Until my Last Breath

88

Maranello, Italy

The pen was bigger in my hand back then.
I remember struggling to click it open, fumbling as Jules gently tapped the Ferrari contract in front of him. His eyes were teasing, warm. I was twelve and the world was gold - all sunshine and engine noise and dreams that felt just close enough to touch.

"Here," he said, sliding the paper toward me. "Sign next to me."

"I'm not even driving yet," I giggled.

"You will. One day, I'll be sitting in your press room," he smiled, tapping the space beside his own name. "And you'll sign your first contract with Ferrari. Just don't forget to invite me, alright?"

I remember grinning so wide my cheeks hurt.
I remember nodding like it was a promise I'd never let break.
I remember-

He never got to drive that car.

The 2014 season swallowed him whole.
And since then, I hadn't touched a Ferrari pen again.

Until now.

There are two men sitting across from me.
Both legends. Both wearing red.

Frédéric Vasseur's voice had faded to background noise the moment I sat down. Vettel's presence across the table should've jolted something in me - a younger version of me would've practically levitated from the chair - but right now, it's like I'm floating above the whole scene.

The manila folder lies closed in front of me. Heavy. Real. But it may as well be blank paper for all my brain can process.

"...a sudden retirement," Fred repeats gently, as though this is the second or third time he's said it. "Seb made the call over the break. He's stepping away before the season resumes."

I blink.
The room blinks with me.
My voice barely comes out. "Why?"

Vettel answers, calm and sure. "Because it's time."

That doesn't explain anything, but no one questions a man like him.

He turns to me, eyes kind. "And I wanted to choose the one person I knew would honor this seat. Someone who understands what Ferrari means."
A pause.
"You've got more Ferrari DNA than anyone I've ever met."

I laugh - but it comes out wrong. Not like joy. More like shock wearing joy's mask. My fingers stay frozen on the edge of the table.

"You want me?" I whisper.

"Yes," Fred says, gentle but firm.

Vettel nods. "We all agreed. It's yours."

The silence is loud. Deafening.

I don't cry. I don't even breathe properly. I just stare at the folder again, like it's a ghost, like it might disappear if I blink too long.

Why now?

Why this moment?

How is it that in the very same week my heart was shattered beyond recognition, I'm being handed the one thing I've been chasing since I was twelve? Since Jules?

It feels wrong.
It feels cruel.
It feels like I'm betraying myself by not feeling anything.

I hear myself say it before I can stop:
"Is this a joke?"

Fred doesn't flinch. "Not in the slightest."

I wish I could borrow it - just for a minute.
I wish I could call Jules.
I wish I could feel something.

Instead, all I say is, "Okay."

Fred smiles softly. "We'll give you some time to go through it. But everything's there. Once you're ready, you sign."