The bar was dim and low-ceilinged, with mismatched furniture and pendant bulbs that cast everyone in a soft, hazy glow. We pushed two tables together and filled the space fast. Drinks were ordered—cocktails, beers, the odd whisky—and I ended up wedged between Caroline and Jamie this time, further from him.
It should’ve helped. It didn’t.
I ordered a whisky. Neat. A terrible idea, but I needed something that burned.
“Okay, okay,” Jamie was saying, grinning. “Best and worst fan gifts you’ve ever gotten. Go.”
“Someone gave me a baby goat once,” Jax said. “At Silverstone. In a box.”
“Was it alive?”
“Of course it was alive!”
“I got a marriage proposal written on a mango,” Kane offered.
“Was it signed?”
“Yep. From ‘Lucy. 26. Surrey.’ If you’re out there, Lucy—I enjoyed the mango.”
They all roared with laughter. Volkov gave a crooked smile, lifting his glass in salute.
He was at the other end of the joined tables, wedged between Oliver Kane and Mason Hale. Someone had convinced him to trade his usual scowl for a half-pint of dark beer, which he nursed with slow sips and a guarded expression. But the more they laughed, the more he seemed to soften. His mouth twitched at Kane’s sarcastic commentary. He murmured something to Hale that made the younger driver grin. He even offered a toast when Jax declared that “Sundays are for saints, but Saturdays are for sinners.”
Still—he didn’t look at me.
Not even once.
And god, it hurt more than it should’ve.
Because we’d kissed. And for one brief, bright second, I’d believed it had meant something.
Now, we were strangers again. And the wall between us wasn’t distance—it was choice.
His choice.
I threw back the rest of my whisky and welcomed the burn.
It didn’t help.
Not really.
Because I could feel him laughing.
And I wasn’t part of the joke.
Chapter Twelve – Shanghai
Aleksandr Volkov – Shanghai, Tuesday Night
I shouldn’t have come.
The bar was too loud, the lighting too low, and the alcohol too warm. I didn’t like crowds off the track. Didn’t like chaos I couldn’t control. And yet here I was, sandwiched between Oliver and Mason, nursing a drink I didn’t want, laughing at jokes I barely heard.
Because she was here.
And I couldn’t stop watching her.
Not directly. I wasn’t that stupid. But in the mirror behind the bar, in the curve of her cheek when she smiled at that bastard Kavanagh. In the sound of her laugh—light, genuine, rare.
