The in-lap is a slow, sacred pilgrimage. I weave the car from one side of the track to the other, a gesture meant to gather rubber on the tires, but for me, it feels like a final, sweeping farewell to the ghosts that have haunted this circuit. The digital display on my steering wheel flashes P1. The world championship is mine.
Ben is still sobbing on the radio, punctuated by the raucous cheers of the garage. “You did it, Chloe. You b****y well did it.”
I pull into parc fermé, the designated area for the top three cars, and kill the engine. The sudden silence is deafening, a vacuum where the roar of the V6 had been my entire reality. For a moment, I just sit there, cocooned in the tight embrace of the cockpit, my gloved hands resting on the wheel. This small, carbon-fiber space was my cru
