“I am. I need one question. To Ross.”
Her brow lifted. “You want me to give you one of my post-race questions on camera?”
“I need it captured. Clean. Broadcast-ready. He won’t stop for me. But he’ll stop for you.”
Caroline tilted her head, calculating. Then she gave a sly little smile. “Fine. But you owe me.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Oh, I’ll collect.” She turned to her cameraman. “Liam, we’re back on. Get the rig up again.”
He blinked. “What—now?”
“Now.”
She turned back to me. “You’ve got fifteen seconds when I cue you. Don’t waste it.”
We didn’t have to wait long. Ross was making his way up the paddock lane, flanked by Obsidian staff, shaking hands and offering tight-lipped smiles. He looked like a man who’d already declared the weekend a success and was ready to fly home first-class.
Caroline stepped into his path, all easy charm and microphone-ready polish. I merged with her crew, waiting for my moment.
“Norton—congratulations. Got time for a quick word?”
He slowed, recognised her, and relaxed a fraction. “Of course.”
Cameras on.
“This was a huge bounce-back weekend for Obsidian—pole, victory, championship lead. How important was this win for team morale?”
Ross gave her a gracious nod, the kind that said I’m in control here.
“Very important. We’ve had a challenging few weeks, but the team stayed focused. We believe in our drivers, in our strategy. Today, that belief paid off.”
Caroline smiled. “And speaking of belief—would you mind if I passed the mic to a colleague for just one question?”
Ross hesitated, but nodded. “All right.”
She stepped aside.
I stepped in, taking her mic.
“Mr Ross,” I said, my voice crisp and carrying. “Can you explain why FIA scrutineer Klaus Hartmann has signed off Volkov’s car in twenty-five of the last twenty-nine races, despite not being officially assigned to Obsidian?”
His smile faltered.
The paddock didn’t go silent—but it tightened. The tension cut through the background noise like a snapped chord.
Ross’s jaw clenched. He blinked, once. His PR handler stepped forward, but he lifted a hand, holding her off.
“Elena.” His voice was controlled. Almost… impressed. “You always did have a gift for drama.”
“This is a question of transparency, not theatre,” I said, keeping my tone steady, eyes locked on his. “Fans deserve to know how scrutineering rotations are handled. And whether any teams have been granted preferential treatment.”
Ross offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The FIA’s internal processes are not for public discussion. But I can assure you, all procedures have been followed to the letter. If you have evidence to the contrary, I suggest you submit it through the appropriate channels.”
“I have,” I said, holding his gaze. “And I will.”
He gave the camera a final nod. “No further comment.”
