My Formula 1 System-Chapter 643: Contention

Before Sunday arrived, the qualifying results were already locked in, the starting grid posted and dissected from every angle. Analysis varied widely, and opinions hardened pretty quickly as predictions were made on how the German Grand Prix might unfold.

P1– Luca Rennick

P2– Marko Ignatova

P3– Luis Dreyer

P4– Antonio Luigi

P5– Max Addams

P6– Buoso Di Renzo

P7– Davide DiMarco

P8– Hank Rice

P9– Denko Rutherford

P10– Józef Konarski

P11– Ailbeart Moireach

P12– Victor Surmann

P13– Elias Nystrom

P14– Desmond Lloyd

P15– Mikhail Petrov

P16– Yokouchi Yūichirō

P17– James Lockwood

P18– Jimmy Damgaard

P19– Albert Derstappen

P20– Alejandro Vasquez

In Velocita’s designated facility in Frankfurt, the atmosphere was charged with pre-race intensity. Engineers moved between stations and crew members rehearsed procedures—all working toward the singular goal of a successful Grand Prix.

One young man, Matteo Bianchi, walked down one of the long aisles after completing his medical and weight clearance. An overhead TV mounted along the corridor caught his eye; the screen was covering the early race-week buildup, with grid graphics scrolling, debates over momentum, and looping replays of key qualifying moments.

Matteo slowed his steps as the starting grid was displayed again. He hadn’t taken part, but it had been one hell of a qualifying session.

In Q2, Jimmy had collided with Ailbeart Moireach—Jimmy spinning out while Ailbeart was forced into a terminal crawl. The incident explained their compromised grid positions. As for Derstappen, grip had vanished exactly when he needed it most, ending his hopes in that same session. Because of this, Velocita and Jackson were stripped of true contention, while Outback and Squadra emerged with the upper hand.

Watching it all, Matteo couldn’t shake the bad feeling settling in his gut. For weeks, the tension within his team hadn’t eased; Jimmy and Di Renzo were still feuding, and this race threatened to pour fuel on the fire.

P12– Victor Surmann

"Fourteen races and you’ve only got three points in total," Matteo muttered analytically as Victor’s data flashed on the screen. "That’s worse than horrible. And somehow, the media still finds a way to mock me instead."

He exhaled, then leaned closer with a scheming smile. "I’m watching you, farmboy. Don’t outgrow me. You drove well the other day; you could have taken P10 from Józef if that Jimmy-Ailbeart mess hadn’t ruined the race flow. But that’s the game, is it not?"

Reaching out, Matteo double-tapped the screen where a green graph marker showed Victor Surmann’s pace increment from the previous round. It showed a subtle, sudden upward trend. Matteo stared at it longer than necessary, his face unreadable, before glancing down at the file in his hand marked ’FIT TO RACE’ in bold.

When would that be again?

Di Renzo was back, and Jimmy was still at his best.

The thought lingered as Matteo turned and vanished into the shadows of the corridor, the screen still glowing behind him.

~~~~~~~

Back at Luca’s estate, there was a different kind of tension. Thankfully, as race day drew closer, it began to dissolve.

What was Luca thinking, letting two women who liked him stay under the same roof?

Isabella spent every minute of the day asking herself this question as she tried to keep her temper in check. She fought back a rising tide of resentment like a dam holding back a flood.

Luca, on the other hand, didn’t feel guilty. It might have been because he was absent the entire time and never felt the tension in the house, or because he had long ago settled his initial guilt, leaving him to live mind-free. He had even asked Laura to leave; she had refused, and since he couldn’t exactly throw her and a child out, he let her stay.

Luca genuinely believed that Isabella and Laura were still very good friends, and that the reunion would somehow turn out... nice.

It did turn out nice—but only on the surface. Isabella and Laura were both skilled in their own quiet ways, accomplished actors in fields that demanded composure. Smiles were exchanged easily, voices softened deliberately, kindnesses offered with practiced grace. They shared space without friction, coordinated routines, and even laughed at the right moments. To anyone watching, it looked natural and warm.

Martin became the unintentional bridge between these two fortified camps; his innocence often forced the women into temporary truces. They would find themselves side-by-side on the plush sofa, discussing diapers and sleep schedules like they were sisters, while using the baby as a human shield to avoid addressing the giant, Luca-shaped elephant in the room.

But the peace was conditional, and it was only held together by restraint rather than trust. Every polite gesture was a calculated move to stake their claim on the house—and the man who owned it.

Isabella eventually decided she would take it beneath her. Registering this husband stealer as a competition would only cheapen her. Ignoring the situation felt stronger. After all, the most powerful move was to refuse to play the game.

So she couldn’t help but feel lighter when Saturday arrived, the eve of the German Grand Prix. Manuela had promised to stop by swiftly and take her out to the city’s outskirts for a pre-race overnight stay. This meant escaping the claustrophobic domesticity of the house, and a break from Laura’s ever-present mother scent that seemed to cling to every room.

"Isabella, I’m waiting for you!" Manuela’s voice rang from the front door, sharp and impatient. "I don’t have time for this—let’s go, it’s late. What are you even doing?"

Night had settled fully over the estate, the kind of night that made wealth glow. Path lights traced the long driveway, the house itself lit warmly from every angle, glass and stone shining against the dark trees beyond the fence. Inside, Isabella stood in a bathroom, one hand braced on the sink, the other holding something she absolutely should not have been staring at for this long.

"I’m coming!" she called back, forcing brightness into her voice as she heard Manuela’s boots already stomping up the stairs.

Panicked, she set the object down too quickly and splashed a bit of water on her face. Afterwards, she waddled to the door and swung it open. Manuela stood there, arms crossed, eyes already narrowed.

"Were you checking it now?"

Isabella shook her head quickly, a lie sliding easily off her tongue. "No, just... finishing up. Let’s go."

"Good," Manuela grunted, grabbing Isabella’s arm. "The traffic to the offland is going to be a nightmare with the Federation checkpoints. We need to move."

The two women hurried down the stairs, their footsteps fading as they exited the heavy oak doors. They passed through the bright foyer, out into the cool night air. Moments later, the low rumble of an engine came alive as headlights lit the driveway. The sound of tires rolling over gravel signaled their departure, leaving the house in a sudden, ringing silence.

Upstairs, a door creaked.

Laura descended the same staircase minutes later, careful and slow, having finally put Martin to sleep. Halfway down, she paused to listen.

Silence.

She adjusted her silk robe, letting a triumphant smile play on her lips.

She was very glad they were gone, especially Manuela, whom she feared could see through her.

As she descended toward the kitchen for some water, she passed the bathroom Isabella had just vacated. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling onto the carpet. Isabella must have rushed. Laura hesitated only a moment before pushing it open.

The bathroom was immaculate, with gleaming marbles and scented air. Laura stepped inside without thinking, her gaze lifting automatically to the mirror, where she caught her own reflection.

She looked like a museum piece in the house. Blonde hair. Glowing skin. Still beautiful. Still desired. She tilted her head, studying herself and wondering when exactly she would feel wanted again.

The thought barely had time to settle before her eyes dropped to the sink.

Sitting there was a slim, white plastic stick device.

Laura recognized it very quickly, but she still wasn’t sure as her trembling hands picked it up, bringing it into the light.

Very quickly, her heart shifted from curiosity to concern. Her heart began to race, pounding hard enough that she felt it in her ears.

"No.." she whispered.

"Pregnant....?"