"We know you are currently a Williams driver, and we respect that. But the future is written in advance," Mike Krack said, his voice calm and corporate. "You don't need to answer now. Sleep on it. But remember, in Formula 1, gaps open and close faster than a DRS wing."
Stepping out of the Aston Martin hospitality unit, the night wind of Bahrain hit Dominik's face. It was warm, carrying the scent of sand and aviation fuel.
Dominik looked up. The Sakhir Circuit glowed under the floodlights, a ribbon of light in the desert darkness. In his hand, O'Connor held the folder containing the contract. The white paper seemed to glow under the paddock lamps.
"I'll be honest, kid," O'Connor said as they walked toward the exit turnstiles. "I want you at Aston Martin. I manage Stroll, and he doesn't need me to fight for his seat. He owns the keys. If you go there, you get a works team budget, and you don't have to worry about political games. You just drive."
Dominik nodded slowly. Lance Stroll had zero pressure. Dominik, however, needed a competitive car to prove his worth.
In the distance, the Williams garage was still lit. Mechanics were performing pit stop practice, their wheel guns whining in the night. Dominik saw Zhou Guanyu walking past the Alfa Romeo garage, waving at him.
His phone buzzed. A message from Leclerc:
Good luck tomorrow. Waiting for you to break the lap record. Or the car. ;)
Dominik leaned against a transport truck, the screen illuminating his face.
The offer was a 1+1 deal. €6 million a year. It wasn't just money; it was validation. But it was also a betrayal of the team that gave him his debut.
"Instead of waiting for Williams... or hoping Mercedes promotes me?" Dominik asked, looking at the Silver Arrows garage.
O'Connor smirked. "Hamilton is contracted until 2025. Russell is the heir apparent. If you stay in the Mercedes family, you will be stuck in a Williams or a customer team for three years minimum. Look at Ocon. Look at Wehrlein. The Mercedes waiting room is where careers go to die. Red Bull and Ferrari are locked. Aston Martin is the only open door to a factory seat."
It was cold, hard logic. Dominik liked logic.
"Do it," Dominik said, pushing off the truck. "I'll sign. I drive for Aston Martin in 2023."
O'Connor smiled. "Smart choice. Mike Krack will be pleased."
The paddock was ruthless. Drivers were just assets. Dominik had just secured his future before his first race had even begun.
March 10th. Bahrain Pre-Season Test. Day 1.
The morning briefing was somber. The drivers sat in the conference hall, but one seat was empty.
"The meeting is starting," the Race Director announced. "Unfortunately, Daniel Ricciardo has tested positive for COVID-19 and will miss the entire test."
A ripple of murmurs went through the room.
Dominik slumped in his chair, entering his trademark "shallow sleep" mode. He hated briefings. He hated press conferences. He just wanted to drive.
When he finally zipped up his race suit and lowered himself into the FW44, the world sharpened.
"Radio check," Dominik said.
"Loud and clear," Gaëtan Jego replied. "Keep the performance steady today. We are focusing on long runs. Don't show our hand. Mode 2, SOC 6. Have fun."
The plan: Dominik in the morning (4 hours), Albon in the afternoon.
The car was fitted with C3 tires (medium compound). Dominik rolled out of the garage.
As he hit the pit limiter release line, a flash of red caught his eye.
Charles Leclerc in the Ferrari F1-75 was exiting just ahead of him.
Dominik grinned inside his helmet. Teacher vs. Student.
During the winter, Leclerc had been a mentor, showing him the lines of Sakhir. But now, visor down, he was a target.
They completed the warm-up lap. Leclerc began to push. Dominik glued the Williams to the Ferrari's gearbox.
Into Turn 6, a tricky, low-speed left-hander. The Williams, running a lower downforce setup, struggled. The rear end stepped out—oversteer. Dominik caught it with a lightning-fast correction, but he lost momentum.
Leclerc, utilizing the Ferrari's superior mechanical grip, cut the apex perfectly and rocketed away.
But then came the straight.
As soon as they exited the corner, Dominik deployed the battery. The Williams FW44, sleek and slippery with its medium downforce wing, began to hunt.
The car started to "porpoise"—bouncing violently on its suspension as the aerodynamics stalled and re-attached. Bounce-bounce-bounce.
Dominik's head rattled, but he kept his foot pinned.
The blue car surged forward, catching the red car's slipstream. At 320 km/h, Dominik pulled out and blasted past Leclerc before the braking zone for Turn 8.
"Beautiful straight-line speed," Gaëtan noted on the radio.
Dominik braked hard for Turn 8. The G-forces hit him—4G of deceleration tearing at his neck muscles. Thanks to Li Zaixian's torture sessions in Seoul, his neck held firm.
He led through the complex middle sector. But the Ferrari was relentless.
In Turn 11, a long, sweeping left-hander, the difference in philosophy was obvious. The Ferrari was planted. The Williams was sliding.
Leclerc took a tighter line, finding grip that simply didn't exist for Dominik. As Dominik fought a snap of oversteer on the exit, the Ferrari drove past him as if he were standing still.
Dominik fought back on the main straight, using the slipstream again to reclaim the position into Turn 1.
For ten laps, it was a dogfight. The Blue Lightning vs. The Red Stallion. Dominik would lose out in the corners, then use his rocket-ship straight-line speed to drag past on the straights.
But physics always collects its debt.
Williams had chosen a low-drag philosophy. Ferrari had chosen high-downforce.
While Dominik was sliding through corners to keep up, his tires were screaming. The "dirty air" from following the Ferrari was cooking his rubber.
By Lap 12, Dominik felt the steering go light. He turned the wheel for Turn 10, but the car didn't want to bite. Understeer.
"The tires are going," Dominik reported, his voice vibrating from the bumps. "Fronts are dead. Rears are overheating. It's like driving on ice."
Leclerc pulled away, his Ferrari still sticking to the track.
Dominik backed off, letting the gap grow to save his tires. He had proven his point. He could fight a Ferrari—at least for ten laps.
"Box, Dominik, Box," Gaëtan called. "Good data. We saw what we needed."
Dominik steered into the pit lane. He was sweating, his neck throbbed, and his hands vibrated.
He loved it.