Until my Last Breath

96

Paris, France

"Chin up just a little-perfect," says the photographer.

I stand still, letting the camera steal the last pieces of my energy while the painkillers do their job in a quiet war inside me. My shoulder aches in a dull, stubborn way, but I can breathe through it. The doctor had been hesitant to clear me, but somehow, Marina worked a miracle.

The supportive brace is gone - medically approved, sure. But I feel its absence like a phantom limb.

"Did you take everything?" Charles asks quietly beside me. "The pain meds, the anti-inflammatories?"

"Yes, mama," I murmur with a tired smile, smoothing the red satin of my dress with one good hand.

He gives me a look. The Charles look - the one he gives Arthur whenever he lies about his lap times. Then his eyes soften. "You look beautiful."

I do. I know I do. This is the one thing I let myself control tonight - the armor.

A blood-red, backless Valentino gown hugs my body like a glove, the silk catching light like molten fire. My hair is pulled into a clean chignon, exposing the soft column of my neck, earrings glittering like starlight. Ferrari red. For Jules. For strength. For defiance. For everything I wish I could forget.

Charles, in his deep burgundy velvet suit, stands beside me like the world's most reluctant royal. He adjusts the collar of his jacket, then reaches for the m helmet I'll be wearing at our grand entrance .

My hands hover near it. "I'll take it," I say. My voice is steady. Trained.

Charles hesitates.

"Rita..."

"I can carry it. It's just one arm."

He lets go. Slowly. Carefully.

We take a final photo. One for Ferrari. One for the headlines. Two helmets, two drivers, one legacy.

The car outside is waiting - a rare, nearly mythical Ferrari SP1 Monza. Cameras mounted on the dashboard, crew cars tailing us like paparazzi. We're meant to be the grand entrance.

Charles takes the lead, striding ahead toward his own vehicle. I follow, heels clicking against the marble of the hotel steps. But the cameras can't see inside my chest. They can't see what's unspooling there like a wire about to snap.

Because I watched it.

I watched him.

Even as Charles begged me not to - told me it would ruin the night, that it wasn't worth it - I watched every second of that damn ceremony while my makeup artist pinned in my final hairpiece.

And when they called his name- Pablo Gavi, winner of the Kopa Trophy - I felt the sharpest pain of the night.

Not my shoulder. Not even close.

Because I saw it.
The pride in his eyes. The way he stood there in his tuxedo, stunned and glowing. The speech. His voice.
And worse-
The way she kissed him, without hesitation, like she owned him.

I didn't realize I had teared up until the makeup artist cursed softly and reached for a tissue. I let her fix it. I said nothing.

Charles had noticed. Of course he had. He didn't say a word, just placed a gentle hand on my knee and stayed quiet.

Now, behind the wheel of the Ferrari I try to breathe through the swell of nausea that grips my ribs like a vice.

This was supposed to be symbolic. Honoring excellence. Carrying the sport forward. But to me, it feels like driving straight into the lion's den.