As I headed back to the hospitality suite, someone called my name. A track worker — no one I recognised — gave me a thumbs up as he passed.
Terri met me at the bottom of the stairs with a smoothie and a look of mischief.
“You’re trending.”
“I don’t care.”
“Liar,” she said, grinning wider.
I took the smoothie. Said nothing.
Inside, I found a moment to breathe. Just a moment. I opened my phone and checked the IMR website.
The interview was front page. Still climbing.
I closed the screen. I had nothing left to say.
Tomorrow, I’d let the car speak for me.
Elena Archer – Bahrain, Friday Afternoon
The paddock buzzed like a wasps’ nest. Every team, every driver, every journalist still wore the tension of the scandal like a second skin, even as qualifying loomed on the horizon. I slipped past a group of mechanics from Nova, heading towards the media centre, when I heard heels clicking behind me at pace.
“Well,” came a familiar voice, dry and just a little amused, “you got there first.”
I turned, heart thudding faster than it should’ve. Caroline stood with one hand on her hip, the desert sun gleaming on her slicked back hair. Aviators hid her eyes, but I could feel the sharpness behind them.
“Wasn’t personal,” I said, lifting my chin. “I had to protect him.”
“I figured that out,” she replied, tone unreadable.
A beat of silence passed. The distant whine of an engine echoed from the pit lane.
“I was pissed off,” she admitted, slipping off her sunglasses. “You pulled the rug out from under me, and I hated you until about two hours ago.”
“Fair.”
“But… then I watched the whole thing.” Her expression softened, and she gave me a grudging smile. “You were right to do it yourself.”
I blinked, not expecting the olive branch.
“You’re good, Elena. And you’re in love with him. It shows.”
I swallowed hard, the emotion catching in my throat. “Thank you.”
“Don’t make a habit of scooping me, though. I’ll only be nice about it once.”
“Deal.” I let out a quiet laugh, the weight between us lifting. “Truce?”
She nodded. “Truce.” Caroline turned to go, but paused after a few steps and called back over her shoulder. “You should check the screen by the soft drinks stand. They’ve been looping your golden hour moment on repeat.”
I stared after her as she disappeared into the crowd, my pulse picking up speed again — for entirely different reasons now. I made my way past a row of sponsor stalls and hospitality booths, weaving through the crush of fans and VIPs.
Then I saw it — a crowd clustered in front of one of the big screens. The IMR logo flashed, and the audio was low, but I recognised the framing. The soft lighting. The unguarded expression on Aleks’s face.
My chest squeezed tight.
“It’s been a revelation, really,” Aleks said. The gathered crowd went quiet to hear what he had to say. “The people I thought I could trust most turned out to be the people pulling the strings.”
