrees. “But it’s not forever, and most importantly, it’s not why you’re here.”
I meet her eyes. “Sometimes it feels like it is.”
“I understand,” she says. “When I bought this race team, they called me a socialite with a hobby. Said I didn’t know the difference between a gearbox and a grapefruit. They said worse when I took over the hockey team.”
I blink. “Just because you’re a woman.”
“Just because I’m a woman,” she agrees. But her gaze sharpens. “So do you know what I did?”
I shake my head.
“I let results speak louder than outrage. I want you to do the same.”
A long silence stretches between us.
“You’re not here to carry the sport on your shoulders, Francesca. You’re here because you’re fast and because you’re the best damn option for this team. You were not hired because you’re a female.”
That lands like a weight—but not a burden. Perhaps a tether?
“I expect great things from you,” she continues. “Eventually. But today, I want one thing only—”
“Run a clean race,” I murmur.
She nods. “Trust yourself the way this team trusts you, and the rest will come.” She touches my arm briefly, then turns to go. When the door shuts, I let out a relieved breath.
Then I grab my helmet from the shelf and walk out.
Time to qualify.
***
The garage smells like rubber and people move in a well-choreographed dance. Mechanics do their thing—adjusting, checking, tightening. Engineers peer at telemetry on data screens. The strategists huddle, discussing contingencies. It’s incredible how many people are on this team and how each role is completely necessary for our success.
I cross the threshold and Bex Toliver, our chief race strategy engineer, is the first to meet my eye. She breaks into a grin. “You ready to knock the paddock on its ass?”
I smirk. “Wasn’t planning to ease into it.”
Bex hasn’t been with this team long, but she’s already made her presence known. Like me, she came up through FI2, where she earned a reputation for being calm under pressure and impossible to intimidate, even in the roughest pit lanes. When Brienne Norcross overhauled the team mid-season, Bex’s hire was a bold move that raised more than a few eyebrows given her lack of FI experience.
But no one questions her now.
Normally, a chief strategy engineer oversees the bigger picture—race strategy, data management, team coordination. They don’t usually handle one-on-one driver comms. But for my debut, Bex made it clear she’d be the one on my radio. She said it was important to her and I know this has everything to do with me being a woman. We’re both breaking new ground and she wants to be in the trenches with me.
She strides over, all quick confidence and utility boots, tablet in hand. “Track temps are holding, so as of now, we’re going soft tires for all three runs unless the skies do something stupid.”
“Copy,” I say. While I might have input on any strategy decisions, the final call is up to Bex. Good thing I trust her implicitly.
“We adjusted the front wing angle based on your feedback from yesterday’s free practice. I think you’ll notice less understeer into the Degner turns.”
“Awesome.”
The Degner turns are a brutal pair of corners—two sharp, back-to-back right-handers. The first one hits fast and if your line’s off by even a hair, the second will chew you up and spit you out. There’s no room for hesitation—brake too late and you’re gone, brake too early and you’re eating gravel.
“Also,” she adds, lowering her voice as she glances at her tablet, “you’re about to make history, so maybe try to have a little fun.”
A sound escapes me—half laugh, half scoff. “Right. I’ll do that while threading through Sector 1 at 280 kph.”
Bex just winks and steps aside as our team principal, Lorenzo Moretti, appears. Tall, broad-shouldered, always in a perfectly ironed shirt with the Titans’ logo on the breast pocket. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t need to shout because his words are so revered.
“Francesca,” he says, nodding once. “No pressure from us. Run your laps, do what you’ve trained for. You’re here because you earned it.”
I nod. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”
Behind him, Zach Lauren—our new chief engineer—offers a two-finger salute and a dry, “Let’s give ’em something to talk about.”
Zach came aboard at the same time as I did, after Brienne fired Hendrik Voss. While I only heard rumors, apparently, he was quite the misogynist and made Bex’s life a living hell. I’m glad I don’t have to put up with that bullshit. Zach oversees every layer of car performance across both garages, perhaps one of the most stressful jobs on the team. I swear, every time I climb into the car, the precision of a dozen engineering decisions stitched into every panel, every bolt, is palpable.
I spot Nash Sinclair, the team’s first driver, leaning against the pit wall divider, arms crossed over his chest. When our eyes meet, he pushes off the barrier and steps closer. “You got this. Just do what you do best.”
Nash is one of the most respected drivers on the grid and also happens to be dating Bex. He drives with a steady hand that doesn’t shake under pressure.
Three years ago, he was involved in a crash that left his car in flames. Another driver didn’t survive and Nash barely did—burns, surgeries, months in recovery. He walked away from FI after that, went to Open Wheel and tried to outrun his demons.
People thought he’d retire and frankly, most would have. But here he is, faster than ever, now sitting at the front of the grid.
“Thanks for the faith,” I say with a smile. “Good luck to you.”
We bump fists and then it’s game on.
I climb into the cockpit and harness myself in. One of the engineers gives it a tug. “Harness secure. We’re sending you out soon and it’s pretty open, so take advantage of the clean air.”
Just the asphalt and a shot at a clean flyer. “Copy.” My gloved hands wrap around the grips of my steering wheel, fingers checking the paddles, thumb testing radio and mode toggles.
“Telemetry is green,” I hear Zach say over comms. “ERS and fuel mode set. Tire blankets coming off.”
In other words, the car’s systems are all checked and good to go for my first lap out. ERS—my energy recovery system—is fully charged, fuel settings are optimized for a short, fast run, and once the tire blankets come off, I’ve got maybe thirty seconds to get rolling before the tires cool down. This lap has to count.
Outside, the team peels away the heaters. A tech plugs in the external starter and with a gruff cough, the engine kicks, rising to an angry idle. The wheel vibrates and the whole chassis pulses under my seat.
“All right,” Bex says. “Release when ready.”
I flick the clutch paddle, feel the brakes bite, and pull out into pit lane. I trundle toward the exit, waiting for the green, and my pulse hammers in my veins. Once released, I bury the throttle, the engine howls and I surge forward. The pit wall blurs past, grandstands rise ahead, and then the first corner barrels toward me.
I hit Turn 1 clean and my Sector 1 time flashes purple—fastest of the session.
“Nice work,” Bex’s voice filters in, not excited, but calm and measured. “Keep pushing.”
I do. Through the turns, chicanes… faster than instinct should allow. The car hums beneath me and everything I ask of it is returned in razor-sharp performance. Into Degner, the first one fast, the second curve tighter. I brake later than I ever would’ve dared in FI2, and the car sticks like it’s wired to the track. Adrenaline surges, my confidence mounting.
Under the bridge now and everything feels good. It’s as if I’m part of the car, driving faster than I ever have before. I do this knowing that I must have better focus. Mistakes can be deadly.
I throttle out of a hairpin and let the car pull wide, ready to kick it up another notch.
But just ahead, a car drifts into my line and I recognize it as Ronan Barnes. He’s on an outlap and has to yield to me.
Except he doesn’t.
“Car ahead not moving!” I snap into the comm.
“He’s being shown blue flags,” Bex replies, clipped. “Hold pace if you can. You’re faster.”
Blue flags mean move. If you’re not on a timed lap and someone behind you is, you yield—simple as that. It’s not just etiquette, it’s a rule. But sometimes egos get in the way, and the flag might as well be invisible. No one has a bigger ego in FI than Ronan Barnes.
I close the gap but he’s too close, causing me to dip a tire into the grass to avoid kissing his gearbox. I throw the car wide, my entire rhythm taking a nosedive. My lap time is toast.
“Box, box,” Bex says, and I hear the frustration humming in her tone. “Abort the lap.”
As I swing left into pit entry, I mutter, “Unbelievable. Tell me you’re reporting that.”
“Already noted by Race Control,” Bex says. “We’ll reset and go again.”
Ronan Barnes.
Too gorgeous for his own good and the cocky attitude to match. I’ve known him for years—karting, FI3, FI2. Always the same swagger, the same smirk beneath dazzling blue eyes. He’s brilliant, fast and never plays nice.
He comes from serious money—the kind that shows up in tailored suits and headlines the tabloids. His reputation off-track is the cliched playboy, but on the track he’s a calculated tactician. The quality he has in both places—cold as ice.
And just now? He blocked me. On purpose or not, I don’t care. I’m not letting it slide.
Not today.
I coast into the garage, heart pounding.
And I’m already thinking about what I’ll say to him when I see him.
