I pulled my knees up to my chest and rested my chin on them.
I was chasing truth. That’s what this was about. Always.
But truth had teeth. And this time, they’d sunk into something I wasn’t sure I wanted to bleed.
Chapter Eleven – Japan to Shanghai
Elena Archer
The reply came through two hours later. I’d checked my inbox at least a dozen times already, convinced I’d missed it. But there it was, subject line:Your story.
It’s not publishable. Not yet. But there’s something here. I’m extending your clearance for Shanghai. One week. Make it count.
– G
I exhaled so hard my whole body slumped. Relief didn’t quite settle. It was too wrapped in pressure. He hadn’t killed the story—but he hadn’t guaranteed anything, either.
I closed my laptop and stared at the wall above the tiny desk. The room felt even smaller now, like my choices were pressing in on me.
If I flew to Shanghai, I’d be gambling again. But how could I not go? The race was in a week. I needed to be there before media day. Needed to see Volkov again. Needed—
No. Focus.
This wasn’t about him. Not really.
Except that it was. And that terrified me more than Graham ever could.
I booked the first flight I could get—Tuesday afternoon—banking everything on one last week.
About an hour into the relatively short flight, I opened my email on my phone. I didn’t look at the article again—I couldn’t—but I reread Graham’s reply until the words started to blur.
Make it count.
I locked my phone and stared out into the blue. Fluffy clouds between me and the sea. My reflection in the plane window looked hollow. This should have been the moment I exhaled, the tension finally easing now that I wasn’t being dragged home in disgrace. But it wasn’t. Because this wasn’t about the story any more.
I was still chasing the truth. But now, I wasn’t sure I wanted to find it.
I told myself it was the kiss. The proximity. The adrenaline. That if I could just put some space between me and Aleks Volkov, I’d get my head back.
But as the wheels touched down in Shanghai, I knew I was lying.
The truth was, he’d gotten inside my head. And I didn’t know how to get him out.
By the time I made it to my next hotel, I was wired on stale airplane coffee and exhaustion. Seeing as I was back in with the press gang, I was in the same hotel as most of the other media. It was modest, but not as compact as my last room. I dumped mybag on the bed and opened my laptop, fingers hovering over the trackpad. I checked my inbox again—no new messages.
Not that I expected anything more from Graham. He’d made himself clear: I had one shot left. I was lucky he hadn’t pulled the story entirely.
I opened a browser tab and pulled up race footage. The Suzuka race highlight reel was easy to find. I clicked play.
Moretti’s win dominated the headlines—Italy’s favourite son back on top. Rivers and Kane rounding out the podium had social media in raptures. Stratos scored no points, and Drake’s P12 finish had the pundits asking whether he’d peaked too soon.
But it was Volkov I watched.
He was off from the start. His aggression too sharp, his timing too messy. That pit stop—what the hell had he been thinking? And then the lock-up, the contact with Kane…
The commentators danced around the issue, calling it a “rare off-day.” But I knew better. I’d seen the fire in his eyes when he kissed me. The fury when he let go.
He was unravelling.
