The Italian sun bore down like a spotlight, golden and intense, casting long shadows as the week began in Tuscany. On Monday morning, Sukhman stepped onto the sun-drenched tarmac of Florence's airport, the dry heat a welcome departure from the damp chill of Nottingham. The Vaayu GP team had arrived in full force, gears shifting rapidly for the international fixtures ahead. But before the engines screamed again, there was a window—a chance to breathe.
Sukhman chose to use it.
With Yudhvir as his ever-enthusiastic companion, the days ahead felt more like a road trip than a professional break. Despite being his senior in the team and someone who'd once stood on the same starting grids Sukhman was now conquering, Yudhvir approached each day with the energy of a first-time tourist. His injured leg, wrapped in a sleek carbon brace that helped him walk with relative ease, didn't dampen his spirit in the slightest.
"Bro, I swear, if you haven't seen the Colosseum at sunrise, have you even lived?" Yudhvir declared as they climbed out of a cab near the ancient amphitheater, his face beaming beneath his reflective shades.
"You've been here before, haven't you?" Sukhman chuckled.
"Once. In '17. But man, every time I'm here, it's like the place rewrites itself. Just look at it!" he exclaimed, sweeping his arms wide as if he owned the view.
Even as tourists gathered and the early sun painted the ruins in molten gold, Yudhvir hobbled around energetically, pointing out crumbling arches and whispering trivia he remembered—or sometimes made up. Sukhman couldn't help but laugh, occasionally reaching out to steady him when the elder racer got a bit too animated and threatened to tip over uneven cobblestones.
"I'm not that old," Yudhvir would protest with a grin. "Just vintage."
The duo moved from Rome's monumental heart to the dreamy canals of Venice, where Yudhvir insisted on singing exaggerated Bollywood ballads during their gondola ride, causing even the stoic gondolier to snort with amusement. In Florence, he dragged Sukhman into a leather workshop just to argue over jackets neither of them intended to buy. And in every small town or rustic village they passed, Yudhvir found something to gush about—be it the scent of freshly baked focaccia, the shade of the sunset, or a mural half-hidden on a narrow alley wall.
But amid the comedy and chaos, Sukhman felt something deeper.
He watched how Yudhvir's injured leg slowed him down at times, how he leaned slightly more on his walking stick by evening, and how his eyes lingered a little too long on the posters of upcoming races they passed. Yet, he never complained—not once. His excitement wasn't just about travel. It was about freedom. A kind of victory over the injury that had sidelined his dreams.
"You know," Yudhvir said one evening as they sat on a balcony overlooking the Tuscan hills, a half-eaten cannoli in hand, "there's a kind of peace in letting go of the wheel. But damn, I still miss the rush."
Sukhman nodded, the words anchoring themselves somewhere deep.
Their journey wasn't just an escape from the pressure or a distraction before the next Grand Prix. It was a bridge—between generations, between past and present, between the roar of engines and the quiet heartbeat of friendship.
Siddharth joined them occasionally—a third shadow trailing behind—but his mind was often elsewhere. As Vaayu GP's chief engineer, the pressure was relentless. With the Italian race looming, he buried himself in tuning the car, recalibrating every detail in light of the brake failure incident. His dedication was ironclad. Even over dinner, he could often be seen jotting calculations on a napkin or watching wind tunnel simulations on his tablet.
By Tuesday afternoon, Sukhman found himself walking alone in a shaded corridor of their resort, the midday sun now veiled by distant clouds. It was here that he received a call.
"Come to the back veranda," Coach Arne said. "We need to talk."
Sukhman found Arne seated with his back straight, his silver-streaked hair slicked back, a cold espresso resting untouched on the table beside him. There was a view of the rolling hills behind him—olive groves and vineyards stretching into a hazy distance. But Arne wasn't looking at the view.
"You wanted to see me, Coach?"
"Sit," Arne said, his voice calm but stern.
Sukhman obeyed.
A long pause followed.
"I watched the footage of your crash again," Arne began. "Twice."
Sukhman swallowed but said nothing.
"You're reckless."
It struck like a hammer. Arne had never minced words, but hearing that word—reckless—from the man who mentored him was a knife to the chest.
"Coach, I—"
"Let me finish," Arne interrupted. "You had the talent to react. You had the split-second instincts to veer off safely. But you didn't. You panicked. And when panic rules, control is lost."
Sukhman stared at his hands. He had replayed the moment a hundred times in his mind. The curve. The tension in the steering wheel. The sickening snap of metal. The impact.
"That kind of crash? It shouldn't have happened," Arne said. "You know it."
Silence. Heavy and absolute.
Then, Arne's expression softened.
"But I also know what happened before the crash. The brake tampering. The confrontation. The pressure. It was a storm. And you did survive. For that, I'm grateful."
He leaned back in his chair.
"Let me tell you a story," he said, his tone quieter now.
"In my time, there was a racer named Lars Meijer. Dutch. Elegant on the wheel. His drifts were so smooth, they called him the Wind Whisperer. He could glide through corners like water down a stream. Championships bowed to him. Teams fought for him."
Arne paused, his eyes glazing with memory.
"But one day, it all ended. Monaco. Qualifiers. He reported gearbox trouble, but it was ignored. His team thought it was a minor glitch. But during the climb to the hill section, the gearbox locked. The car spun out. He crashed into the barrier. He never walked again."
Sukhman's throat tightened.
"The point is," Arne said, "safety is never someone else's responsibility. Not in this sport. Not on that lane. Once you're behind the wheel, it's all in your hands. Precaution, awareness, instincts. They matter more than raw speed. You want a legacy? Start with survival."
Sukhman nodded slowly. The words struck deep.
"You made a mistake. And I won't pretend it was nothing. But you're still here. So learn from it. I forgive you. Now earn that forgiveness."
A long silence followed. Sukhman stood, bowed his head in respect, and left. The weight of the conversation stayed with him well into the night.
---
Wednesday morning dawned with tension in the air, despite the blue skies.
The IRC (International Racing Council) had assembled an independent investigation panel the day after the Nottingham crash. They had reviewed footage, accessed security logs, interrogated mechanics, and cross-referenced alibis.
At noon, the report was released.
The findings were clear. Charlotte Reid had been caught tampering with Sukhman's vehicle. Her movements were recorded. Her fingerprints found. Her injury—previously claimed as an accident—was consistent with the exact tools used.
It was undeniable.
The racing world reeled.
That afternoon, a press conference was held in a marble-floored hall at the heart of the IRC headquarters in Florence. Rows of journalists from around the world filled the space, camera lenses blinking like watchful eyes. Sukhman stood at the back, away from the stage.
Charlotte stepped up to the podium.
Her face was pale, drained of its usual confidence. But her voice, when it came, was steady.
"I stand here not as a racer, but as someone who failed to uphold the spirit of this sport. I admit to tampering with Sukhman Singh's car."
Gasps echoed through the room. Reporters leaned forward.
"I was angry. I acted out of frustration and impulse. I let competition twist into something darker. I endangered a life. And I take full responsibility for that."
She paused, eyes seems to be full of tears.
"Whatever punishment the council deems fit, I will accept it. No excuses."
A hush settled over the room. Even the camera shutters were slow to click.
Later, IRC spokesperson Amelia Fournier stepped forward.
"Charlotte Reid's actions violate the code of ethics upheld by the IRC. However, based on her clean record, her immediate confession, and the influence of high-pressure environments, we have chosen to suspend her from this week's race and place her under a two-month probation."
More murmurs. Shock. Surprise.
"She will be given one chance to prove her integrity again in the upcoming fixtures. Should she violate even the smallest regulation, her license will be revoked."
Some applauded the balance. Others were outraged. But the decision stood.
---
By evening, social media had fractured like shattering glass.
#CharlotteSabotage trended worldwide within minutes, dominating timelines and feeds across every platform. The motorsport world, once united in anticipation for the Italian leg of the championship, was now sharply divided in its outrage, sympathy, and speculation.
The backlash came hard and fast.
> @racingtruth_: "Unbelievable. If it were anyone else, they'd be banned for life. Favoritism is alive and well in the IRC. What kind of message does this send?"
> @checkeredflag_riot: "Sabotaging a teammate? That's not 'competitive spirit,' that's criminal. This isn't high school drama. It's motorsport. People die from stuff like this."
Some demanded a life ban. Others called for her arrest. Motorsport veterans weighed in with mixed views, while influencers latched onto the drama like it was fuel for their next viral video.
Yet, amidst the firestorm, a wave of support also rose—steadier, more nuanced, but just as passionate.
> @gaspedalqueen: "People make mistakes. She owned up. No excuses, no hiding. That takes courage. Give her the second chance she earned."
> @wheelfirepodcast: "Charlotte Reid made a devastating mistake. But this sport isn't black and white. Pressure breaks people in strange ways. Let's not cancel someone who's already facing consequences."
Memes surfaced, some humorous, others harsh. A split-screen comparison of Charlotte's composed podium face beside her tearful confession was shared thousands of times. Threads dissected her body language, the slight tremble in her voice, the way her hands fidgeted with the mic. Everyone became an expert on guilt and regret overnight.
In the eye of this storm, the press pounced.
Evening broadcasts led with explosive headlines:
"The Dark Side of the Track: A Rising Star's Fall."
"Pressure, Perfection, and the Price of Failure: The Charlotte Reid Saga."
"Sabotage in the Paddock – When Rivalry Turns to Ruin."
Analysts filled time slots with debates, picking apart every angle. Was the pressure of being a woman in a male-dominated sport the root cause? Was IRC's decision to let her race again justified? Would the same verdict be reached if the roles were reversed?
Charlotte's past was dredged up—old interviews, school achievements, her infamous fiery temper during junior karting days. Every moment of her life now existed under a microscope.
A particularly poignant editorial from a former racer, now turned commentator, aired on a prime-time segment:
> "I've sat in those cars. I've felt the weight of a thousand eyes every time the lights go out. I've also felt the sting of loss when someone faster comes along. Charlotte Reid's mistake was catastrophic, but it was also… human. Motorsport needs to decide—do we value redemption? Or do we worship perfection until it breaks?"
IRC's decision to grant Charlotte a second chance only amplified the polarization. Their official statement—"In acknowledging her mistake and accepting disciplinary action, Ms. Reid demonstrates accountability. The council has opted for restorative action over punitive exclusion."—was dissected, praised, and mocked in equal measure.
Meanwhile, Charlotte herself disappeared from social media. Her accounts went silent. No tweets. No stories. Just the echo of her apology ringing across every screen, looping in soundbites, framed by headlines she never wanted to see.
And Sukhman… he watched it all unfold quietly.
His name floated here and there in the narrative—"The victim of the sabotage," some called him. Others labeled him "gracious," for not pressing charges, for not speaking out.
But he didn't feel like a hero.
He just felt... tired.
The truth was out. Justice, of some kind, was served. But peace? That would take much longer to return.