Chapter 5: The Accusation
Sergio’s invitation hung in the air, a delicate, dangerous thing. Salma’s fingers went still on her tablet. “That isn’t part of my job description,” she finally said, her voice carefully neutral. “I know,” he replied, holding her gaze. The hum of the computer fan between them sounded like a held breath. She gave a single, slow nod, a concession that felt like a cliff’s edge. “I’ll need the address.”
Silverstone was a damp, grey roar, but Sergio carried a private summer within him. He noticed new things: the precise way she tucked a curl behind her ear when concentrating, the faint, citrus scent that cut through the petrol fog. During a press debrief, a journalist asked an aggressively stupid question about car balance. Sergio, leaning back, simply said, “Alma, you want to take this?” The room’s attention snapped to her, surprised. Without missing a beat, she offered a technically flawless, politically evasive answer that left the journalist nodding stupidly. Charles, watching from the back, caught Sergio’s eye and slowly mimed a steering wheel being wrestled from his hands.
After, in the motorhome, she confronted him, her voice low. “Don’t use me as a shield.” “I wasn’t,” he said, stepping closer, the space between them charged with the day’s adrenaline. “I was showing off.” A fleeting, unguarded smile touched her lips before she sealed it away. “The road behind you, Sergio,” she whispered, repeating her own phrase like a warning. He understood. It was littered with trophies, yes, but also with the debris of distractions.
The flight to Milan was a study in silent negotiation. She sat across the aisle, professional as ever, but her notebook was closed. He saw her watching the clouds, her profile softened in the cabin’s dim light. He wondered if she was thinking of Cairo, or of the looming, intimate danger of a quiet gallery room. When they landed, she stood, smoothed her dress, and met his eyes. “Ready?” she asked, and the word felt loaded with a meaning that had nothing to do with art.
The Milan evening was a humid blanket, heavy with the scent of wet pavement and diesel. Sergio led her down a side street away from the fashion crowd, his hand a hesitant guide at the small of her back. “She picked a place that doesn’t get written up,” he said, pushing open an unmarked wooden door.
They entered the gallery.
The silence was immediate, a dense, cool thing after the city’s roar. White walls stretched up, illuminated by precise tracks of light that made the charcoal sketches seem to float. Sergio’s sister, Chiara, stood across the room, her eyes widening at the sight of them together. “You brought a translator,” she said, walking over, her smile knowing. “I hope the work speaks for itself.” Salma’s posture softened as she took in the first large drawing. “It does,” she breathed. It was the swirling figure from his apartment, now enormous and rendered with breathtaking, frantic energy. “She caught the honest curve,” Salma said, almost to herself. Sergio watched her absorb the art, her professional veneer dissolving into genuine awe. Chiara nudged him. “You told her about that?” “She was there when I opened your package,” he admitted. Salma moved to the next piece, a detailed study of a hand submerged in water, the fingers distorted and pleading. She went very still. “This is the lake,” she stated, not asking. The memory of his near-drowning, which he’d only ever mentioned to her in the quiet dark of a private jet, hung between them in the gallery’s sacred air. “You described the light,” she whispered, turning to him, her eyes gleaming in the low light. “She got it perfect.”
Chiara watched them, a slow smile forming. “You described it to her.” It wasn’t a question. The shared intimacy of that memory, now rendered in charcoal, filled the space between Sergio and Salma, thick and undeniable.
Back in the Silverstone paddock three days later, the memory of the gallery was a quiet solace Sergio carried with him. He was reviewing a data sheet with Salma, their heads bent close over the tablet, his hand resting on the small of her back to steady them against the garage’s constant flow. “Alma, look at this delta,” he said, his voice low. The nickname slipped out, natural and unforced. From across the hospitality suite, Pierre Gasly’s eyes tracked the gesture, noting the prolonged contact, the absorbed proximity.
Later, Pierre cornered him by the coffee station, his voice a casual knife. “Alma, huh? That’s new.” Sergio kept his expression neutral, reaching for a stirrer. “It’s a nickname. It fits her.” “It fits her,” Pierre echoed, a knowing tilt to his head. “I saw you two in the garage. You look at her like she’s a new set of softs on a drying track.” Sergio’s jaw tightened. “You should focus on your own race setup, Pierre.”
“I’m just saying,” Pierre pressed, leaning in. “Everyone sees it. You give her a pet name, you take her to private galleries.” He shrugged, a false gesture of concern. “Just be smart, amigo. That road behind you gets slippery when you’re not looking at the apex.” Sergio stared him down until Pierre backed off, the warning lingering in the air like burnt coffee.
Sergio let Pierre’s warning dissolve into the garage’s mechanical din. He found Alma by his driver’s room, her focus absolute as she cross-referenced logistics on her tablet. “Don’t let him get in your head,” she said without looking up, having absorbed the entire exchange from a distance. “His traction is terrible this weekend.” A laugh, sharp and surprised, broke from Sergio’s chest, the tension evaporating.
This levity, however, was undercut by a new, more subtle challenge. The other drivers had, in their own way, unofficially adopted Alma. Lando, forever trying to salvage his dignity post-prank, leaned on her doorframe. “So, Alma,” he began, attempting his trademark grin. “You never did give us a score out of ten.” She didn’t even glance from her screen. “For what, Norris? The synchronized prance or the subsequent, panicked scramble?” His cheeks flushed crimson as he deflated, defeated. George Russell tried a more intellectual approach, querying her on Dutch grammatical structures, only to be meticulously corrected. Their attempts at flirtation now carried the unmistakable, comic whiff of their own humiliation, stripping them of any potent mystique.
A greater test came in the form of the WAGs, a polished, observant group who initially watched Alma with the cautious silence of a collective jury. Kelly Piquet, sharp and discerning, was the first to approach during a tedious sponsor luncheon. “He relies on you a lot,” she stated, more observation than accusation. “He relies on the car a lot, too,” Alma replied evenly, then gestured to Kelly’s phone wallpaper. “Your daughter’s painting is brilliant. The use of violet is fearless.” The specific, genuine interest disarmed Kelly completely. Alma moved through them, asking Carmen Mundt about her sustainable jewelry line’s carbon footprint, discussing archival techniques with Heidi Berger, remembering the name of Lily Muni’s rescue dog. She treated their passions as serious projects, not hobbies, and the wary thawed into warm, inclusive chatter.