“Your father wants to meet with Thea Blackwood personally,” I said. “Explain the situation, offer to fund additional fact-checking if it helps maintain credibility.”
“Subtle as a brick, my father. But effective.” Jonathan’s tone carried affection mixed with exasperation. “He’s spent twelve years protecting his investment in my career. Now he’s protecting his investment in us.”
“Is that what this is? An investment?”
“From his perspective? Probably. From mine?” Jonathan stopped again, this time pulling me close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes. “This is me choosing to be happy instead of just successful.”
He kissed me then, soft and certain, with the kind of confidence that came from making decisions rather than just reacting to circumstances. When we broke apart, I felt something settle into place. Not the desperate uncertainty of stolen moments, but the steady certainty of a choice made openly.
“Tomorrow’s going to be complicated,” I said against his lips.
“Tomorrow I’m going to try to win my first Grand Prix,” he replied. “With my father in the garage, the editor from Apex watching, and my boyfriend writing about it honestly regardless of the outcome.”
“Your boyfriend?”
“Unless you prefer ‘the journalist I’m sleeping with’?”
I laughed despite the weight of everything we’d committed to tonight. “Boyfriend works.”
As we walked, I watched the way Jonathan carried himself now. Lighter, almost, but also more exposed.
Transparency instead of secrecy. Higher standards instead of lower ones.
It sounded clean on paper. In practice, it meant every misstep would be louder, every mistake harder to explain.
Jonathan squeezed my hand once, like someone bracing for impact rather than retreat.
“I need to be careful tonight,” he said, not apologetic, just honest. “Not because of us. Because tomorrow I have to be very, very clean in my head.”
I nodded. Of course he did.
He pressed his forehead to mine for a brief second, grounding rather than affectionate.
“Whatever happens tomorrow,” he said quietly, “this doesn’t get to be the reason it went wrong.”
And then he stepped back. He was already halfway into race mode.
Tomorrow, the scrutiny would begin. And we would find out whether choosing openly meant choosing wisely.
21
THE LONGEST RACE
The British GrandPrix began under overcast skies that threatened rain but never delivered, leaving teams to gamble on tire strategies with incomplete information. I settled into my seat in the media center, laptop open, hands already slightly clammy. From here I could see the main straight, the pit lane, and beyond that, 140,000 fans creating a wall of sound that shook the ancient airfield’s foundations.
Every heartbeat of theirs seemed synced with mine.
Jonathan was P2. Front row. His silver and blue Meridian sat angled slightly toward Verstappen’s Red Bull. Calm. Precise. Like he belonged there, which he did, and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was watching someone I cared about walk a tightrope without a net.
The formation lap started. My rational brain took notes: tire blankets off, brake temps moderate, track at 29 degrees Celsius. But the rest of me, the part that wasn’t a journalist, watched Jonathan’s onboard camera. His hands were steady on the wheel. His breathing even. He looked… serene. Meanwhile I was coming apart at the seams.
Five red lights lit up.
My pulse matched them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Lights out.
Jonathan’s launch was flawless. Better than flawless, instinctive. He stayed wide into Copse, trusted the grip, and by Maggotts he was side by side with Verstappen. Inches apart.
