She hadn’t come to the press conference. I’d scanned the media centre like an idiot, even behind the gantry. Nothing.
She was gone. And I was alone with my doubts.
The win hadn’t erased them. It had only sharpened the question:
Did I earn it? Or did they hand it to me?
Hartmann. Ross. The whole bloody system. If it was rigged—if even a whisper of it was true—then what the hell did that make me?
I’d spent six years in F1 building a legacy.
Had I just watched it burn?
The captain’s voice came through the intercom, announcing we’d be landing at Heathrow in just under an hour. I barely heard him. I checked my phone again—no messages. No notifications. Just the same unopened texts sitting there like bruises.
I’d said awful things to her. Things I didn’t mean. But worse than that, I’d walked away and boarded a plane like a coward.
Mac stirred across the aisle and caught my eye.
“Don’t look so damn miserable,” he muttered, voice gravelly with sleep. “You won.”
I gave a weak nod, eyes drifting back to the window.
I’d won.
But I still felt as though I’d lost something.
Aleksandr Volkov – Obsidian Performance HQ, Oxfordshire, Tuesday
The car was already up on the rig when I arrived.
Post-race teardown. Performance analysis. Upgrades planned for Bahrain. No rest for the dominant. The Seoul trophies weren’t even unboxed yet—still wrapped in transit foam in reception—but the team moved like the next race was tomorrow.
I should have found comfort in it. Familiarity. Order.
Instead, it felt like a noose tightening.
The factory smelled like engine grease and carbon fibre. Someone was grinding a component down in the machine shop and the high-pitched whine set my teeth on edge. I made my way to the simulation bay without speaking to anyone, only nodding when the occasional engineer looked up and offered a congratulations.
“Volkov.”
“Great drive Sunday.”
“Cleanest pole lap I’ve seen in years.”
All the right words. But they skimmed off my skin like rain on wax.
I didn’t want their praise.
I wanted certainty. Proof that it had been me behind the wheel in Seoul—not some hidden code, not a favour from the stewards, not a rigged system.
Inside the sim room, the lights were low. I slipped on the headset and dropped into the virtual Bahrain setup. Twenty laps of brutal precision. It was a track I liked—technical but fast. No excuses. Just pure skill.
I was mid-lap nineteen when Mac’s voice broke through the intercom.
“You might want to get out of there.”
I frowned. “What?”
