The morning sun filtered through the gauzy hotel curtains, casting soft patterns across the floor of Sukhman's suite. The energy from the previous day's victory still lingered in his body like static electricity. The ache in his arms from the tight steering, the ringing of crowd cheers in his ears, the surreal weight of that trophy in his hands—he could still feel it all.
His phone buzzed, interrupting the moment. A message had arrived.
Charlotte: "Need to talk. Meet me at Vila Pond Park at 7."
He blinked. Charlotte? That was unexpected.
"Huh! What could this be about?" he muttered aloud, still in his sleep shirt. Yudhvir, half-awake on the couch, looked up from behind a pillow.
"Who's that?"
"Charlotte," Sukhman replied. "Says she wants to talk."
"Charlotte Reid? The girl who wrecked your car in Nottingham?"
"The very one."
Yudhvir sat up straighter, intrigued. "Maybe she wants to apologize. Or maybe she's plotting to sabotage your next GP. Keep your guard up."
Sukhman rolled his eyes and laughed. "Or maybe it's just a normal conversation. Not everything's a conspiracy."
As the morning unfolded, the hotel lobby transformed into a hive of activity. Drivers, mechanics, and team members gathered for the post-GP social in the luxury lounge. The sprawling space had glass walls overlooking São Paulo's skyline, gold chandeliers hanging above, and plush armchairs arranged in tasteful clusters. Waiters carried trays of refreshments while laughter and banter floated through the air.
Sukhman, dressed in a black collared shirt and dark jeans, walked in and was greeted by nods, claps on the back, and enthusiastic chatter.
"Mate, that overtake in Sector 2? Bloody brilliant!" exclaimed Carter with a grin, raising a glass in his direction.
"Didn't know you had that kind of heat in your foot," joked Nkosi, sipping orange juice with that calm elegance she always carried.
Graves, standing near the drinks counter, gave him a tight nod. The tension between them hadn't fully dissolved since Sukhman's entry into the GP circle, but the rivalry was tempered with a kind of grudging respect.
Even journalists mingled in, casually speaking to drivers and team reps, recording casual quotes or snapping candid moments. Sukhman managed polite conversation while keeping an eye on his watch.
By early evening, as the event began to wind down, he slipped away, stepping outside where the golden light of dusk painted the city in amber.
Diego saw him going out. Asks, "Hey rookie! Where are you going?"
"Sorry. But I have some errands to run for. Later." Sukhman says it while still going out.
The park Charlotte had mentioned was a short walk from the hotel—a quiet urban oasis tucked behind an old stone wall, with cobbled paths winding through shaded lawns. Evening had descended gently over São Paulo, wrapping the city in a cooler hush. A few joggers and couples lingered, their voices hushed under the rustle of leafy trees swaying in the breeze. Lanterns flickered on along the main trail, casting amber light across the worn paths.
Sukhman walked slowly, hands in the pockets of his jacket, replaying the unexpected message Charlotte had sent earlier. "Need to talk. Meet me at Vila Pond Park at 7." No explanation, no hint of tone—just as enigmatic and flat as her usual demeanor.
He spotted her near the pond, standing with her back to him. Dressed in a gray hoodie and black jeans, her posture was stiff, arms folded. Her blonde hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, not a strand out of place. She looked like someone perpetually bracing for something—an attack, a mistake, a confession.
She turned slightly when she heard him approach.
"Hey," she said, voice low but steady.
"Hey," Sukhman replied.
He stopped a few steps away. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, to his surprise, she said, "Congratulations. On the win."
Sukhman raised an eyebrow, half amused. "Well, that I didn't expect."
Charlotte blinked. "Why not?"
He tilted his head. "Let's just say… you're not the type to hand out compliments."
She didn't answer immediately. Her gaze dropped for a second, as if collecting herself.
"You think I'm cold," she said, more as a fact than a question.
"I think you're focused. Moreover ruthless, if I be honest."
He leaned back against the wooden railing by the pond. "You also sabotaged my car. Let's not forget that."
Charlotte's jaw tightened. "You're still on that?"
Sukhman crossed his arms. "I mean, it was my first GP. I came in green, excited, and someone just happened to swap out my braking system the night before race day. Strange coincidence, don't you think?"
A muscle twitched in her cheek. She didn't deny it.
Instead, she looked down at the gravel. "I lost control of myself before that race," she admitted. "I was unraveling. Pressure, expectation, sponsorship talks falling apart... I wasn't myself."
He let her words hang in the air for a beat.
"So it's official now," he said quietly. "It was you. My intuition was right about you."
Charlotte nodded slowly. "I replaced the brake wires. I thought I was clever—used parts from a working car. It would still function, just less efficiently. Enough to rattle you, not kill you."
Sukhman stared at her for a long second, his jaw clenched.
"And what if it had been worse?" he asked, his voice low. "What if something did go wrong?"
"I didn't think that far," she admitted. "I just… needed to make sure no one got ahead of me. I wasn't seeing clearly."
He exhaled, gaze drifting across the pond's surface.
"I hated you for a while," he confessed. "But I didn't know why. I just felt like something was off. Like someone had pulled the rug from under me."
Charlotte didn't respond right away. Then, she said, "You had every right to."
"But I have better things than this to deal with." he added.
"I don't expect forgiveness," she said. "I'm not asking for it. But I did want to say it—to your face. No PR manager. No excuses."
He considered her, sensing the vulnerability beneath her iron shell.
"You know," he said slowly, "I didn't expect the apology. But I appreciate it."
They stood in silence for a while, the breeze rippling the pond's surface, the sounds of the city fading behind them.
"I watched the race yesterday," she said finally. "That pass on Finn Carter at Turn 14? Surgical. And that last lap… you drove like someone who'd spent a decade on the circuit."
Sukhman shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Felt like my car was going to shake itself apart, but yeah. It held."
"You impressed me," she said, no trace of flattery. Just a statement of fact. "I underestimated you."
He looked at her. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should," she said.
Another pause.
"I've been thinking," she added. "Brisbane is coming up. Fastest track outside Europe. Tricky elevation changes. Brutal chicanes. Plus that's my honest town.....".
He nodded. "It will be 2 race weeks later."
She turned to face him squarely. "Then I want to challenge you. One-on-one. Qualifying duel. You and me. Fastest time wins. No team orders. No interference."
Sukhman raised a brow. "You want to go head-to-head? Just like I did with Daan here."
"Yeah. I want to see what you've really got. Clean track. Real pressure. I need it."
"You sound like you're trying to redeem something."
"I am," she said bluntly.
He looked out at the water, then back at her. There was no arrogance in her words, no edge of malice or manipulation. Just fire. Determination.
It reminded him of himself.
"You're on," he said finally, extending a hand.
She gripped it firmly.
"No backing down."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
They stood like that for a moment longer, two racers on a quiet path, surrounded by the echoes of past mistakes and the promises of future races.