My Formula 1 System

The dinner event was to be held at iVax Plaza in Mitte, a top-tier sponsor of both Formula 1 and Formula 2 racing. The same venue that hosted the F1 drivers' get-together was now prepped for the feeder boys, offering them a similar glimpse of grandeur.

Luca arrived with Sara in a sleek, black taxi—his flamboyant chariot for the night, since he still didn't own a car. Convincing Sara to accompany him had been a near-impossible task, given how much she had begged for sleep and rest. But Luca's persistent pleas had worked. After all, how cool would it look to walk into the hall with a tall, older woman on his arm?

He grinned wildly at the thought, the soft glow of a building's lights reflecting off the window and illuminating his face.

This felt like it was going to be something like his first real date, in some sense. Back then, things with Hanna had never materialized into anything substantial. Miles Bellingham, however, would surely bring her along tonight. That thought caused Luca to scoff as he shook his head in mild irritation.

He turned his gaze to the British beauty seated next to him, the elegant profile of Sara illuminated by passing streetlights. Luca inhaled deeply, exhaled, and smiled as he leaned back, content to enjoy the ride. His phone buzzed in his lap, snapping him from his reverie.

He checked the recent message he had, and it was Ansel, asking him to hurry up. Ansel had made it to the venue already and had taken a seat. Luca replied accordingly.

Another notification caught his attention—an email from Mr. Fisher. The subject line read: "Travel Itinerary - Melbourne GP". Luca skimmed through the details, finding the contents similar to any other flight trip—just more tedious and sophisticated. There were instructions about early flights, charter schedules, and protocols, all tailored to the demands of the upcoming race in Australia.

As he closed the email, Luca instinctively switched to the season's standings to see how things stood between the teams before Melbourne. His thumb scrolled slowly across the screen, the bright screen lighting up his face in the car's darkness as the streetlights outside zipped by.

PROVISIONAL TEAMS' CHAMPIONSHIP STANDINGS (TOP5) Scroll for more.

Position | Team | Points

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1. | Trampos Racing | 35

2. | Bueseno Velocità Jnr. | 31

3. | Hatcherk Motorsport | 14

4. | Nevada HanSama Jnr | 11

5. | Squadra Corse Jnr | 9

Luca nodded thoughtfully as he absorbed the details on his phone. These were the teams to watch, and he knew they'd become familiar opponents over the course of his F2 career. His gaze lingered on OLAC Racing—Harry's team—sitting disappointingly in 14th place with just a single point.

That's harsh, Luca thought with a sigh, slipping his phone back into his suit pocket. The taxi glided smoothly to a halt in front of the grand plaza, its headlights illuminating the polished marble steps. Well-dressed guests flowed in and out of the towering glass doors, their chatter lively yet refined.

The atmosphere here was vibrant but far more relaxed than what he had observed the previous night. Yes, Luca had intentionally taken a cab past the plaza back then, just to catch a glimpse of the successful F1 racers arriving in their million-dollar supercars.

Luca opened his door and stepped out confidently. He shut the door behind him, then walked around the taxi to open the door for Sara.

"May I take your hand, m'lady?" Luca asked with a smirk, mimicking a British accent as he extended his hand toward her.

"Don't you make this a thing," Sara grumbled, accepting his hand as he aided her out of the car.

Luca waved to the cab driver, knowing he had paid pre-ride, and he managed to speak grateful, basic German words he had learnt to him, which the man replied heartfully.

"May I have the honor? Please take my arm, Mrs. Rennick," Luca sneered, hoisting his arm for Sara to take.

Sara scoffed but didn't hesitate, sliding her hand into the crook of his arm. "You must add this to my paycheck," she muttered.

The two walked up the stairs toward the security at the main glass doors. It was difficult to see anybody in the darkness of the evening, but their voices, the white dress shirt beneath their suits and cufflinks, served a good purpose.

Luca was screened and confirmed as an F2 driver from Trampos Racing before being allowed inside. The empty lobby next gleamed under golden chandeliers, showcasing priceless accessories on display. A security guard motioned for Luca and Sara to take an escalator leading to the event space.

At the top, Luca stepped into a darker, more intimate setting. Soft music hummed in the background, with red and purple ambient lighting casting subtle glows across the room. A disco ball spun slowly at the center, scattering fragmented light over the gathering.

Luca scanned the area. It was like a blend of a convention and a bar party—soft chatter filled the air, and a small but wide stage stood at the far end of the space.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Ansel, hoping to locate him among the crowd of young stars and their partners murmuring quietly to each other. Ansel picked up right away and guided Luca to where he and his fiancée were seated along the wall. Thoughtfully, Ansel had already reserved two extra seats for Luca and his spouse.

"It's nice to meet you," Luca greeted Ansel's fiancée as they approached. She was unmistakably German too, her features sharp and striking, dressed elegantly in an indigo gown. Ansel, by contrast, wore a simple all-black ensemble—handsome but unassuming, as always.

What really caught Ansel off guard, though, was Sara. His surprise was plain as he took in her appearance—tall, mature, and striking enough that she could easily be mistaken for Luca's aunt.

"It's a pleasure," Ansel said, offering a polite nod toward Sara as everyone took their seats on the plush chairs. "Luca is very lucky."

"Thank you," Sara managed to mutter, side-eyeing Luca wickedly.

They were served light refreshments, and Luca, as usual, made sure to get clearance from his System before ingesting anything. While chatting with Ansel, he cast glances around the room, observing the mix of youthful, athletic figures. His gaze landed on Max Addams at one end, basking in the attention as several people gathered around him.

Luca noted that it wasn't just the drivers in attendance—important figures from the championship and others connected to F2 crowded the space, adding weight to the atmosphere.

After a few minutes, the guests were asked to take their seats for a presentation on the stage. The presentation dragged on for what felt like thirty minutes to an hour, covering the history of Formula 1 and its feeder series. Luca had no doubt the same presentation had been shown to the F1 drivers the previous night.

Bored as he was, he understood the purpose—the Federation wanted racers to grasp the deeper essence of motorsport before the season advanced to its apex.

His attention piqued when the presenter shifted to the fallen racers who had tragically lost their lives on the track. Luca's ears perked up as he listened closely, hoping to hear a familiar name.

"Aldo Rennick, The Rocket, Nevada HanSama."

Relief washed over Luca at the mention of his father's name. He glanced around, expecting someone to react, maybe look at him. But it seemed the similar last name didn't trigger recognition—either "Rennick" was just a common Italian surname, or no one had connected the dots. After all, namesakes weren't unusual in the racing world.

Then came the reading of last season's Hall of Fame, accompanied by polite applause that echoed through the room. This was where Luca's mood shifted.

His father's name wasn't among the honorees.

Wasn't Aldo Rennick good enough to be remembered as a great F1 driver?

Confusion furrowed Luca's brows as he stared at the presenter, now descending the stage and disappearing into the dimly lit room.

Without a word, Luca humbly excused himself from the table and made his way to the bar. Sliding onto a barstool, he slumped forward, rubbing his temple. Even I'm starting to feel sleepy now, he thought, exhaling heavily.

"At least can I take one glass of tequila? I'm old enough to drink when I want, and we don't have a race in the championship until next week," Luca asked his System.

[Very well, host.]

[One glass is all you are allowed to ingest. Such a drink has too high alcohol levels, host.]

Luca nodded and ordered it from the bartender. He stared at the liquor briefly, weighing it in his mind before tossing it back in one gulp. Blech! What in the world is this shite?

Luca grimaced, displeasure evident as he shoved the glass back toward the bartender. He hadn't expected it to taste this bad—champagne definitely seemed like the better option. Gagging slightly, he decided he'd rather stick with soda or fruit juices, even if some might find that childish.

"One glass of malt drink, please," Luca said, raising his index finger.

The bartender nodded and got to work, soon placing a glass of malt in front of Luca, who also requested a straw.

Stirring the straw idly, Luca scanned the room with a sharp, conscious eye. The fake smiles and hollow laughter were all too obvious. It felt like most people here were counting the minutes until they could leave. He began to wonder if the Federation had set this gathering up with an ulterior motive—perhaps to give the drivers a chance to size up their rivals more intimately.

Clusters of twos and threes dotted the room, but there wasn't much real energy between anyone.

Luca's gaze continued sweeping the space, still searching for Harry or Miles, when it landed on a familiar figure. For a moment, he didn't recognize her—until her distinctive facial features clicked in his mind. It was Isabella, making her way toward him in a sleek, revealing black dress that flowed to her shins. Her hair, no longer tied up, cascaded freely to her pale neck.

What is she doing here?

Isabella smiled warmly as she placed her purse on the table and slid into the barstool next to Luca. "Good evening, Mister," she said, her gaze drifting over his all-black attire before flicking toward his drink. "I recognized your stance from across the room. But you know you shouldn't drink that so close to an Executive. They'll take little out of you."

Luca chuckled, blinking to confirm it was really the same girl from Birmingham speaking to him. How fate works. "Isabella, this is a surprise," he said, still slightly disbelieving.

"No, I'm the one who's surprised to see you," Isabella responded, extending her hand gracefully. Her nails were painted a deep red, and a delicate bangle dangled loosely from her wrist. "In fact, I should congratulate you."

Luca reached out, praying his cursed hands weren't clammy.

"Congratulations on finishing first in Grey-Husson's program—and for making the podium in the last race. You were fantastic," Isabella continued with a sincere smile.

Luca fought back a replying smile, biting his lower lip to avoid looking too pleased. Her hand felt softer than he'd expected, much more delicate than someone who likely spent hours working with machinery. He held the handshake a beat too long, staring at her slender frame, before releasing it.

Then, a nagging thought crept into his mind. He frowned. "What are you doing here? Are you... dating one of the racers?"

Isabella shook her head, politely declining a drink from the bartender. "I'm single, Luca," she replied.

Good. Relief.

"But it seems you're taken." Isabella's words cut through Luca's thoughts of relief. He looked up at her to catch her gaze somewhere else, at his table with Ansel. "She's old enough to be your eldest sister," Isabella observed with a raised brow. "You are really sharp."

Ahhhhhhh, fuck. Luca wasn't sure if he should tell Isabella that Sara wasn't really his fiancée, just a part of tonight's little charade. For all he knew, Isabella might actually be interested in him, and exposing the truth could either intrigue her—or ruin whatever respect she held for him. After a brief internal struggle, he decided to let it slide. With a subtle nod, he responded to her remark.

"My father's Bellingham's No. 1 endorser—did you forget?" Isabella arched a brow, clearly amused. Tilting her head slightly, she gestured toward a busy corner of the room. "He's right there with him. So, whenever Dad has to attend events like these, I either tag along... or get dragged along."

"Oh, I see," Luca muttered, squinting through the dim, shifting disco lights to spot Miles. The poor guy didn't look pleased—how could he, after finishing sixth?

Isabella let out a tired sigh and slipped gracefully off the barstool, standing at about 5'5". She adjusted her purse, tucking it between both palms. "Alright, Luca. I'll see you whenever—and wherever—the championship schedule takes us next," she said.

"You are still working as a mechanic?"

"Mhmm."

"Alright, then... Can I have your number now?" Luca asked, his breath caught in his throat.

A playful smile spread across Isabella's lips. She leaned in softly and gave him a mischievous look, lips forming an exaggerated 'O.' "Mister, don't tell me you're the cheating kind?!"

Oh, c'mon that's not real. "I can assure you I'm not," Luca replied smoothly, keeping his tone steady. "I genuinely want your contact."

Isabella shrugged after staring intently at him, then called out her number, making sure he noted it down before saying goodbye again. She walked back toward the edge of the room from where she had come, leaving Luca momentarily spellbound as he stared throughout.

Suddenly, a hard slap on his back jolted him back to reality. He turned to see Harry's snickering face behind him, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"My man!"

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Luca introduced Harry to Ansel and vice versa. The three of them fell into an easy conversation, discussing their contracts, recent career developments, and the intricacies of the racing world with Luca and Harry dominating the conversation.

As they spoke, soft laughter and chatter filled the room, interspersed with the occasional clink of glasses and upbeat music pulsing in the background. The energy was palpable through the event, though Luca noticed the exhaustion setting in for some. The night was lively, but there was an underlying sense of anticipation as many of the attendees seemed eager for it to wrap up.

Eventually, as the clock inched closer to 11 PM, the get-together came to an end. By then, Sara had almost passed out on the table.