It all came down to this, Matthew thought.

Not literally. He was, Matthew reflected wryly, being incredibly dramatic; there were nine races still left in the season. Russia. Japan. Abu Dhabi. But if Matthew won at Monza, then he would be leading the World Championship for the first time. And he could wipe that fucking smile right off Walsh's face.

It would feel good.

So damn good.

Matthew started his engine. The pit crew scattered, and then it was just the twenty drivers on the grid, staring up at five lights.

All five lights blinked on.

Ahead of him, Lucas shifted in his seat. He looked nervous. Good. Matthew's fingers tightened on the wheel, his body tensing.

The lights turned off.

Matthew shot forward. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he rounded the first corner, his car frothing at the mouth, biting at Lucas's tail. He stomped on the throttle. Monza was known for its fast straights — the "Cathedral of Speed," as some people called it — and most drivers zipped along at 360 kilometres.

Except for Matthew, of course.

He pushed 380.

"Matthew?" Alek's voice crackled over the headset. "Take care of your tyres. I repeat, take care of your tyres."

Matthew took a tight corner, his wheels squealing.

"Carr?" Alek sounded annoyed, now. "Did you hear what I—?"

"Copy," Matthew grunted.

Matthew slowed. Just a little. Enough to appease Alek, anyway, who went silent. There were still 50 laps to go, he thought grimly; plenty of time for a big push at the end.

Saint Lucas wouldn't know what hit him.

The laps flew by. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. Box. Forty. Matthew could hear the screams of the crowd, see the dancing red figures blurring past. The Italian Grand Prix was always the biggest race for Ferrari; winning here meant more to him than anywhere else. Except for maybe Silverstone, Matthew's home turf.

The headset crackled. "Lap fifty. Three to go."

Matthew gritted his teeth. "What's the distance to Walsh?"

"Focus on your race."

"Alek," Matthew snapped. "How far to Walsh?"

"One second." Alek sounded wary. "But don't race him, Matthew. That's an order."

Like hell.

Matthew sped up. Another lap passed. His chest tightened, his palms growing sweaty on the wheel. Shit. Lucas was fast today — faster than Matthew was, anyway — and he was defending his position well. There was no way to pass Walsh on any of the usual corners.

He'd have to surprise him.

Matthew waited until a tight corner. Then he shot forward, going for the inside line. Alek came on the headset.

"Carr. Don't overtake."

Matthew ignored him, pressing hard on the accelerator.

"Matthew!" Alek snarled. "I said—"

"Too late."

Matthew was squeezed between Lucas and the wall. One wrong move, and he'd be crushed against the boards. Lucas knew it; he jerked his car towards Matthew, and their tyres would have collided if Matthew didn't slam on the accelerator.

Matthew shot out in front.

The crowd went mad.

People jumped to their feet, stomping and hollering, a veritable sea of poppies. A bubble swelled in his chest. Joy? Pride? Relief? Matthew shot past the finish line, and the cheers grew louder, a raucous, deafening mess of cheers.

Matthew's eyes burned, and he was suddenly grateful to be wearing a helmet. Christ. He'd actually done it. He was leading the Championship.

His radio crackled. "P1. That's P1, Matthew. Fantastic drive, mate."

"Alek?" Matthew asked incredulously.

He knew it wasn't. The Ferrari Team Manager never sounded that happy, and he'd certainly never use the word fantastic. The voice turned sheepish.

"No. It's John."

"Where's Alek?"

Matthew couldn't remember the last time his race engineer, John, had actually spoken to his during a race. Alek took a rather unorthodox method of leaving his drivers in silence, and then seizing the microphone and shouting at them.

"He left," John said. "Two minutes ago."

"Why?"

"Er." John sounded awkward. "I'm not entirely sure. He swore quite a few times and then stormed off. Something about the last straw and consequences."

The bubble burst.

Matthew parked the car, his heart racing. Shit. He hadn't thought this part of his plan through. Would Alek really kick him off the team for disobeying orders? Not if he became World Champion, surely. Not if he—

A loud whoop interrupted his thoughts.

"Bravo, fratello!" Cedro surged towards the car. "Amazing."

Noah thumped him on the back. "You've only gone and bloody done it!"

Both boys were beaming ear-to-ear, their hair a mess and their cheeks flushed. Then again, Cedro was always flushed, so Matthew wasn't entirely sure that counted. He climbed out of the car, scanning the cheering crowd.

"Where's Alek?"

Cedro and Noah exchanged a look.

"Why?" Cedro asked.

"I need to find him." Matthew smiled mechanically as several pit crew members slapped his back. "Have you seen him?"

Cedro's smile dimmed. "What did you do, Matt?"

"Nothing."

Noah's face changed. "You did something stupid, didn't you? To overtake Lucas." He blew out a breath. "For fuck's sake, Carr."

"It's fine," Matthew said gruffly. "It's done with."

Matthew scanned the crowd. It was a riot of crimson, a million poppies bending towards him. Someone had let off a red smoke flare, and it curled above the stands like some ancient, dozing dragon. Finally, his eyes caught on someone familiar.

But it wasn't Alek; it was Isla.

And she looked livid.

"You promised me," Isla said.

She was standing with her arms folded, looking menacing in front of a coffee machine. Unfortunately, Matthew thought, the coffee machine ruined the effect; it was covered in Ferrari racing stickers, and someone had put a little plaque on it that read "I Don't Start Working Until My Coffee Does." In fact, the whole breakroom was decorated with little signs and flags, giving the overall impression of a teacher's fourth-grade classroom.

"I never promised anything," Matthew said.

"Back in Monaco," Isla reminded him. "When I was bandaging your arm, you promised me that you wouldn't do anything stupid." Her eyes narrowed. "Especially with Lucas."

"I promised you I wouldn't for that race," Matthew pointed out. "Not forever."

Isla looked incredulous. "Are we really going to discuss semantics right now?"

"I love semantics," Matthew said mildly. "Linguistic ambiguity is my bread and butter. Without it, I'd be nothing."

"Don't be cute."

Matthew smirked. "You think I'm—?"

"Matthew," Isla said. "Seriously. I'm not in the mood."

She turned around, fiddling with the coffee maker. It was too late in the day for coffee — going on six o'clock, in fact — but Matthew got the sense that she just didn't want to look at him. Her hands trembled as she scooped out the ground beans. It was that more than anything that sobered him.

"I'm sorry," Matthew said.

Isla paused. "You are?"

"Not for what I did," Matthew said quickly. "God help me, but I can't be sorry for beating Walsh. But I am sorry that I worried you. That was never my intention."

She set down the coffee grinds, her back to him. "You could have died."

"But I didn't."

"Lucas almost pushed you into the wall." Isla's voice was tight. "You would have been crushed."

Matthew sighed. "You'll have to take that one up with Walsh, I'm afraid."

Isla doled out the coffee grinds. She flipped on the machine with slightly more force than necessary, slamming a cup against the counter. Matthew got the sense that she was pretending it was his head.

"I'm just trying to understand," Isla said. "I don't get why you're so desperate to win." She chewed at a fingernail. "Can you explain it to me?"

"I could," Matthew said.

Isla waited. When it became clear that Matthew wasn't going to offer anything else, she stiffened. "More semantics."

"Sorry," Matthew said automatically. "It's a hard habit to break. Look, I..." He frowned, trying to mould the words like clay, to form them into an Isla-like shape.

Inspiration struck.

"Okay, it's like this," Matthew said. "Imagine that you have a very ill patient. You know that if you keep him in hospital that there's a better chance of recovery, but your patient wants to go to France. He wants to see the Eiffel Tower, and eat croissants, and ride down the Seine on some hideously expensive boat. It's his dream."

Isla frowned. "I don't follow."

Matthew leaned forward in his chair. "What do you do, Isla? Do you keep your patient in hospital and play it safe, knowing that he might survive to live a mediocre life? Or do you risk it all and let him try for something magical?"

Isla started the coffee. For a moment, there was only the low hum of the machine, the trickle of liquid pouring into a cup. She turned to face him.

"I understand," Isla said softly. "You think this is a dream worth dying for."

Relief swelled in him. "Yes. Exactly. So you see what I—"

"I understand," Isla repeated, holding up a hand, "but I don't agree with you, Matthew. I can't keep going through this again. I can't sit by the side of a racetrack and wonder if what I said to you this morning was the last conversation we'll ever have. If you want me in your life — if you want this to work — then this can't happen again. No more stupid decisions."

Matthew looked away. "It's not that easy."

"It should be."

"I just..."

Words failed him. Matthew was unfamiliar with the sensation. When Isla spoke, her voice was even, although the coffee cup shook in her hands.

"It's simple, really," she said. "You can have me, or you can keep racing like you have a death wish. The choice is yours."

Panic flooded him.

Matthew wasn't entirely sure that he was breathing. Isla or the Championship. The Championship or Isla. His impulsive driving was the only reason that he was winning races; there was no other option.

"Don't make me choose," he said hoarsely. "Please."

"Oh, Matthew." Her expression crumpled. "If you have to think about it this hard, then you've already chosen."

"Isla—"

"No." Isla held up a hand. "No more, Matthew. I'm flying back home." Her voice broke slightly on the last word, the only crack in her façade. "Don't call me until you have something worth saying."

Hot blood pumped through his veins. "What happened to fighting for one another?" Matthew sprang out of his chair, trailing her to the door. "What happened to our promises?"

"You broke them."

"Don't do this." Matthew blocked her exit, wild with panic. "You're upset. When you have a chance to think—"

"Move," Isla said calmly. "Now."

"But—"

"Matthew." Her voice was a warning. "Out of my way."

Matthew searched her face. There was no anger there – only a terrible, aching sadness — and it hit him like a punch to the gut. Shit. She meant it, didn't she? This was no heat of the moment decision; Isla was approaching this like she did with everything else. Coolly logical. Weighing and calculating.

She meant it.

Good god, she meant it.

Desperation made his mouth dry. In that moment, Matthew would have promised her anything. He was in a race car, swerving towards the boards, anxiously yanking at the steering wheel; he was willing to try anything.

"Okay," he heard himself say. "No more stupid driving."

Isla stopped. "Really?"

"Really." Matthew swallowed. "I promise."

Isla's face grew wary. She slumped against the doorframe, half-obscured in shadow; her auburn hair grew dark, a candle flickering out. "One more chance," she warned him. "After that, I'm done. Do you understand?"

Matthew wrapped his arms around her.

"I understand," he murmured. "I'll be better."

She gave him a stern look. "Starting at Abu Dhabi next week."

He nodded. "Starting then."

Isla leaned into his chest, relaxing slightly. Matthew kissed the top of her head. Later, he would think back on this moment and wonder if he truly meant it. If he truly believed his promise to Isla. In the end, it wouldn't matter.

Matthew would break his promise.

Just like he always did.