Chapter Text
Consciousness returned not with a bang, but with a slow, syrupy drag. The first thing I was aware of was the light—a sterile, white, clinical glow against my eyelids. The second was the sound—not the roar of a crowd or the scream of an engine, but the steady, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor. The third was the smell—antiseptic, clean linen, the unmistakable scent of a hospital.
My eyes fluttered open. The world was a blur of white and pale green. I tried to sit up, but a dull, deep ache radiated from my ribs, my shoulder, my head. A weak groan escaped my lips.
“Dee? Dee! Can you hear me? Oh, thank God.”
A face swam into focus. Max. His eyes were red-rimmed, shadowed with a fatigue I’d never seen on him before, even after the most grueling race. His hand, warm and solid, closed around mine, squeezing tightly.
“Max?” My voice was a dry, cracked whisper.
“She’s awake! Mom, she’s awake!”
Then my mother was there, her gentle hands on my face, her tears falling on my cheeks. “My baby girl. Oh, my Denise.”
The fussing was a whirlwind—doctors were called, vitals were checked, questions were asked in soft, careful tones. I answered on autopilot. Yes, my name is Denise Verstappen. I know where I am. It hurts, but it’s manageable.
But internally, I was reeling, a ship torn from its moorings in a hurricane and dumped into a dead-calm sea.
I’m alive.
The relief was a physical wave, so potent it made me lightheaded. The crash in Greece—the weightless flight, the sickening snap—it hadn’t been the end. I had survived.
But then, the other thought, the one that clawed at the edges of that relief with terrifying, razor-sharp talons.
- Lewis. Sebastian. The soulmark. Was it all a dream?
The question was a scream in the silent, sterile room. If it was a dream, it was the cruelest, most elaborate joke the universe had ever played. To have lived a lifetime, to have felt a love so profound it felt written in the stars, to have forged a friendship that was my anchor in a storm… only to have it be a figment of a coma-induced imagination? The hollowness that opened up inside me at the thought was more painful than any physical injury.
I needed proof. I needed to touch it.
My right hand, the one not tangled in IV lines, twitched. I tried to move it, to pull down the sleeve of the hospital gown, but my body was heavy, uncooperative.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Mom asked, her voice laced with concern. “Are you in pain? Do you need more medication?”
“My… my wrist,” I managed to rasp out.
Max, ever perceptive, misunderstood. He thought I was trying to adjust the pulse oximeter clipped to my finger. “Here, let me,” he said, his touch surprisingly gentle as he fixed the sensor.
I didn’t have the strength to correct him. I just lay there, my heart hammering against my bruised ribs, the beep of the monitor speeding up. The only evidence, the only tangible thing I could cling to from that other life, was the ink on my skin. S.V. 23. If it was gone, then it was all a lie. A beautiful, devastating lie.
My mother, smoothing the hair back from my forehead, spoke again, her tone shifting to one of mild, grateful curiosity. “You know, Lewis Hamilton has been here to see you. Several times, actually. He’s been checking in every few days for the last three weeks. Was so worried. It’s so kind of him, considering.”
The world stopped.
The beeping of the monitor became a distant hum. Max’s fussing faded into white noise.
Lewis.
His name wasn’t a memory from a dream. It was a fact. A connection. He was here, in my time. He knew me. If 2010 was just a dream, Lewis, a rival of my brother, would have no conceivable reason to visit the sister of his competitor. He was famous for his kindness, I had experienced it first hand, but not for a devotion that spanned weeks for a virtual stranger.
But he had visited. Faithfully.
This was the proof. This was the anchor in my storm of disbelief. The older Lewis Hamilton, a man living in my present, knew me. Not as Max Verstappen's sister, but as the girl who had fallen from the future into the path of his car fourteen years ago. He had kept my impossible secret then, and he had never, ever forgotten.
It was real. It had to be real.
A sob, half-relief, half-overwhelming shock, caught in my throat. I turned my head into the pillow, hiding the tears that welled in my eyes.
Later, when the doctors had left and my mother had gone to fetch a cup of tea, Max sat heavily in the chair beside my bed. He looked at me, his expression deadly serious.
“The doctors say you’ll make a full recovery, but it’s going to take time. A lot of time. And physio,” he began, his voice leaving no room for argument. “So here are the new rules. No driving for you—of any kind. And if I see you even touch a badminton racquet before the physio clears you, I’m sending you to live with Mom.”
It was the most brotherly ultimatum imaginable, all bluster masking sheer, terrified love. The champion in him, the one who lived and breathed competition, was trying to lock me in a padded cell for my own good.
“I’m taking a leave of absence,” he stated, the decision clearly already made. “For as long as you need me.”
The love in that gesture was immense, a canyon-deep devotion. But the thought of him sacrificing his world for mine was unbearable. I had just spent a lifetime—or what felt like one—fighting to belong in a world of speed, not as a ghost, but as a participant. I couldn’t let him step away from his.
“No,” I said, my voice firmer than it had been all day.
He blinked, startled. “Dee, be reasonable. You can’t be alone, and you sure as hell can’t be on the road.”
“I won’t be, and I won’t,” I countered. The solution, came to me fully formed, a perfect solution. “You’re not taking a leave. You’re hiring me.”
Max stared at me as if I’d just suggested he start driving with his feet. “Hiring you? To do what? You need to rest.”
“I will. But I can rest at the track. I need to be there, Max. It’s the only place I know how to be.” I met his gaze, the old fire returning to my eyes. “You need a new manager. Someone who understands the engineering, the politics, the media. Someone you can trust absolutely. You need me.”
I saw the protest forming on his lips, the brotherly concern warring with the racer’s logic. He knew I was right.
“I’m not sacrificing your career, Max,” I said softly, reaching for his hand again. This time, my grip was stronger. “I’m joining it. My body might be broken, but my mind is sharper than it’s ever been. Let me be your team.”
He looked at me for a long, long moment, seeing past the bandages and the pallor. A slow, proud, slightly bewildered smile spread across his face.
“Okay,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Okay, deal. You’re hired. But the ‘no driving’ rule still stands.”
“Deal,” I agreed.
As he squeezed my hand, my left hand finally managed to creep across my body. With trembling fingers, I pushed up the sleeve of my hospital gown.
There, stark against my pale skin, was the proof. The script was as familiar as my own heartbeat.
S.V. 23.
It was real. All of it.
The relief was a single, bright flare, instantly swallowed by an infinite, starless dark.
Sebastian.