Until my Last Breath

89

Maranello, Italy

The seat fitting was surreal.

I'd been to Maranello before - as a reserve, as a guest, as a wide-eyed girl who grew up tracing Jules' legacy like scripture. But this time was different. This time, it was mine.

Mine.

There's something about the moment they slide the shell around your body - the carbon hugging your ribs like a second spine - that makes it real. My knees tucked in close, my elbows pressed at that awkward angle only drivers know. We spent nearly five hours making microscopic adjustments. A little more padding here. A tighter grip there. They even molded the seat foam twice - I was being annoying about the way my lower back sat. Perfectionism, or nerves. Maybe both.

Then came the fireproofs. Then the radio check. Then the silence.

And for a moment, just a flicker, I saw Jules sitting across from me. His old seat being adjusted by the same engineers. His laughter echoing through the corridor. I closed my eyes, let the image stay, even if it shattered something in me.

Everyone was smiling around me. The photos had already made it to the press. It's official now: Rita Bianchi, Ferrari F1 Driver. The first woman in red. The one who made it.

And I am greatful. God, I am.

I'm grateful in a way words can't touch - like this deep reverence growing inside my chest. Like every version of me - the girl who watched Charles from the pit wall, the one who used to sleep in her Prema jacket because she was scared it'd be taken away - is finally breathing easy.

People keep calling me history. A symbol. A breakthrough. I smile for the cameras. I take the interviews. I accept the praise.

But when I come home... it's just quiet.

My phone doesn't light up with his name anymore.

The first night after the announcement, I laid in bed for hours staring at the ceiling. Wondering if he saw it. If his chest ached a little like mine. If he knew how badly I still wanted him to be proud of me - even now.

Especially now.

Because when something like this happens - when your dream folds into reality - you just want to turn to the person you love most and say, We did it.

But he's not here.

And no matter how many red suits they give me, how many engineers shake my hand, how many engines fire under my name - that emptiness lingers. Not loud. Not violent.

Just... quiet.

So yeah.

The seat's mine.

But tonight, the side of the bed he used to lay on is still cold.

And that's the part no one talks about.

-
The mascara brush sweeps over my lashes one last time as I blink at my reflection. Not much has changed in my face - but somehow I look older today. Or maybe just heavier with meaning.

The makeup artist steps back, gives me a smile like I just passed a final exam. My lips are a soft red. Not Ferrari red. Something quieter.

"Tu es prête?"
I turn, catching Pascale's reflection in the mirror before I see her in person. She's already tearing up - her voice soft, eyes glassy. Her hand lifts to her heart like she's physically trying to hold it together.

I nod. "I think I am."

The black blazer fits like it was made for me. Sleek, sharp. The iconic Ferrari shield stitched just above my chest, so close to my heart I can feel it with every breath. I paired it with a tailored skirt that cuts just above the knee, and my heels click softly against the floor as I rise.