ALICE Ch 338

Italian Grand Prix Starting Positions:

1. Verstappen (Red Bull)

2. Sainz (Ferrari)

3. Woodcock, S. (Williams)

4. Norris (McLaren)

5. Tanaka (Mercedes)

6. Hamilton (Mercedes)

7. Pattinson (McLaren)

8. Perez (Red Bull)

9. Dunham (Freedom)

10. Bottas (Aston Martin)

11. Alonso (Aston Martin)

12. Laakso (AlphaTauri)

13. Mido (FUTA)

14. Wilde (FUTA)

15. Flores (Freedom)

16. Ricciardo (Haas)

17. Ocon (AlphaTauri)

18. Magnussen (Haas)

19. Woodcock, M. (Williams)

DNF LeClerc (Ferrari)

FF1

Alice Wilde has changed. She pours water from her bottle over her head. Her face is wet and her hair drips in the bright sunlight as she smiles confidently at the pretty reporter interviewing her. The reporter blushes and gamely forges on as Alice runs a hand through her hair and fans her face with a FUTA racing cap.

The reporter blushes. “It’s not the outcome you were hoping for. Glynda’s been so outspoken lately about correcting course and seeking a more consistent result.”

“We’re fighting the car. You can see that Mio is too. It’s a process,” Alice replies.

“The front positions were looking more traditional. Do you have any thoughts about the performance of Valeria Flores, given your history together?”

Alice pauses to wave to someone off-camera. “I love that people think that we knew each other really well. I guess there was an experience or two that we bonded over, way back then, but it would be great if people would stop acting like we’re besties or rivals or anything like that. I think of Val as my friend, and she’s a good driver. But it’s that simple, you know? A part of me is glad that she’s not way ahead of me tomorrow, and a part of me is bummed that her car is holding her back. I want to be the best, but I also want her to do well. It’s just one of those things.”

“What was Valeria like when you were children?”

Alice snorts. “Weird. But she was as good at soccer as she is at driving. Excuse me. Football.” She rolls her eyes.

Irina Orlova lowers the volume on the TV and takes a sip from her cocktail, shifting around on the sofa in her suite to get more comfortable. Her laptop glows beside her. She rubs her eyes and looks over her shoulder at the door. Where is Sasha?

FF1

Bea Ruiz sits across from Sasha Orlova at a little café not far from the cathedral.

Sasha is not like any of the other ultra-rich she has dealt with. Bea has begun to realize that she hasn’t met Sasha yet, only the façade. It’s obvious that Sasha is doing what women have done out of necessity throughout history: hidden their real selves and worn the masks of whatever the patriarchy demanded. In Sasha’s case, it’s obviously a very literal matriarchy that has her feeling as though she can’t be herself.

The temptation to change strategy and exploit that is strong, but Bea can’t get past her pity for this young woman. Compassion for a billionaire; Bea never thought she’d see the day.

Sasha is much smarter than she lets on, but she’s still obviously taking a passive approach to her circumstances. That’s not a good sign. What’s she so afraid of?

“Are you OK?” Sasha asks.

Bea picks up her drink and looks apologetic. “Sorry. I just had a thought there about how many texts I’ll have from my mother I’ll have when I look at my phone.”

Sasha smiles. She really is pretty.