Collision Course

Aria

Monaco, March

“If you don’t get your ass over here right now, I’m walking out of this store in the damn dress. Stealing it. I swear to God.”

I groan, yanking at the fabric stuck around my ribs. Yeah, I knew the dress was two sizes too small. But I didn’t suffer through a whole summer of diets and protein shakes just to get stuck like a sausage in a Louis Vuitton fitting room.

“Aria, I have a whole season starting in two weeks and you want me to sprint across the city to help you out of a dress?” Evan sounds irritated, but he’s laughing. “I’m not your boyfriend, reminder.”

“Oh, so racing is all you care about now? What about your sister? Or is that low priority?” I roll my eyes, pulling out the big guns.

I hear his long exhale. Bingo. Manipulation still works. He can be twenty-seven, world-famous, but he’ll never shake me off.

“Which fitting room?”

I bite my lip, holding in laughter.

“Aria. Jesus. If someone sees me here—” His voice drops to a whisper. “You’re dead.”

I lose it, laughing as I tug the curtain open. He’s impossible to miss even in disguise—Bentley F1 cap pulled low, aviators covering half his face. Classic Evan. Thank God for the shades. His eyes, his brows, all Dad.

“Aria, is that dress for med school or a brothel?” He slips inside and shuts the curtain. “New career path?”

“No. New mission. Distract my brother before he decides once again that a car matters more than his family.”

I snort at my own line, but Evan’s already tugging the zipper down my back, jaw tight, breathing uneven. I know my jabs about Formula 1 get to him, but that’s the point. He chose Dad’s path. He knew it would split us. He did it anyway. My only option now? Harass him at every chance I get. Big-sister privilege.

“You know, it doesn’t have to be family or racing,” he says, catching my eyes in the mirror, smirking. “You could just come to more of my races.”

“Yeah? And who’s gonna cover my shifts at the hospital? Your car? No thanks, brother.” I peel the damn dress off and toss it on the bench. “Your Bentley garage makes me nauseous anyway.”

He sighs again, already scrolling through his phone. Typical.

The truth? I’ll miss him. I always hate this time of year—March to December. First I lost Dad to the calendar, then Evan. The season eats him alive, and I’m left behind. So I stockpile books, renew my Netflix, binge Drive to Survive like it’s homework. Only the episodes with Evan, of course. They paint him as some heroic, big-hearted dreamer. Which, honestly, is hilarious. Overdone.

This year should be different, though. No exams. Just a three-week hospital rotation. Thank God it’s not during the Monaco Grand Prix, because the last thing I need is patching up drunk Formula 1 fans with alcohol poisoning.

He lifts his puppy-dog eyes at me. “Aria, I’m sorry about all this. But you’ll come, right?”

Ouch. That look always stabs right through my chest.

“Of course, Evan.” I wrap my arms around his back. “I already bought tickets to Shanghai. I’m not missing the chance to watch your face twitch while the Chinese press tears you apart.”

He smiles, pressing my hand against his chest. His shoulders finally relax. Breathing slows. I know how much my support means to him. And yeah, the garages make me sick—literally—but I always try to show up. Especially this season.

Rumor is, the new BMW Motorsport rookie is the real deal. Kai Volzer. The guy who jumped from Formula 2 and, as a last-minute reserve, destroyed ten-year veterans on his very first F1 race. Everyone knew instantly—future world champion. But for guys like Evan, who’ve been grinding for eight years, another reckless prodigy on the grid feels less like inspiration and more like a death sentence.

Still, my career comes first. Psychiatry isn’t for me—I’m leaning more toward psychotherapy—but the internship has to happen. The first race of the season? Australia. Peak hours at Monaco General. I already begged the staff to keep the TVs on the race so I can check if my brother’s still alive between patients. Shanghai is the week after, though. I’ll be there—mocking the ugly race shoes and the cringe radio comms.

The second we step outside the mall, cars start honking, people yelling his name, cheering. My brother—the national hero. The only Monegasque driver in today’s F1.

Well, except Dad. But he’s retired now, sipping Chardonnay and jerking off to his son’s career highlights. We’ve been in this circus since childhood, so I barely notice anymore. Evan? Still flinches every time someone shoves a Sharpie in his face.

“Can you walk faster, Aria?” he hisses in my ear. “The last thing I need on my schedule is an unplanned fan meet-and-greet in the middle of Monaco.”

Naturally, I slow down. Because I can see the swarm of fangirls sprinting toward us. Did I mention that messing with him is my personal hobby?

“E-van!!!” one of them squeals, nearly tackling him. “Please, can we get a picture?”

Oh God, she’s about to strangle him. Best entertainment I’ve had all week.

“Ladies, I’m so sorry, but we really have to go.” Evan’s voice drops into that formal tone he uses with press. “Another time, okay?”

“Of course you can!” I beam, stepping back. “Want me to take a group shot first and then one of each of you?”

Evan’s jaw clenches so tight I can see the vein pulsing at his temple. He shoots me a death glare—translation: you’re dead the second we’re alone. I can’t help it. I burst out laughing and grab one fan’s phone. The girl’s practically shaking as she hands it over, already imagining her new lock screen.

We waste at least ten minutes. I’m directing poses, checking angles, making sure everyone’s satisfied with their pics. Evan’s burning holes into the back of my skull the whole time. Totally worth it.

We finally escape when even I’m bored of my part-time photographer gig.

On the way to the car, he doesn’t say a word. The second the doors shut, he blasts the stereo loud enough to shake the windows.

“All good, Mr. Social Media Star?” I ask, fiddling with his lanyard hanging from the mirror.

“I’m going to kill you, Aria. Slowly.” His eyes stay locked on the road. “Then I’ll bury you in a helmet so you never set foot in my garage again.”

“Not yours.” I flip my hair dramatically. “I look better in BMW’s black and purple anyway.”

Silence. Seriously, De Vellier? You’ve survived twenty-one years of my bullying just to give up now?

His hands tighten around the wheel. A sharp sigh. Then he slams the gas on the turn, throwing me hard against the door.

“Don’t joke like that, Aria,” he cuts me off. “You’re pouring fuel on the fire.”

Right. Existential crisis again. Evan vs. the latest shiny rookie.

“Evan, for God’s sake!” My voice jumps—this isn’t our first round of this conversation. “You’re going to wipe the floor with them this year. Period. Can we, for once, talk about something other than your career? I have a life too, you know. Maybe I’m stressed about my internship, huh?”

His mouth twists. He knows I’m right. Every conversation—before, during, after the season—is always about his damn races. And sure, I get the pressure. But I never signed up to be his personal therapist. He knew this path was a solo one. My max support is showing up, cheering, then leaving. Sorry, Ev. That’s on you.

“Sorry.” Dry, but genuine. “What’s got you stressed, little sister?”

Direct hit. That little sister always wrecks me—it either makes me cry or scream louder. Today I choose the first.

“I’m scared.” My voice cracks. “Not just living alone in a country, but having to face psychos three times a week.”

“I’ve lived with one for twenty-one years,” he chuckles. “Got plenty of tips.”

I roll my eyes and elbow him. Hilarious.

“Thanks, but I’ve already got enough experience with a fifty-year-old misogynistic asshole,” I snap. “I’ll manage.”

Evan presses his lips together. That universal what can you do look. Which only pisses me off more. Because he almost never says a bad word about Dad, while I could write a whole damn book about how much I hate the man. Makes me resent Evan too—because besides the matching face and the career, he’s also Switzerland. Neutral between me and Dad.

I throw one last look at him before climbing out of the car. Tonight, he’s flying to Melbourne. I’m staying here—pink walls, study notes, silence.

“Love you, kid.” He squeezes my hand. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”

I smile, slipping my hand into his.

“Be careful, Evan.” A traitor tear slides down my cheek. “Don’t kiss the first wall you see. I’d rather not explain that to the hospital staff.”

He grins, shuts the door of his shiny Bentley Continental, and drives off into the sunset.

I wave after him, and my mind flashes back to the last time we rode in that car—right after the Abu Dhabi finale. Not exactly a memory I enjoy. That night, Evan buried his dream under the asphalt of Yas Marina.

He was seven points away from his first championship. Seven. Between him and Liam Grace, BMW’s golden boy. I can still see myself in the garage that day—headphones on, chewing my nails raw, shaking. He was chasing the dream. I just wanted him to catch it.

The math was simple: Evan had to win. Liam couldn’t finish higher than third. And at first, everything looked perfect. Evan started on pole. His teammate Ryan slotted into P2, blocking. Liam was P3.

But life doesn’t hand out clean finishes.

Three days before the race, BMW swapped their second driver. In came a reserve. Kai Volzer. Twenty-two. Straight out of Formula 2. Rumors had been circling for months—raw talent, toxic personality, that smug little smirk. He just needed a car fast enough to unleash it.

He found it.

BMW was flying that weekend. Kai qualified P6. Then did the unthinkable.

He passed Liam. Then Ryan. Not because he was sharper. But because he pressed. Aggressive. Relentless. Dirty. He shoved until the others broke first. They cracked, twitched, slid wide. Volzer drove like it was his last day on earth.

Mid-race, the gap between Evan and Kai dropped under a second. And my brother cracked. He started missing lines, losing pace. Kai dove past Ryan. Dragged Liam with him. A double overtake. Evan—gone.

Kai Volzer won his debut Formula 1 race. Instant BMW contract. Instant millions of fans. Liam Grace took second—and the world championship. Evan? Third.

I sat there in the garage. Mouth open. Eyes wet. Manicure shredded to blood. And when it sank in—when I knew it was over—I just walked out. Straight to the car. Not because I was angry. Not because I didn’t want to face him. But because I couldn’t stop crying.

I spent the next two hours in the Abu Dhabi paddock lot, parked under Sheikh Zayed’s glowing night mosque, drowning my tears in damn ice cream. Window down. Arms draped over the door. Smoky eyeliner smeared across my cheeks, eyes hollow. Inside? Just shards. No soul left.

Yes, I hate Formula One. Yes, I’ll never understand why my brother wants to live in it. But I also get it. That insane hunger for a championship. And that’s what made it hurt.

When the drivers finally started filing out of the paddock, slipping into their cars, I found myself staring at some girl’s neon dress—until I felt a hand brush my arm.

“Don’t be sad, sweetheart.” Kai. That same disgusting smirk leaning into my window. “In Formula One, there’s always a chance to change your trajectory. Especially if the finish line puts us on a collision course.”

My breath caught. Eyes wide, jaw dropped. I wanted to hurl my spoon of ice cream at the bastard, but he disappeared before I could move. Left only pine cologne and an ego the size of the damn universe.

Piece of shit.

And that’s when I promised myself—if I ever saw him again, I’d write on his body exactly what a collision course with me feels like.

Direct. Aimed at the jugular. To the very last breath.