Cheers erupted in my ear—Ross, the whole pit wall. My team. My empire.
“Nice work,” I said, voice flat inside the helmet.
Fireworks cracked over the bay as I slowed the car, sparks of gold reflected in the harbour water. The crowd roared; the circuit was alive with noise, light, hysteria.
And all I felt was… empty.
The cool-down lap dragged. I went through the motions—engine mode down, fuel save, radio acknowledgements. Every cheer hit like static.
When I pulled into the Car 1 slot, Ross was behind there, arms wide, that immaculate grin in place. Cameras flashed as he reached through the halo to clap me on the shoulder.
“Brilliant, Aleks! Perfection incarnate!”
I forced a smile for the photographers, raised a fist for the crowd, stepped out of the car. My legs trembled from the heat and the weight of it all.
Moretti’s Hawthorn rolled to a stop beside mine, his team swarming in green and gold. Kane pulled up just behind, two Hawthorns on the podium. The grid erupted around them—cheers, laughter, champagne.
I tugged off my gloves. They were soaked through, the smell of burnt rubber and sweat clinging to my skin.
Somewhere down the pit lane, Vega’s team was celebrating her sixth-place finish. She’d done it—kept her nose clean, brought it home, proved every doubter wrong. I caught aglimpse of her helmet flashing under the lights, lifted briefly in salute to her crew.
That flicker of pride was real.
But the rest of it—the podium, the anthem, the applause—felt like theatre.
Ross’s words echoed in my head as the champagne sprayed.
Leave the conspiracy theories to the internet.
The liquid stung my eyes, cold against my face. I smiled for the cameras anyway.
Because that’s what they paid me to do.
Chapter Seven – Singapore Grand Prix Gala
Elena Archer – Singapore Grand Prix Gala
The party shouldn’t have felt this alive at two in the morning.
But Singapore never slept, and neither did Formula One. The top floor of the Celestia Hotel shimmered with gold light and motion, a crush of sponsors, drivers, and hangers-on moving like heat haze through the humid night. Music pulsed low and slow, the kind that made crystal glasses hum against marble tables.
My black, silk dress clung to every curve. It was shamelessly backless, the halter neck accentuating my assets. Four inch heels lifted me up so I could match the eye line of most of the men in the room. A small, black, sequinned clutch was gripped under my arm, and inside, my phone was already set to record everything.
I’d snagged myself an invite the old fashioned way—cash in the right pocket. The view alone made it worth the risk: Marina Bay glittering below, the street circuit a dark shadow weaving through the city now that the floodlights had been switched off.
Champagne fizzed in my glass but I hadn’t sipped it yet. My attention was on this prestigious crowd. Every team was represented: drivers from Nova, Stratos and the rest, with Luca Moretti holding court beside his team mate, Oliver Kane, the Hawthorn podium pair—winners, but not the winner.
And then there was Obsidian.
Ross was at the centre of a perfect little solar system: sponsors orbiting, cameras flashing, his charm turned up to eleven. To his right stood Volkov.
Even out of the car, he radiated control. Black tuxedo, charcoal shirt open at the collar, cufflinks glinting like twin stars. His expression said he’d rather be anywhere else. His jaw was tight, his eyes glassy—he’d been drinking. Not much. Enough.
“Hello again,” a warm voice to my right caught my attention and I spun to face Callum Drake, my full glass spilling slightly over my fingers. “Whoa there,” he said, grinning and passing me a paper napkin.
“Shit,” I muttered.
“No use crying over spilled champagne. How about a toast to being on the winning team?”
