On March 7th, Dominik, Leclerc, and Russell returned to Sakhir, Bahrain. In just three days, the atmosphere had shifted completely from the relaxed vibe of the filming day to the intense, suffocating pressure of a race weekend.
The paddock was a hive of activity. Hospitality units were being assembled, mechanics were polishing bodywork, and the air smelled of jet fuel and espresso.
Dominik sat in the Williams briefing room, staring at a CAD drawing projected on the screen.
"This week," Jost Capito announced, sitting at the head of the table, "we are introducing a new rear wing spec."
He pointed to the screen.
"Alex, you will run the Medium-High downforce package. It provides stability in the traction zones of Sector 2."
He turned to Dominik.
"Dominik, Gaëtan has requested the Medium downforce package for you. It's slimmer. Less drag, but less grip."
Dominik raised an eyebrow. He looked at his race engineer, Gaëtan Jego.
"You want me to drive a drift car on the sand?" Dominik asked dryly. "The rear end was already loose in Barcelona. With less wing, Sector 2 will be like driving on ice."
"We trust your hands," Gaëtan replied simply. "We need the straight-line speed to defend on the three DRS straights. You have the car control to manage the sliding. Alex... prefers a planted rear."
Dominik smirked. It was a compliment, wrapped in a challenge. He nodded. "Fine. If I spin, I'm billing you for the tires."
The day dragged on. Dominik sat through the press conference, fighting the urge to fall asleep as Albon answered questions about tire degradation for the tenth time.
As they walked out of the media center towards the hospitality for dinner, phones all around them started buzzing simultaneously.
It started as a murmur, then grew into a roar of disbelief.
Zhou Guanyu checked his phone and stopped dead in his tracks. "No way."
"What?" Dominik asked.
"Alonso," Zhou said, showing him the screen. "He just announced it. He's retiring at the end of the season."
Dominik took the phone. The headline screamed from every motorsport outlet: FERNANDO ALONSO TO RETIRE AT END OF 2022.
Dominik felt a strange hollowness. Alonso. The titan. The man he had watched battle Schumacher when Dominik was just a child playing with toy cars on his father's rugs.
"He's the reason I started watching," Zhou said quietly. "I can't believe I finally made it to the grid, just in time to see him leave."
Dominik looked at the dusty Bahrain horizon. He felt the sadness, yes. But beneath the sadness, the businessman in him—the Corvinus instinct—woke up.
Alonso leaving means a seat opens up.
A seat at Alpine? Or does it trigger a domino effect?
"The grid is cruel," Dominik said, handing the phone back. "Legends leave. We stay. We have to be faster than the memory of them."
Zhou looked at him. "You are cold, Dominik."
"I am realistic."
The next two days were a blur of preparation. Dominik lived in the simulator, refining his braking points for the lighter downforce setup. He spent hours with the mechanics, learning the intricacies of the FW44's differential.
His work ethic—arriving first, leaving last—earned him silent nods of respect from the garage. He wasn't just a rich kid; he was a worker.
On the evening of March 9th, the night before the official test began, Dominik was in the garage, engaging in a childish game of tag with Albon.
"Give me the water bottle, Alex!" Dominik shouted, chasing his teammate around the chassis.
Albon laughed, dodging a mechanic. "You have to catch me first! Use that medium downforce speed!"
His phone rang. It was O'Connor.
Dominik stopped, breathless. He answered. "Hello?"
"Stop playing grab-ass with Albon," O'Connor's voice was serious. "Change into a plain shirt. Meet me at the Aston Martin hospitality unit. Now."
Dominik frowned. "Aston Martin? Why?"
"Just come."
Dominik hung up. He tossed the water bottle to a confused Albon. "Game over. Business calls."
He walked through the darkened paddock. The green hospitality of Aston Martin loomed ahead, sleek and imposing.
O'Connor met him at the door and ushered him into a private office.
Sitting at the end of a long glass table was Mike Krack, the Team Principal of Aston Martin.
"Have a seat, Mr. Corvinus," Krack said. His voice was calm, precise. "We have been watching your data from Barcelona. Specifically, the final day. Your sector times were... enlightening."
Dominik sat down, his heart rate spiking. This wasn't a casual chat.
"I will be direct," Krack said, folding his hands. "Please keep this confidential. Aston Martin is in a rebuilding phase. We have ambition. We have resources."
He slid a document across the table.
"We know Fernando Alonso is retiring. We had... discussions with him for 2023. But with his announcement, our strategy has shifted."
Dominik looked at the document. It was a draft contract.
"We are willing to offer you a pre-contract for the 2023 season," Krack said. "To replace Sebastian Vettel, who is also considering his future, or to partner him depending on how the pieces fall."
Dominik opened the folder. His eyes scanned the numbers.
Term: 2 Years (1+1).
Salary: €6,000,000 per annum.
Performance Bonus: To be negotiated.
Dominik felt the breath leave his lungs.
Six million euros.
He was a rookie. He hadn't started a single Grand Prix. His current salary at Williams was €1.5 million. This was four times that amount.
"This is a big gamble for us," Krack admitted. "This contract was drafted for a World Champion. But we believe you are the future. We want to lock you down before the rest of the paddock realizes what you can do."
Dominik looked at O'Connor. His agent gave a microscopic nod. O'Connor had been brilliant; he had specifically excluded a "Right of First Refusal" clause from the Williams contract. Dominik was a free agent at the end of the year.
Dominik looked back at Krack. He closed the folder.
"Mr. Krack," Dominik said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline. "I haven't even driven the first race yet. Why me?"
"Because," Krack smiled thinly. "We saw the telemetry from the Mazepin crash. You didn't just react. You predicted it. That is talent you cannot buy. But we are willing to pay for it."
Dominik stared at the green folder. The season hadn't even started, and the game of musical chairs had already begun. And he was holding a winning ticket.