One month later
“Amy, you withheld information from us.”
I kept my back straight, fingers laced tightly in my lap, trying not to let them see the way my heart was pounding.
“I didn’t withhold anything,” I replied, voice calm despite the tension in the room. “It was a personal experiment. One I never submitted because it wasn’t developed using McLaren data or tech.”
The technical director leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “So you just happened to create a full aero-balance redesign for a 2024-spec chassis, on your own time, with no intention of bringing it to us?”
“I didn’t even know it worked until I saw the data from—”
I stopped myself. My jaw locked.
From Charles' car. That was what I wasn’t supposed to say.
Another director cut in, tone clipped. “You had something potentially game-changing in your hands, and instead of bringing it to your team, you ran off and gave it to Ferrari.”
“I didn’t give anything to anyone,” I snapped before I could stop myself. “I didn’t even use your wind tunnel. It was a theoretical model I built from scratch. No McLaren resources, no McLaren time. It wasn’t even developed on our simulator.”
“And yet Ferrari tested it,” he said coldly.
No one said Charles. But we all knew.
I inhaled slowly. “Just Once. Out of curiosity.”
Another voice, more irritated than the others: “You work for McLaren, Amy. Not for curiosity. Not for Charles Leclerc.”
“Hand it over,” the technical director said, voice sharp like a blade.
My fingers stiffened around the pen I wasn’t even using. “Excuse me?”
“The project,” he repeated, slower this time, like I hadn’t heard him right the first time. “The setup you tested. The full model. All the data. Every note, every version, every file. We want all of it.”
I looked around the room. Three directors and one legal advisor, all of them staring at me from across the long glass table. Faces unreadable. Expressions flat. But there was a pressure in the air, thick and suffocating.
“I already told you,” I began, voice steady even though my stomach was tightening, “I created that setup on my own time. I didn’t use any McLaren tools, any tech, or any data from inside this team. It was purely conceptual—”
“But it worked,” one of them interrupted. “You tested it. On a Ferrari.”
My jaw clenched. “It wasn’t an official test. It wasn’t part of any development program."
"Yet the model can optimized the suspension load balance and reduce tire degradation by 23%"
“That wasn’t the plan,” I snapped, finally losing the calm I’d been clinging to. “It wasn’t meant to go that far. I shared it because I was curious. Because I wanted to see if it could work.”
“Well, it does,” the legal advisor said flatly. “And now it’s a matter of intellectual property.”
My heart started to race. “No,” I said, firmly this time. “This isn’t your IP. I designed it from scratch. I used no proprietary information. You want to call your lawyers? Fine. But I’ve documented every step. Every sketch, every test, every line of code. On my personal account. With timestamps. You can’t claim this.”
“Technically, anything developed while you’re under contract with McLaren—” the legal rep started, but the director raised a hand.
“This isn’t about a legal war,” he said. “It’s about the future of this team. We are not letting Ferrari, of all people, take something developed by a McLaren engineer."
“I haven’t given them anything,” I said. “And I won’t.”
A pause fell over the room. Long. Still. Dangerous.
“Then we need you to submit the full project to us,” he said. “Today.”
I stared at him. “You’re not hearing me.”
“No, you’re not hearing us,” he said. “If you refuse to cooperate, we’ll have to re-evaluate your position here.”
My throat dried up.
There it was.
The threat.
Subtle, quiet, but very, very real.
All I’d ever wanted was to be respected for my work. For my ideas. For my mind. And now, the very thing I’d built on my own—something I’d put hours into, nights into, heart into—they wanted to take.
And suddenly, I wasn’t sure if this was still the team I thought I belonged to.
----
I waited outside Zak’s office longer than I’d like to admit. My fingers tapped anxiously against my thigh, and I rehearsed the words over and over in my head. Calm. Rational. Convincing.
But the second I walked in and saw the tight line of his jaw, I knew it wouldn’t matter.
“I just need you to hear me out,” I said quickly, standing instead of sitting. “The setup wasn’t developed using any McLaren data. Not even indirectly. I worked on it in my own time, on my own terms. It’s mine.”
Zak didn’t even blink. “That doesn’t change the fact that you’re under contract, Amy.”
“I didn’t breach anything,” I said, trying not to let frustration creep into my voice. “You can check the logs, I didn’t use a single McLaren resource. I didn’t even access the simulations here. I kept it separate for a reason.”
He sighed, running a hand down his face. “The board’s furious. You had something that could’ve made a difference and you sat on it. You gave it to Ferrari.”
“I didn’t give anything to Ferrari.” My chest burned. “It was a test, and it didn’t even go anywhere—”
“But it could have,” he cut in. “That’s the point. They’re asking for the full project, Amy. They want the data, the calculations, everything.”
My stomach dropped. “You’re siding with them?”
Zak looked at me with something close to sympathy. “It’s out of my hands.”
----
The next few days were a blur of anger and disbelief. I barely slept, barely ate. Every time I opened my inbox and saw the reminder from the board—72 hours to deliver the full project or face immediate contract termination—my blood boiled all over again.
I’d given everything to that team. Every late night, every ounce of creativity I had, every instinct I’d honed over years. And now they were treating me like I’d stolen something.
I didn’t step foot in the garage. I couldn’t.
People were whispering. I felt it in every sideways glance, in every forced smile in the hallway. No one asked how I was. Maybe they already chose sides.
In my apartment, I paced the living room, my laptop open but untouched on the table. The setup file just sat there, encrypted, like it was mocking me. They wanted it. They demanded it.
-----
I stared at the blinking cursor on my screen for a full minute before I closed the laptop.
Enough was enough.
If they wanted to play dirty, I could play louder.
That night, I went live.
No warnings. No PR team. No script.
Just me, sitting on the floor of my living room, hair still damp from the shower, heart pounding like a damn drum in my chest.
“Hi,” I said, the chat already lighting up. “Amy Carter here. Former lead strategist. Currently… very tired of bullshit.”
I took a deep breath, then dove in.
“I created a new setup. From scratch. On my time. With zero McLaren data, zero team technology, and zero intention of hiding anything. But when the directors found out… they didn’t ask questions. They gave me an ultimatum: hand it over or lose everything.”
I let the silence stretch, eyes locked on the lens like I was daring someone to challenge me.
“I won’t be blackmailed. And I sure as hell won’t let anyone treat my ideas like property.”
My voice dropped, steady as steel.
“As of tonight, I’m terminating my contract with McLaren.”
The chat exploded.
But I wasn’t done.
“If there’s any team out there looking for someone who won’t follow orders blindly, who’ll fight for every fraction of a second like it’s life or death—then consider this your lucky day. I’m available. And I’ve got a setup that could flip this grid on its head.”
I ended the live with a slow exhale.
And for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel cornered.
----
Less than an hour after I ended the live, my phone buzzed non-stop.
First, an email from one of the biggest teams in Formula 1. Then another. And another. Six teams in total, each sending a proposal with a sense of urgency that was almost palpable.
The messages were practically identical: “We’ve seen your live, we’re interested in discussing terms, and we want that setup.”
And it didn’t stop there.
My inbox was flooded. Not just by managers and executives — but by drivers. Current F1 drivers. Former ones. Reserve drivers. Even a couple from Formula E. All of them saying the same thing in different words: “You did the right thing.”
Some expressed admiration. Others shared stories of similar injustices. A few were more direct — asking if I’d be willing to build something together. If I ever thought I’d be unemployed after walking away from McLaren, that fear had vanished in seconds.
Support poured in from people I never imagined. Some I barely knew. Some I used to work with. Even one or two I clashed with in the paddock.
I wasn’t alone.
I couldn’t help but laugh, despite the mess I had just created for myself. The last few months had felt like I was constantly running against a wall. But here I was, taking down entire buildings with a single live stream.
-----
The rest of the week felt like living in the eye of a hurricane.
Everything around me was moving too fast, spinning with a force I couldn’t quite control — yet, somehow, I stood right in the center of it, calm. Focused.
By the end of the second day, I had nearly a dozen options lined up.
Each conversation carried a different tone. Some were strictly business. Others, hopeful.
And then there were those who seemed to want to offer not just a job — but a home.
And for the first time in months, I allowed myself to think about what I wanted. Not what was expected of me, not what was logical or strategic.
What I wanted.
I started touring houses. Nothing too grand. I wasn’t looking for space or luxury — just something that felt like mine.
Something permanent. Or, at least, semi-permanent.
A place where I could breathe.
I hadn’t realized how tired I was of not belonging anywhere.
Of sleeping in guest rooms, temporary flats, hotels, or apartments that still smelled like someone else’s life.
I looked at places in Germany, in France, in Holland.
Places close to the teams I was considering.
Places where I could maybe start again.
And somewhere between the third tour of the day and the fifth espresso I didn’t need, I had a quiet realization:
In the span of a single year, I had moved more than most people do in a lifetime.
-----
I finally said yes to the meeting with Ferrari.
It hadn’t been an option at first. Not for me.
Not after everything.
But by the time their fourth email hit my inbox — this one more personal, signed directly by someone from the technical board — I figured… listening wouldn’t hurt.
I didn’t owe them anything.
I didn’t owe him anything.
And so, on a gray Tuesday morning, I walked through the familiar red gates of the Maranello factory. The place that once felt like a dream. And then like a battlefield.
Now? It felt like something else entirely.
Carlos was the first familiar face I saw. He was coming out of a meeting room, laughing at something on his phone, when he looked up and did a double take.
“Amy?” His smile widened with genuine surprise. “I thought you’d never set foot in here again.”
“Same,” I replied, with a shrug and a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.
He hugged me anyway, warm and casual. No awkwardness. Just Carlos being Carlos.
He always knew how to make things feel lighter.
We chatted briefly before he was pulled away, and I continued down the hall, guided by the assistant who had been waiting for me.
We turned a corner—
And there he was.
He was coming from the opposite end of the corridor, talking to someone from the team, and for a moment, he didn’t see me.
But I saw him.
The way his hand moved as he explained something, that furrow between his brows when he got too focused. The familiar walk. The way he ran a hand through his hair out of pure habit.
Then his eyes met mine.
Everything slowed for a second.
His steps faltered.
His expression shifted — not surprised, not shocked… just unreadable.
And then I kept walking.
Because I had a meeting to attend. And a decision to make.
------
The meeting lasted longer than I expected.
What I thought would be a polite, thirty-minute conversation turned into a two-hour deep dive into strategy, resources, and what they were willing to build — around me.
They didn’t just want the setup.
They wanted me. My ideas, my leadership, my stubborn obsession with the smallest details.
And they weren’t subtle about it. The numbers on the offer were generous. The creative freedom? Even more so. They made it clear they were willing to restructure part of the engineering department if that meant having me on board.
It was more than I’d expected. Way more.
I sat at the long, sleek table in their glass-walled meeting room, listening to their pitch and wondering, for the first time in a long time, if coming back here might not be such a terrible idea after all.
Before I even asked, they addressed the obvious.
Given my history with Charles — the very public, very complicated history — their initial proposal was that I work with Carlos. A clean slate. No headlines. No tension. No ghosts of whatever-the-hell we were.
I appreciated the consideration. Honestly, I did.
They’d clearly thought this through, not just from a technical standpoint, but from a human one. It wasn’t just about lap times and setups. It was about stability. Team chemistry. And not throwing a grenade into their own garage.
Carlos was a solid driver. Smart, precise, easy to talk to — when he wasn’t busy making everything a joke. We got along. We always had. Working with him would be… comfortable. Predictable. Safe.
When the meeting ended, they asked me to take my time.
They said the offer would stay on the table for as long as I needed.
I nodded, shook hands, and stepped out of the room — my mind already spinning.
-----
To my surprise, Charles was waiting outside the meeting room.
I saw him before he saw me — leaning against the wall like he hadn’t been pacing there for who knows how long. His arms were crossed, his jaw tight, eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds. Like he was preparing for a storm.
Fred stepped out first, clearly not expecting Charles to still be there.
“Charles,” he said, voice low, firm. “Now is not the time. Let her think.”
“I just want to talk,” Charles replied, his voice quiet but steady. “Deux minutes, c’est tout.”
Fred sighed, glancing over his shoulder — probably to make sure I was still coming. I was. Slowly.
“She doesn’t owe you anything,” Fred added under his breath.
“I know,” Charles said, eyes meeting mine just as I stepped out. “But I’m still going to ask.”
And just like that, Fred gave me a look — the kind that said you don’t have to do this — before walking away, leaving the hallway oddly silent
-----
I stood there for a second, unsure if I wanted to walk away or walk straight into whatever this was about to be. But Charles didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just looked at me like he was trying to read everything I wasn’t saying.
So I broke the silence.
“You’re really going to ambush me at my own meeting?”
His lips lifted slightly, but it wasn’t a smile. “You weren’t answering my messages.”
“Didn’t realize I owed you that courtesy.”
He nodded slowly, taking the hit. “Fair.”
A pause stretched between us, taut and heavy.
“I heard you were here,” he said finally. “But I didn’t think you’d actually stay for the full pitch.”
“They were… convincing,” I admitted, folding my arms.
His brows lifted, hopeful. “So you’re considering it?”
“I haven’t decided anything.”
Charles ran a hand through his hair, clearly fighting back something — frustration, nerves, maybe both. “Look, I know what happened between us... complicates everything. But I meant what I said in Monaco. I never wanted to lose you professionally. I respect you. I trust you. And if there’s any part of you that still believes we made a good team—”
“Charles,” I cut him off softly. “This isn’t just about the team. It’s not about you. It’s about what I want now.”
He looked at me like he was bracing for a blow. “And do you know what that is?”
“I just—” He exhaled, then leaned back slightly against the wall, his voice quieter. “I didn’t expect to see you walk through that door today and feel like I could breathe again.”
I froze. My fingers curled around the folder I hadn’t realized I was still holding.
“I’m not saying this to mess with your head,” he continued. “I know you don’t trust me with that anymore. But I need you to know that… it meant something. Seeing you in that room. Hearing your name again during strategy talks. I’ve missed that more than I ever let myself admit.”
I looked down at the floor for a second, collecting myself. “Charles, this isn’t going to work if you’re doing this again.”
“Doing what?”
“Turning this into something personal. Every time I try to take a step forward professionally, you show up with feelings and unfinished sentences.”
He didn’t deny it. Just pushed off the wall and took a careful step forward. “Then let me say it clearly this time. I want to work with you again. Just that. No strings. No expectations. You choose your terms."
I looked at him, really looked at him, and something in my chest ached.
“I don’t know if you want me back because it’s me,” I said quietly. “Or because you think I’ll help you win this championship.”
His eyes flickered, the smallest crack in his composure.
“It’s been a while since I could tell the difference, Charles,” I added. “Since I knew where your love ended and your ambition began. Maybe you don’t even know anymore.”
Charles stepped closer, his expression growing more serious. The intensity in his eyes seemed to amplify, his usual confident demeanor giving way to something more vulnerable.
"Amy," he started, his voice low and deliberate, "I’m not trying to confuse you or make this harder than it needs to be. I want you for you. Not because of what you bring to the team or any championship points. I want you back because of who you are. The way you think, the way you challenge me, the way you make me see things differently. It’s always been you. Not the job, not the results, just... you."
His words hung in the air, almost too heavy to process. I had to step back for a moment, trying to make sense of everything he was saying. Could I really believe him this time?
I crossed my arms, trying to hold my ground, my mind racing with everything we’d been through.
"I’m not sure I can just take your word for it," I said, my voice steady, though inside I felt like I was unraveling. "But... let me make something clear. If I do come back to Ferrari, I’ll be working with Carlos. No question about it. So, if that’s something you can handle... then maybe we can talk."
I watched his face carefully, waiting for his reaction. A flicker of something passed through his eyes, but he didn’t flinch.
"Then I’ll accept that," he said, the words coming with surprising ease. "I just want you on the team. I don’t care who you work with. You’re the one I want. And if it means working with Carlos, I’m okay with that. I just want you in the garage again, Amy. That’s all I’m asking for."
I took a deep breath, my emotions torn between doubt and a small flicker of hope. Was this the moment I’d been waiting for? Or would it be another disappointment?
"I need time," I said finally, my voice firmer now. "To really think about it. I won’t rush into anything."
"Take all the time you need," he replied, his voice steady. "I’m not going anywhere."
-----
While I was still stuck in a conversation that had long crossed the line of polite and ventured deep into social torture territory, my eyes kept drifting toward the open space of the Ferrari factory. A few of my former colleagues were way too excited to update me on every little thing that had happened in the past months—details I honestly couldn’t care less about.
It wasn’t until a loud laugh echoed from down the hall that my attention snapped.
“What’s going on over there?” I asked, subtly leaning to get a better look.
One of the engineers chuckled.
“Carlos and Charles. They’re doing one of those social media challenges for the Ferrari channel. I think it’s the ‘Who Knows Who Better’ one.”
Of course.
I tried not to show how badly I wanted to escape this conversation and go see what kind of nonsense they were up to. Part of me knew it was probably not a good idea. Another part had already decided to move.
Another laugh—this time unmistakably Charles’—bounced off the corridor walls, and that sealed it. My legs moved before I gave them permission.
I turned the corner and found them sitting on tall stools, surrounded by a small media crew and a couple of cameras. Carlos had a card in his hand, grinning like a man with evil plans. Charles was halfway through chewing something that looked suspicious at best.
“How many times have I crashed on the first lap of a race?” Carlos read, eyes gleaming.
“That’s a trap!” Charles shot back, eyes wide. “You’re setting me up!”
“Answer or eat this,” Carlos said, holding up a piece of bread topped with pickles, mustard, and what looked suspiciously like Nutella.
Charles made a dramatic face while the crew burst into laughter.
For a moment—just a second—I forgot the mess, the stress, everything. There they were: laughing, being idiots, just... being normal. Something I hadn’t seen in a long time.
Charles noticed me before I could turn away. His smile shifted—still real, but softer now. He tilted his chin up slightly in acknowledgment but didn’t say anything.
-----
I was halfway down the hallway, bag in hand, already planning which playlist I’d blast in the car, when I heard his voice behind me.
“Amy.”
I stopped. Took a breath. Turned slowly.
Charles stood near the doorway of the drivers' lounge, casual but clearly waiting. Like he’d known I’d try to slip away.
“You’re leaving?” he asked, stepping closer, hands in his pockets.
“I have things to do,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “A lot, actually.”
“Stay for lunch.”
His tone was easy, like it wasn’t a loaded question. Like it didn’t carry weight between the lines.
I gave him a small smile. “I really can’t. Too much going on.”
He nodded, lips pressed together. “Okay. What about tomorrow? We could grab something after your meetings.”
“I’m not around tomorrow,” I said, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. “Kate and I are going to Portofino for a few days. Girls' trip. Sun, food, zero responsibility.”
His brows lifted. “Portofino, huh? That sounds dangerously relaxing.”
“That’s the point.”
He hesitated for a second, then leaned slightly closer. “Then let me take you somewhere this weekend. Just us. No pressure, no racing talk. Just... time.”
I glanced at him, heart stupidly fluttering at how he said it—like he already knew I’d say no and was still hoping I wouldn’t.
“I see what you’re doing,” I said softly. “You’re trying to catch me before I disappear again.”
“Can you blame me?” he asked, voice equally quiet.
I didn’t answer. Just looked at him for a long second, searching his face. Then I exhaled.
“I’ll think about it.”
He smiled—small, hopeful, and just a little victorious.
“Safe trip to Portofino, Amy.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
And then I turned and walked away, pulse loud in my ears.