Until my Last Breath

26

Barcelona, Spain

I sit atop Daisy, the reins loosely gathered in my hands, her familiar rhythm beneath me a small comfort against the chaos in my mind. Her soft snorts and the quiet clop of her hooves on the dirt trail are the only sounds breaking the stillness of the countryside. The air smells like fresh earth and pine, and the sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the ground with shifting patterns. It should calm me. It usually does.

But not today.

Today, my chest feels like it's going to explode from the sheer weight of everything I've bottled up these past weeks.

I press my heels lightly against Daisy's sides, urging her into a canter. She responds instantly, her strong legs carrying us forward with more urgency than usual. Maybe she can feel my tension, the anger radiating off me in waves. I've barely spoken to anyone since that call with Marina-no texts, no calls, nothing. My phone sits abandoned somewhere in the house, buzzing with unread messages from Arthur, Charles, and even Pascal .

Arthur even flew all the way here last week, pounding on my door for hours before finally giving up and leaving a note. I didn't read it. I can't face him, or anyone else for that matter. No one knows what actually happened with Darwin behind the scenes, and the weight of that secret presses harder on me every day.

I tug the reins slightly to guide Daisy onto a narrower trail. Her ears flick back toward me, but she follows without hesitation. I let her move into a gallop, the wind tearing through my hair and stinging my face. For a brief moment, the world blurs, and I feel something close to freedom.

But then it all comes crashing back.

Darwin's words on that interview. The viral posts dissecting every moment of my career. The comments questioning my mental stability, my competence, my very right to compete. And the ones that cut the deepest-the posts debating if women as a whole even belong in motorsport.

I grit my teeth, leaning closer to Daisy's neck as we speed down the trail. My hands tighten on the reins, my knuckles white.

How dare they? How dare he?

The anger surges again, white-hot and relentless. It's the kind of fury that makes me want to scream until my throat is raw, to punch something until my hands bleed. But I can't. Not yet. Not when the decision looms over me like a storm cloud, suffocating in its enormity.

Do I expose him? Do I tell the world what he tried to do to me that night, the way his hand lingered too long, the way he crossed boundaries I'd never agreed to? The thought of it makes my stomach churn, the shame and rage intertwining in a sickening knot.

Or do I let it go? Stay silent, like so many others have? Pretend it never happened and hope that this storm will pass on its own?

Daisy suddenly stumbles, her hoof catching on a hidden root. The jolt snaps me out of my thoughts, and I instinctively pull the reins to steady her. She recovers quickly, but the sudden motion throws me off balance, and I feel myself slipping sideways.

"Merde," I gasp, gripping the saddle desperately.

But it's too late. I hit the ground hard, my shoulder taking most of the impact. The wind is knocked out of me, and for a moment, I just lie there, staring up at the canopy of trees above. Daisy stops a few feet ahead, turning her head to look at me with what I can only describe as horsey concern.

I sit up slowly, wincing as pain radiates through my shoulder. My hand stings, and when I look down, I see a nasty gash across my palm, blood welling up and dripping onto the dirt.