Until my Last Breath

79

Zandvoort, The netherlands

"WHAt?!"

The scream rips out of me before I can stop it - raw, broken, like something deep inside me just snapped. The phone slips from my hand and lands on the hotel bed with a soft, meaningless thud, completely at odds with the chaos spiraling inside me.

Marina's voice still echoes in my head, cruel and impossible.

"I tried, Rita. I really did. But they insist... they want you to drive Max's car."

Everything stops.
The air. My breath. My heart.
Silence - and then the sound of my pulse roaring in my ears.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, staring at the floor like it might offer an explanation. But there's nothing. Just the crushing weight of betrayal pressing down on my chest until it hurts to breathe.

Max's car.
The one he wrecked last week. The one they couldn't fully rebuild.
They want me to drive that.

Even after I secured pole.
Even after I gave them their best Saturday result of the season.
Even after every lap I bled into that track yesterday.

How dare they.

My fingers scramble for the phone again - scrolling through messages, emails, anything - desperate for logic, for someone to tell me it's a mistake, that Marina misunderstood. But nothing. No replies. Just the same cold digital silence from the same people who call me family when the cameras are on.

I clench my jaw so tight it aches. My hands are shaking.

What more do I have to do?
What else do they want from me?

I stand suddenly, the movement jerky, angry. I pace the room like a caged animal.
They say I'm a Red Bull driver, but today I feel like a puppet. A placeholder. The girl who gets paraded around in press conferences and then shoved aside when the real decisions are made.

I fought for that pole. Fought with everything I had. Every corner, every millisecond, every ounce of instinct and grit - mine. Not gifted. Not inherited. Earned.

And now they want to throw me in a ticking time bomb of carbon fiber and lies just to make sure their golden boy gets the better chassis?

My eyes sting.

I take a breath, but it shudders on the way out.

I want to scream again. Want to throw something, break something, be heard.

But no one's listening.
Not Christian. Not Mick. Not the endless line of men behind strategy meetings and polite smiles.

I sit back down slowly, staring at the wall in front of me. The weight of it all settles into my chest, heavy and cold.

My phone buzzes once - a news alert. Probably a headline praising me for yesterday's lap, celebrating the girl who dared to outqualify Max Verstappen.

If only they knew.

I reach for the phone, but I don't open the alert.
I don't want praise.
I want respect.

And if they won't give it to me, then I'll take it myself - even if it means walking into that garage tomorrow and strapping into a car they built to break me.

-

The rage in my chest has been burning all morning. Now it's a wildfire.

I walk with purpose, weaving past toolkits and fuel rigs until I reach the slim hallway that leads to Christian Horner's office. I raise my hand and knock - sharp and deliberate, no hesitation.