“Now, I love my nephew with every beat of my heart,” Holmes continues from up front. “And I can’t be more thrilled to see him competing again. I was the one who taught him how to drive, after all.” He pauses to let that showstopping history tidbit sink in. “So you can imagine the pride I feel when he’s out there. But this decision has been made with the team and the Constructors in mind. As always, the clock doesn’t lie, and the best man wins.”
Said no rich man ever. Anxiety swells in my gut, my mind replaying every school-of-hard-knocks lesson I was taught too young about men like Holmes who clamor into the spotlight with big smiles and bigger promises. And as he vanishes in a cloud of applause, I notice Delaney’s hands are folded neatly in her lap. “Fuck this,” she mutters.
Blame my sleep-deprived brain and lack of vegan protein for not expecting that to come out of her usually tight-lipped mouth. “Yeah, that was weird. Are you okay?”
“No.” She picks at the single chip in her shiny pink manicure. “This isn’t about Faust. It isn’t even about dangling Monza like a carrot in front of Arthur. Have you seen the news yet?”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond and slips her phone out. With a tap, there’s an article on her screen:Ignition F1 Team Negotiating for New U.S. Circuit.“What?Where?” I blurt out, stealing her phone. Why haven’t I seen this yet? This is—this industry moves too fast.
“Between Los Angeles and Palm Springs,” she says dryly. “Right where they think Americans will pay the most attention to F1. Also, right by Ignition’s California factory, which is surely a coincidence.”
“But what does that have to do with Arthur and the seat?”
“It’s the movie. I’ve heard whispers about this all year. Ignitionis desperate to build the U.S. fanbase as the only American team on the grid. Holmes is going to use the profits from your documentary as a bartering chip with F1’s media division—they’re the company that holds the commercial rights to the sport itself. And now that Arthur’s healthy and winning again?” She lets out an angry laugh. “Unless he can get out of his contract, Holmes is going to force Arthur to be the face of the filmandIgnition. It’s a win-win for him. Millions of dollars from your film and the new circuit, the Bianco family legacy on screens across the country, and never letting his nephew go. Arthur certainly won’t see any of that money.”
All my blood exits my body, leaving behind an iceberg of guilt. This was what Arthur wanted to discuss earlier.
This is why I need to remain emotionless toward him.
“But what if—theoretically—Arthur had another offer from a different team? Can’t they pay for him to leave Ignition? Arthur’s contract has to have some kind of release option.”
“Lilah,” she says in a low but patient voice, “Arthur doesn’t have a good contract. There was nothing I could do—he wouldn’t listen to me and signed it anyway, back when he thought no other team would want to take him. Before he knew Holmes had taken the team principal position—”
“But he can still get out of it, can’t he?”
“As of tonight, Arthur’s release clause is set at sixty million dollars,” Delaney whispers. “And any time he drives a race for Ignition and wins points for the team, that number goes up by ten percent. That’s how much another team would need to pay to get him.”
Oh shit. Oh—fuck. I swallow, then swallow again, slightly sickened by hearing that number said out loud. I can’t comprehend that much money. That’s one million dollars, sixty times, and when I think about it like that, my breath begins coming out too fast. I’m disembodied as Sarah leans over, whispering, “Would they reallytreat him like that?”—her surprise and hurt making me feel worse. And just as Max appears, a concerned expression on his face, I excuse myself and walk away, past him and Sarah and Delaney and this tangled Shakespearean mess.
Out on the cobblestone street in front of the restaurant, I put my hands on my knees and force my lungs to work. This isn’t just about ruining Max’s shitty pseudo-documentary anymore, or even making my own film. Unless Arthur and I can figure out a way to pull off our plan with this much money at stake, Arthur is doomed by the narrative—and my last name will forever be associated with the film that trapped him in his gilded cage. Why didn’t Arthur tell me there was a real Faustian bargain at play here? I would’ve been taking it easier on him. I would’ve understood that his cocky attitude and brash humor were ways to deflect.
Probably.
Maybe.
Either way, before now, I’d thought of Arthur as an unstoppable force, and me the sole immovable object accidentally placed in his path. Like he’d said, Formula 1 drivers get what they want.
Was that a lie, too?
“Hey.”
I look up.
Arthur’s standing in front of me.
Warm light filters down from tall black streetlights, painting him in dappled yellow and shadows. His thumbs are hooked in his pants pockets, back sloped, shoulders loose and relaxed. He’s the picture of English countryside: crisp white cotton shirt, airy pants, leather belt, leather shoes. He looks unsurprised to see me here, in front of the restaurant, spiraling by myself. It’s like he knew I’d be melting down as the sun set, and timed his entrance accordingly.
“Did they make the announcement?” he asks softly.
I straighten up. Push my own emotions to the side and say, “Yeah. I’m sorry.” And then I remember how sorry I am, and add, “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have bailed on you earlier. Delaney told me what’s going on.”
Arthur’s eyebrows pinch in the middle, mouth folding into an unreadable expression. Either he’s touched that I’m apologizing for Holmes’s treatment or his mind is somewhere completely untraceable, since he says, “Leone had agreed to pay what my release clause was set at before, but if the price keeps going up, I’m worried I need to make Holmes fire me—well, not worried, but with teams, driver prices can be a matter of pride, and now that Faust is out and I’m in…”
He’s not getting to the point. I haven’t seen Arthur at a loss for words before, looking at me like he needs me to figure out what he’s trying to say, and something about his vulnerability is like an espresso shot straight to the mind. “It’s okay to be worried. What can I do to help?”
Arthur’s eyes dance over my features, and I might be wrong, since daylight is fading and my brain is scrambled, but he looks grateful for my quick affirmation. “I don’t know,” he says. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“Me?”
