"I'm not saying he's an arsehole," Amelia said. "I'm just saying that he behaves like one."

She jerked her head to the left. The green resistance band stretched, and the right side of her skull groaned in protest. What rep was this? Ten? Twelve? Fifty? She'd lost count. Which was just as well, Amelia thought; there was nothing worse than going to the gym and knowing how much more you had to suffer.

She relaxed. Her personal trainer tapped her on the shoulder.

"Five more," he said. "We're going for fifteen."

Amelia widened her eyes. "I thought that was fifteen?"

And Dave — who'd been training her for years, who looked like two London nightclub bouncers glued together — smirked and said, "Nice try, A.C."

Amelia glowered. "I hate you."

"You adore me." Dave reached over to adjust her band. "Now pull."

Amelia pulled.

Agony rippled down her neck. She gritted her teeth, trying to ignore the way sweat was trickling down her spine. This, she thought, had to be the least glamorous part of Formula 1 racing; and she included wriggling out of upside-down cars — covered in oil — in that statement. She turned back to her phone screen.

"Anyway," Amelia continued, "Noah Wood might be the paddock's sweetheart." Pull. "But I'm telling you, he can be a proper knob." Another pull, and Amelia made a noise. She dug her nails into her palm. "What he said to me after the crash—"

"Done," Dave announced.

She half-collapsed against the wall, clutching her neck. Connor — who was flipping pancakes on FaceTime — chuckled.

"What was that last noise?" he asked.

"You sound like a goat," Peter — her eldest brother — added helpfully. "Like a strangled, angry goat."

"No," Ethan said thoughtfully. "I don't think she does."

Her middle brother was shoving laundry into a machine, paying no attention to colour or texture. Amelia shot him a grateful look.

"Thank-you, Ethan."

"I think she sounds like a seal," Ethan continued, chucking in a red shirt. "You know the sound they make when they get stranded on a rock?" He closed the lid. "That's what Ammie sounds like when she's at the gym."

Amelia looked to Joe, half-expecting her youngest brother to join in. But Joe was leaning forward on the sofa, a remote control clutched in his hand. The sound of tyres squealing filled the room. Then again, Amelia thought, Joe rarely chimed into conversation. Her mother used to say that Joe offered his thoughts the way that women wore their most expensive perfume: sparingly, and always with purpose.

A sound went up from Joe's end of the call. There was the whoop of a crowd, and then an Australian voice said, "Get in there, mate!" Amelia half-closed her eyes.

"Joe," she said. "Please tell me that you're not playing as Noah Wood right now."

"What?" Joe shifted the remote defensively. "He's the best there is."

"I'm the best there is."

"Well," Joe said, "you're not in the video game yet, are you?"

This, Amelia had to grudgingly admit, was a good point. But still. Joe could have played as someone else. Literally anyone else. Dave picked up several tennis balls, and Amelia got into position, her hands raised in front of her face. Dave tossed; she caught.

Toss, catch.

Toss, catch.

"I need to beat him," Amelia said. "Next race."

Toss, thunk. She rubbed the spot on her stomach that the tennis ball had struck, looking at Dave indignantly. He shrugged.

"Pay attention," he said. "That was an easy one."

Dave picked up another ball, doubling the pace this time. Her eyes flicked from side-to-side, tracking the flight path of each ball. Upper left corner. Lower right. Centre. Another lower right. Peter's voice crackled over the phone.

"Rogue thought," he said. "Why don't you try speaking to him?"

"Who?" Amelia caught a ball. "Noah?"

"No." Peter's voice was wry. "The other Australian driver you've spent all morning complaining about."

This, Amelia thought, was the exact tone of voice that Peter had used all through their childhood, whenever she hid under a see-through plastic bin during "hide-and-seek," or tried to mash raw potatoes. She pulled a face.

"I don't want to speak to him," she said. "I want to run him over with my car."

"So violent," Connor said. "You should work on that."

His voice was muffled. Eating a pancake, probably, Amelia deduced; his boyfriend Logan had slept over last night, and Connor always made Biscoff pancakes when he was around. She caught another tennis ball.

"And what would I say?" Amelia tossed the ball back. "Hi, Wood, any chance you could be less of a prick next time?"

"Um, Ammie?" Ethan asked.

Amelia ignored him. "He'd laugh in my face."

"Ammie," Ethan said, more urgently this time.

"And then I would get pissed off, and the whole thing would—"

"Amelia!"

She jumped. A tennis ball smacked her in the face, and she swore viciously, rubbing at the spot on her chin. That would bruise tomorrow, Amelia thought regretfully; it was already smarting now. She raised an eyebrow at Dave.

"How many was that?"

"Two hundred and fifty-three," Dave offered.

Amelia glowered at the phone. "You hear that, Ethan? I was on track for a PB, and you've ruined it."

"Amelia." Her brother looked uncharacteristically serious. "You may want to check your work phone."

A shiver slipped down her spine. She looked at Dave, who nodded, waving a hand in the direction of the bench. Amelia wiped her sweaty hands on her leggings, unlocking her phone with her fingerprint. Three missed news alerts, and eight emails sent from the Alpine team with high priority.

She swallowed, clicking on the first news alert.

A video popped up. Two people were arguing in front of a burning car, and it took Amelia a moment to recognize that the shorter one — the brunette stabbing a finger, her face flushed and wild — was her. Bits of audio drifted through the speaker: "check your rearviews... not a goddamn escalator... you fucked my car!"

"Oh, shit," she whispered.

Her phone dinged.

Amelia opened the text message, scanning the words. Her heart sank. Shit, shit, shit. This was bad. Very bad.

"Who's that?" Connor asked, his voice tinny over FaceTime.

Amelia lowered the phone. "Trek. He's asked to see me immediately."

"I hope," Trek said, "that I speak for everyone in this room when I say this is one gigantic, colossal fucking mess."

Amelia picked at her nails. Her Team Manager was sitting on a desk, his arms crossed over his chest; he was dressed in pale lavender shorts today, and a pair of small, hexagonal sunglasses sat on his head. Trek could be at a summer festival in Budapest, she thought, if it wasn't for the pissed-off look on his face.

Noah raised his hand. "Can I say something?"

"No," Trek and Alex said together.

Amelia looked at the Mercedes Team Manager. She hadn't met Alex before, but he was exactly what she'd expected: tall, heavily tattooed, and with an accent that could have been American, South African, or both. He seemed to dominate the board room. Which was impressive, Amelia thought, considering that there were at least five PR reps and two harried-looking assistants scribbling notes.

She cleared her throat. "For the record, I would like to state that the crash wasn't my fault. Wood pushed into me."

Noah waggled his eyebrows. "Dirty, Cartwell."

Irritation rose. "That's not what I—"

"Enough." Trek held up a hand. "I don't care about the crash; I care about the media fall-out." He took off his sunglasses, spinning them around one finger. "The press is calling you the new James Hunt and Niki Lauda."

Noah took a sip of water. "Surely that's not a bad thing? More media coverage is good, right?"

"Easy for you to say," Amelia muttered. "The press love you."

He lowered the bottle. "Was that a compliment, Cartwell? I didn't realize that you were capable of those."

She whirled to face him. "Oh, shut-up, Tim Tam."

"This." Alex gestured between them. "This is what we can't have."

Amelia raised an eyebrow. "Free speech?"

"Amelia." Trek rubbed at his forehead. "Can you just listen, please?"

He dropped his hand. His eyes were bloodshot, Amelia noted, and the smell of smoke clung to his white shirt. She hadn't realized that Trek smoked, but maybe he only did it when he was stressed. A small sliver of guilt pricked her.

"Sorry," she murmured.

Trek inclined his head.

Alex rubbed at a tattoo on his arm. It could have been a spaceship, Amelia thought, or a plum; very possibly, it was both. "I've had two sponsors threaten to pull their funding. And I don't blame them; negative media attention isn't exactly a great look for a brand, is it? I don't need to remind you that you're already on thin fucking ice, Wood."

Noah stared down at his hands. Amelia blinked. What on earth could Noah be in trouble for? He was a Mercedes driver at the top of his game. Sure, he'd DNF'd during the first race, but he was considered a solid bet for the season.

"We're losing sponsors, too," Trek said, recapturing her attention. "Sponsors we can't afford to lose."

His voice was pointed. Amelia held his gaze, although she could feel her cheeks warming. There was something, she thought, that was particularly terrible about being chewed out in front of strangers; it always made her want to cry.

Noah uncapped his water bottle. "We can issue a public apology. Say that Cartwell and I have put aside our differences."

Amelia looked at him. "Lie, you mean."

"Unless you have a better idea?"

She could feel people watching intently, and a lump rose in her throat. "I don't see why I should apologize. You ran into my car."

"You have a lot of pride, don't you?"

Noah's voice was mild. Assessing. And somehow, the words landed like a punch to the gut.

Amelia sat up in her chair. "Look, Wood, just because I—"

"Cut it out," Alex said. "Both of you. Christ, I'm beginning to think that we should have put you in separate meeting rooms." He rubbed at the tattoo on his forearm. "Look, Trek and I have spoken with our PR teams, and we've come up with a solution: you're going to attend the party in Italy together next week."

Silence.

Amelia laced her hands. "What do you mean, together?"

"You will walk in together and smile at the cameras," Alex said. "And then you will continue to smile until we tell you to stop."

She shook her head. "No. Absolutely not."

Trek sighed. "Cartwell..."

"Do you know what people will say?" Amelia's mouth was dry. "They'll assume I've brought Noah as my date."

"Oh, heavens, no." Noah's voice was a drawl. "What could possibly be worse than bringing a handsome Australian man as your date to a party?"

He was leaning back in his chair, one ankle crossed over the other. Amelia had the sudden, swift fleeting urge to push him over. But best not to, she thought; or not with this many witnesses, anyway.

"It's against the rules," Amelia said.

Alex waved a hand. "I've cleared it with the FIA. They know we need to do damage control."

She frowned. "I don't like it."

"Cartwell." Trek pinched the bridge of his nose. "For once in your life, please just do what you're told."

Amelia squeezed her eyes shut. A part of her knew that she was being ridiculous; Trek was trying to do what was best for the Alpine team, and that included her. But something about that phrase — just do what you're told — made her want to stand up and flip the table over. She turned to face Noah.

"You're okay with this?" she asked. "Going to the party together?"

Noah shrugged. "If that's what we need to do, then that's what we need to do. I don't see the point in having a whinge about it."

He took a sip of water. Amelia sighed. "But what if—?"

A phone rang.

Noah scrabbled in his pocket. He checked his phone screen and then half-rose from his seat, already pressing the device to his ear. "It's Mum. I need to take this."

Alex's mouth was a flat line. "Wood..."

"It could be important," Noah said.

"Can't it wait?"

"No." Noah's voice was firm. "It can't." He turned for the door, pausing to glance at Amelia. "Have your assistant reach out to mine. Her name's Tiggie. She has great taste in champagne and cars, and if she likes you, she'll send both."

She stiffened. "I can make my own arrangements."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself, then."

And then Noah was gone, closing the door behind him.