“And fuel strategy?”
That flicker—tiny, defensive. “You’d have to ask the engineers about that. We just drive.”
I smiled, like it was a joke. “Right. You never wonder why his car pulls half a second faster on the straights?”
He shifted, eyes darting toward the Obsidian comms staff across the room. “Careful, you sound like you’re trying to get me in trouble.”
“Not my goal.”
“Good.” He grinned again, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because between you and me, there’s only room for one person in this team to make headlines—and I’m not it.”
He lifted his water bottle in a mock toast. “See you around, Archer.”
And just like that, he was gone—back into the crowd, swallowed up by PR handlers and camera flashes.
For a moment, optimism flickered in my chest. He hadn’t said much, but he’d almost said something. A glimmer, a thread I might pull.
Movement caught my eye—black shirt, silver trim. Volkov.
He was closer now, speaking with a TV reporter, but his eyes kept flicking in my direction, sharp and deliberate.
Scowling. Always scowling.
Why was he looking my way? And why—damn it—was I watching him back?
Every precise movement, the way he adjusted the sunglasses hooked in the neck of his shirt, the faint tension in his shoulders. He looked like control personified, but I could see the strain underneath.
You’re here for a story, not a man, Archer.
I pushed away from the counter, heading for the terrace where a few mechanics were milling in the sun. Maybe one of them would slip, say something useful.
Then a voice—low, rough, unmistakable—cut through the noise behind me.
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”
I turned. Volkov stood half a step too close. His eyes were steady, unreadable.
“Occupational hazard,” I said.
“Or personal obsession.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
He smiled, faint and humourless. “You’re circling my team again. That’s dangerous, Ms Archer.”
“Funny,” I said, “you said that last time. I’m still here, Champion.”
His gaze dropped to my lanyard, my press pass, my phone in my hand—still recording—then back up, colder.
“Enjoy Singapore,” he said softly. “But stay away from my garage.”
He turned and walked off, leaving the faint trace of his cologne and the sharper sting of frustration.
I stood there, pulse thudding against my ribs.
Damn him. Damn his arrogance. Damn the way he made my brain short-circuit every time he looked at me.
I stopped recording and tucked my phone into my pocket, then stepped out onto the terrace. The air hit like a furnace, the squeal of wheel guns below.
