Chapter 2: Turbulence and the First Belladita
The sponsor dinner was exactly as tedious as Fernando had predicted.
The watch gleamed ostentatiously on his wrist, heavy and cold. The tennis player, a genial Swedish giant, talked endlessly about mindfulness and recovery. Fernando nodded in the right places, smiled the thin, practiced smile he reserved for these occasions, and drank mineral water. He could feel Bella’s presence like a gentle current across the table. She was engaged in a lively conversation with the CEO’s wife about art galleries in Lisbon, her Italian-accented French flowing melodiously, making the older woman laugh. She wasn’t just managing the room; she was effortlessly inhabiting it.
He watched her lift a glass of wine, the crystal catching the low light of the yacht’s dining cabin. She took a sip, her throat moving in a smooth swallow. A strange, possessive heat flared in his gut. He wanted to be the one making her laugh like that. He wanted to be the subject of that easy, radiant attention. The desire was so sudden and so intense it left a metallic taste in his mouth.
“Fernando?” the CEO asked, leaning in. “Your thoughts on longevity in elite sport?”
He dragged his eyes away from Bella. “It is a war of attrition,” he said, his voice flat. “You must love the battle more than you fear the wear and tear.”
Later, as the yacht’s tender ferried them back to the principality’s dock, the Monaco night was a blanket of warm black velvet, studded with the insane diamond cluster of lights from the hills and the silent, dark shapes of billion-dollar yachts. The silence between them was different now, charged with the unspoken offer of George’s party.
“The car is at the usual place,” Bella said, checking her phone. Its glow lit her face in the darkness of the tender. “Do you want to go straight back?”
“Do you want to go to the party?” he asked, not looking at her.
She was quiet for a moment. He could hear the soft lap of water against the hull. “It’s late. You have the final practice debrief at eight tomorrow.”
“I am aware of my schedule.” The words came out sharper than intended, frustration at his own tangled feelings bleeding into his tone. He softened it. “You should go. I will go back. It is fine.”
She looked at him then, really looked, her eyes searching his in the gloom. “You’re in a strange mood.”
“I am always in a strange mood.”
“No. This is a new one.” She slipped her phone into her small clutch. “I’ll drop you at the apartment. Then, if it’s still going, I might say a quick hello.”
He just nodded, the knot in his chest tightening.
The car ride was quiet. The streets of Monte Carlo, emptier now, glistened from an earlier, fleeting rain shower. He stared out at his adopted city, feeling no sense of belonging to it. He only felt at home in the transit between places, in the liminal spaces. Or, he realized with a jolt, in the small, organized orbit of the person sitting beside him.
At the entrance to his building, she got out with him, the driver waiting. “I’ll wait until you’re inside,” she said, routine.
“Bella.”
“Yes?”
The words stuck in his throat. Come upstairs. Don’t go. Forget them. Talk to me. All of it was impossible. He was her employer. She was the steady, professional constant. He would not be the thing that broke that.
“Have fun,” he said instead, the words ash in his mouth.
He turned and went inside without looking back. He knew she wouldn’t drive away until the light in his foyer flicked on. He obliged, then stood in the sterile, silent expanse of his apartment, listening to the soft purr of the car engine fade down the hill.
He didn’t sleep. He watched old onboard laps from Singapore 2010, the volume low. The aggressive precision of his younger self was a comfort. It was a problem with a solution. Brake later. Turn in sharper. Be better. Simple.
His phone buzzed on the marble counter at 2:17 AM. A text from Bella.
On my way up. You’re awake. I can see the light.
A moment later, a soft chime from his private elevator. The doors slid open, and she stepped out, still in her dinner dress, her heels dangling from her fingers. She looked tired, a little flushed, and more beautiful than anything had a right to be.
“It was boring,” she announced, dropping her heels by the elevator. “Loud music. George tried to teach Carlos how to do some stupid dance. I left after twenty minutes.”
“You didn’t have to come here,” he said, his voice rough from disuse.
“I know.” She walked past him to his kitchen, familiar as if it were her own, and opened the fridge. She pulled out a bottle of water. “I wanted to check the weather report for tomorrow. Your Wi-Fi is better.”
He knew it was a lie. Her apartment in Fontvieille had flawless internet. She stayed because she knew he was awake, and alone, and in that “new mood.” She was doing her job. The thought was a bitter tonic.
She leaned against the counter, drinking her water, watching him watch the lap. “You know, for most people, watching yourself work is considered unhealthy.”
“I am not most people.”
“No,” she said quietly. “You’re not.”
She pushed off the counter and walked over, sinking onto the vast white sofa a careful distance from him. She tucked her feet beneath her, the silk of her dress pooling. “The two-tenths are still in your head.”
“They are in the car. I just need to find them.”
“You will.” She said it with such finality. She believed in his ability more than he did himself. It was the cornerstone of everything. Her faith was the one thing he had never, could never, question.
He muted the TV. The silence in the apartment was absolute. He could hear the faint hum of the fridge, the distant sigh of the air conditioning. He could hear her breathing.
“Did they ask about me?” he asked, staring at the frozen image of his car hitting the apex.
“Who?”
“At the party.”
“Oh.” She paused. “Yes. Lando asked if you were still a grouchy old man. I told him yes, but a fast one.”
He almost smiled. “And what did you say when they asked why you left so early?”
Another pause, longer this time. He turned his head to look at her. She was studying her own hands in her lap.
“I said I had an early start with my driver,” she said, not meeting his eye.
The air left his lungs. My driver. Not “Fernando.” Not “the job.” My driver. It was a tiny, seismic shift. A personal pronoun where a professional one should be.
Their flight to Barcelona for the next race was late the following evening. The plane was his usual charter, a sleek Bombardier that was more office than transport. The cabin was dim, the only lights the soft halos above their seats and the relentless glow of their respective screens.
Bella was working, her fingers a blur on her laptop keyboard, cross-referencing appearance times with the circuit map. Fernando scrolled through engineering PDFs, but the numbers blurred. He was exhausted, a deep, bone-level fatigue that the two-hour flight couldn’t fix.
He looked over at her. She had finally stopped typing. Her head was tilted back against the seat, her eyes closed. The laptop was still open on her thighs, a complex spreadsheet glowing. A printout of the weekend’s schedule, covered in her neat, looping notes, rested beside her. As he watched, a gentle patch of turbulence shook the aircraft. Her head lolled sideways towards the window, her lips parting slightly. A soft, almost inaudible sigh escaped her.
The spreadsheet scrolled slowly, unattended.
Something in Fernando’s chest constricted. She was so young. She carried so much of his world without ever seeming to bend under the weight. In sleep, the professional mask was gone. She just looked like Bella. Tired. Beautiful.
Without thought, propelled by a force older and more compelling than reason, he unbuckled his seatbelt. The plane gave another slight jolt. He moved quietly, kneeling in the aisle beside her seat. Up close, he could see the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, usually hidden under makeup. He could see the dark sweep of her lashes against her skin.
Her hair had fallen across her cheek. Very slowly, his fingers trembling slightly with the vibration of the plane, he reached out. He brushed the loose, dark curl back, tucking it gently behind the shell of her ear. His knuckles grazed the warmth of her skin.
“Descansa, Belladita,” he murmured, the old, affectionate nickname slipping out on a breath so soft even he barely heard it. Rest, little Bella.
Her forehead wrinkled. She stirred, not waking, but shifting in the seat. She mumbled something, the words slurred with sleep and Italian. “…gli pneumatici sono troppi freddi…”
The tires are too cold.
Even in sleep, she was working. Even in sleep, she was talking about his car.
The reality of what he was doing crashed over him—kneeling in the aisle of a plane, touching her while she slept. It was a violation of every boundary they’d ever maintained. He recoiled as if burned, scrambling back into his own seat and fumbling with his seatbelt, his heart hammering against his ribs like a piston at full revs. He felt like a thief. A teenager caught doing something foolish and profound.
He stared rigidly out his own window at the black nothingness, the blood roaring in his ears.
A few minutes later, he heard the soft click of her laptop closing. He didn’t turn.
“Did I fall asleep?” Her voice was husky with sleep. She stretched, a small, unconscious sound of relief escaping her.
“For a few minutes,” he said, his own voice thankfully steady, betraying nothing of the internal cataclysm.
“Sorry. I was dreaming about tire warm-up cycles.” She gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “God, I need a new brain.”
He risked a glance at her. She was rubbing her eyes, looking adorably rumpled and completely unaware. The curl was back, hanging over her eye again. She pushed it away herself.
“We land in forty,” he said, looking back at the night. “You should sleep more.”
“Can’t. I have to brief you on the Spanish media lineup. They’re… excited.”
He nodded, still not trusting himself to look at her. The ghost of her skin against his fingers burned. The whispered nickname echoed in the silent cabin. The plane hurtled through the dark, carrying him towards a race he suddenly didn’t care about, towards a feeling he had no idea how to drive around.
The plane hurtled through the dark, carrying him towards a race he suddenly didn’t care about, towards a feeling he had no idea how to drive around. He kept his face turned to the window, the reflection of his own haunted eyes staring back from the black glass. For the first time in his career, the thought of a race track felt trivial, a distant echo compared to the turmoil vibrating in his chest.
Barcelona was a furnace.
The Spanish sun hammered the paddock, baking the asphalt and choking the air with heat haze and screaming Catalonian fans. Their chants for him were a physical pressure, a wall of sound that followed him from the garage to the motorhome. It usually fueled him. Today, it felt like noise. The two-tenths from Monaco had metastasized into a general unease, a restless anger looking for a target.
“You’re doing the walk with David from ESPN at two,” Bella said, falling into step beside him as he stalked towards Engineering. She had a wide-brimmed hat shading her face and a folder held like a shield against the sun. “Then the photo op with the children from the foundation. It’s in the cool-down room, so you won’t melt.”
“I feel like melting,” he grumbled, not breaking stride.
“I know.” Her hand came up, a fleeting press of her fingers between his shoulder blades. It was a simple gesture, a point of contact meant to steer or soothe. Today, it burned through his fireproofs. He flinched, almost imperceptibly. She dropped her hand, a flicker of confusion in her eyes before the professional mask snapped back. “Your choice. Melt now, or melt later in the car. The coolant systems are borderline.”
He stopped walking, turning to face her in the middle of the swarming paddock. People flowed around them like a river parting around a stone. “What do you want me to do, Bella? Smile? Perform?”
She didn’t blink. “I want you to breathe. For ten seconds. Just stand here and breathe.”
He glared at her. She held his gaze, unflinching. Finally, with a ragged exhale, he dropped his head. He focused on the scorching air entering his lungs, the smell of her sunscreen over the fuel, the feel of his own heartbeat slowing from a gallop to a canter. When he looked up, the wild edge in his eyes had dulled.
“Better?” she asked softly.
“No,” he muttered. But it was.
The motorhome was marginally cooler, a sanctuary of humbling air conditioning and shaded light. Fernando sat slumped on a couch, his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. The technical briefing was over. The car was what it was. The frustration remained, a leaden weight in his gut.
He heard the door sigh shut, then her soft footsteps. She didn’t say anything. Her hand came to rest on the crown of his head, her fingers sliding into his sweat-damp hair. She began to massage his scalp with a firm, knowing pressure, her thumbs working circles at his temples. A low, involuntary groan escaped him. He let his head fall heavier into her touch, his forehead coming to rest against the soft cotton of her shirt where she stood before him.
This was their language. He called her Belladita the first time three years into their partnership, a slip of the tongue during a vicious bout of food poisoning in Baku when she’d spent twelve hours nursing him in his hotel bathroom. It had stuck, a private emblem of his dependence. Now, in present day, he still said it, he adored her and doted on her constantly. She was incredibly tactile and would smooth his hair, even when he was sweaty, trace her fingers over his hands and forearms, tug him along to appointments by the hand when she knew he was avoiding or late too.
Her other hand came up, her fingers tracing the tense cords of his forearm. “The car is a piece of shit,” she stated calmly, her voice a quiet rumble he felt through her body. “You already know this. You will drive the piece of shit faster than anyone has a right to. That is what you do.”
He turned his head slightly, his cheek pressing against her stomach. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric. “It’s my home race.”
“And your home crowd would love you if you drove a taxi.” Her fingers continued their gentle tracing over the back of his hand, following the lines of his knuckles, the faint scars from old mishaps. “They’re here for you. Not the car.”
He turned his hand over, palm up, an unspoken request. She laced her fingers through his, her grip strong and sure. He squeezed, an anchor in the storm of his own frustration. He loved how tactile and affectionate she was, especially because she was more affectionate with him than anyone else. This was hers. This was his. This was them.
A sharp knock rattled the door. “Fernando? Five minutes to ESPN!”
Bella’s hand stilled in his hair. He didn’t move, clinging to the moment, to the quiet sanity she manufactured with just her presence and her touch.
“Fernando,” she whispered, her voice a tender admonition.
With another heavy exhale, he straightened up. The world rushed back in—the heat, the noise, the endless expectations. He looked up at her. She was smiling down at him, a small, private thing that held no pity, only a deep, unwavering understanding. She smoothed his hair one last time, her thumb brushing his temple.
“You look terrible,” she said, her tone light. “But in a very fast, very focused way.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, the tension finally breaking. “Liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar. It’s why you pay me.” She tugged on his hand, pulling him to his feet. “Now go. Be charming. Or at least less murdery.”
He held onto her hand for a second longer than necessary, his calloused fingers tight around hers. “Belladita,” he said, the nickname falling from his lips with a natural ease that belied the chaos it caused inside him.
Her smile widened, just a fraction, a secret shared. Then she released his hand and nudged him towards the door. “Go.”
The ESPN walk was a blur of cameras and inane questions. He autopiloted through it, his mind still back in the cool dim of the motorhome, the feel of her hands in his hair. He performed the photo op with the children, his large hands gentle on small shoulders, his smile feeling less forced than he’d expected.
He saw her watching from the periphery, her phone held up, capturing the moment not for social media, but for him. A reminder, she’d once said, of the good things. The why.
Later, after qualifying placed him a frustrating but predictable P7 on the grid, the debrief was a tense, technical affair. He sat rigid in his chair, arms crossed, as the engineers debated setup changes for the race. The familiar irritation began to simmer, a kettle about to whistle.
Bella, sitting slightly behind him, leaned forward. Her hand rested on his shoulder, then trailed down his arm, her fingers gently prying his own hand loose from where it gripped his bicep. She took his hand in hers, under the table, hidden from view. Her thumb stroked the back of his wrist in slow, steady circles.
The angry words died on his tongue. The tension in his jaw unclenched. He continued to listen, to argue his points, but his hand remained in hers, a silent circuit of calm. No one noticed. It was their unseen ritual.
That night, in the hotel bar, a few of the other drivers had gathered. Carlos waved them over. Fernando, feeling the peculiar exhaustion that followed a suppressed outburst, went reluctantly, Bella a quiet shadow beside him.
Lando was mid-story, arms waving. “...so I said to him, if you don’t like the music, get a different yacht!”
Polite laughter rippled through the group. Fernando nodded, offering a thin smile. He felt Bella’s hand, small and warm, slip into his from behind. She gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze before letting go to accept a glass of sparkling water from a waiter. The brief contact was a lifeline.
George leaned over. “You alright, mate? You look… thoughtful.”
“He’s always thoughtful,” Bella interjected smoothly, handing Fernando the water glass. “It’s the Spanish intensity. It’s exhausting for the rest of us.” She bumped her shoulder lightly against his arm, a playful, possessive gesture that didn’t go unnoticed. George raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
Later, waiting for the valet to bring the car around, Fernando stood with her under the portico. The night was warm, smelling of jasmine and exhaust fumes. He was drained.
Without a word, she turned to face him. She reached up and adjusted the collar of his shirt, her fingers brushing the skin of his neck. Then her hands came to rest on his shoulders, her thumbs pressing into the tight muscle. “You did good today,” she murmured.
“I’m P7.”
“You’re P7 in a tractor. It’s a miracle.” Her hands slid up to cradle his jaw, her thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones. It was an intimate gesture, one she’d done a thousand times to check for fatigue, to force his gaze to hers. This time, it felt different. This time, he turned his head and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the center of her palm.
He felt her freeze. Heard her breath catch.
The valet pulled up with a quiet rumble of the engine.
Fernando pulled back, his eyes finding hers in the dim light. Her expression was one of pure, unfiltered shock. He’d crossed a line there was no map for, no protocol to reverse.
He said nothing. He simply opened the car door for her, his hand resting on the frame. She slid in, silent, staring straight ahead. He walked around to the other side, the taste of her skin—salt and sunscreen—still on his lips.
As the car pulled into the Barcelona night, the silence between them was a living thing, vast and deafening. The race tomorrow meant nothing. The two-tenths meant nothing. All that existed was the atomic heat of that kiss against her palm, and the terrifying, exhilarating unknown of what happened next.