Page 137 of Off the Grid

“Yes, Riggs. Yes,” Hank shouts, excitement in his voice. “You’re currently P3.”

And P3 I finish.

A podium.

My first fucking podium in F1.

My head spins with elation.

I pull up to the marker and my chest aches from holding back the elation.

I’m out of the car.

I’m jumping into the arms of my crew.

And then it’s all a blur. The trophy. The champagne spraying. The sting of it in my eyes. The ache of the smile on my cheeks.

The whole fucking experience.

I soak it in. Every damn bit.

But as the adrenaline subsides.

As the euphoria fades.

I realize that my actions in the moment may have been justified—in my head anyway—but they sure as hell weren’t sanctioned.

And when the cameras leave, when the press moves on to the next driver, I’m walking into a garage and a loaded situation.

Fuck.

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CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Camilla

“You know what to do for me.”

I look at my dad and hate the churning in my gut. I know what he’s asking of me and it’s so cruel in nature, but only because of who he’s asking me to do it to.

I nod, wanting to ask him again if he’s sure he’s not feeling up to doing it, but know how that will look.

Weak.

Showing favoritism.

Obvious.

“I do.”

“Hank already gave him the first warning. Moretti protocol is upper management gives the next.”

Of course, it is. And of course, today is a day where my father’s illness is more present than not.

“And you need to go down and address him in front of the crew. Right now. They need to know that we, the management, make the calls. That we stand up for them when their driver ignores their requests. That we notice it wasn’t their error in judgment.”

“But . . . he took a podium. It’s not like he went against Hank’s direct order. Hell, he never even gave him an answer—”