“Shh, it’s one of the best bits.” She turned up the volume on her phone and I squinted down at my own face.
“I knew before the story broke, yes. But only pieces. I never had the whole picture. I got that in real time with the rest of the world.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
“Fractured. My world fell apart. Especially when Mac, my engineer told me he’d been involved. That was a huge betrayal. He’d been with me since I joined Obsidian. But since I last spoke to him I’ve come to understand why he did it. He thought he was protecting me. I think that’s why I never knew what was happening. I was shielded from it. That’s something I don’t think most people realise. We, the drivers I mean, mainly, we live in a sort of bubble. We have people all around us managing our entire lives. If there’s anything someone doesn’t want us to know, it can be fairly easy to keep it from us, to manage our flow of information.”
I took Elena’s phone and locked the screen, silencing the video.
“Hey!” She reached for it but I held it out of her reach. “We were about to see the last question.”
“No. Sex first, then sleep.” I tossed her phone over the side of the bed then pinned her down. She giggled but didn’t protest as I slid down her body. Her hands guided my head to between her thighs, her fingers threaded through my hair.
“It’s funny,” she said as I began to work on her pussy with my tongue. “For a man of so few words, when it counts, you know exactly what to do with your mouth.”
I chuckled, inadvertently tickling her. She squirmed but I reached up and pressed down on her hips, holding her in place as I resumed my midnight feast.
Chapter Thirty Seven –Bahrain Grand Prix, Race Day
Aleksandr Volkov
The sun dropped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the start grid. I was already strapped in, helmet on, hands flexing around the wheel as the lights blinked overhead.
This was it.
No tricks. No maps. Just me, the car, and the truth.
One light.
I focused on the revs.
Two.
I tuned out the crowd.
Three.
Everything else fell away.
Four.
No ghosts, no guilt.
Five.
Just drive.
Lights out.
I launched clean off the line — perfect getaway — but so did Luca Moretti beside me. His Hawthorn surged up the inside into Turn One. I gave him space. No point in tangling. He edged ahead, but I stayed tight on his gearbox, tyres sliding as we clawed through the corner.
“Good start,” Patel said calmly in my ear. “Keep it tight.”
The next fifteen laps were a blur of precision. Moretti held firm in front, but I was faster. Just waiting for my moment.
“Box this lap,” Patel said. “Plan A.”
“Copy.”
