“Thank you, but I really am fine.” I gave him a nod, but the look in his eye told me he wasn’t buying it.
We arrived at Elena’s hotel and saw her into the lobby. Jax made as if to follow her to the elevator, but Oli grabbed him by the back of his shirt and yanked him back.
“Nope.” Oli barked. “Goodnight, Archer! See you in the media pen!” He marched Jax back towards the doors and I stood for a moment, caught between competing desires. I watched her hit the call button and just as I decided to follow her, Kane’s voice sliced across the marble lobby. “Oi. Volkov!”
I turned and left, but this time I did look back and she was looking right at me, her eyes heavy with longing. Fuck.
Chapter Thirteen – Shanghai Race Build Up
Aleksandr Volkov – Shanghai, Wednesday
Coffee. Engine oil. And the sour edge of unfinished business. Every person in the room carried Suzuka on their shoulders; no one wanted to say it first.
I sat at one end of the long black table, hands folded, pretending to study the spreadsheet on the screen. But I wasn’t fooling anyone. The weight of Suzuka still clung to me like engine grease—hard to scrub off, even after three days.
Ross stood at the front, laser pointer in one hand, remote in the other. “We’ll start with the numbers,” he said, voice clipped and professional. “Then we’ll move on to projections for Shanghai.”
Translation: we’re going to pretend last weekend didn’t happen… until I decide to make it personal.
I braced myself.
“Callum,” Ross said, pointing to the chart. “P12 finish in Japan. Not where we want to be, but you held your own in a tough midfield. Good data. Clean drive. Let’s build on that.”
Callum straightened in his chair. “Thanks. Car felt decent most of the race. I think we could’ve gone for an undercut, on lap thirty five, but I backed off after Turn Eleven. Didn't want to risk contact.”
Ross gave a tight nod. “Smart call. We’ll be more aggressive here. Shanghai allows it. Keep your eye on Vega. You should be beating her.”
Callum’s expression drooped, but he caught himself and swiped his face back to neutral. The screen shifted. My sector times flashed up in stark red and green.
And there it was.
“Aleks.” His voice was cool. Not angry. Worse—controlled. “P8. Four points. One incident. One deviation from strategy. Lost positions, lost composure. You know what happened.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just kept my gaze fixed on the screen.
“You’re still second in the standings,” Ross continued, tone like a scalpel. “But we can’t afford more races like that. Not with Moretti driving the way he is. We should anticipate a grilling from the press this week, so spend some time with Heidi going over your responses today and tomorrow.” Ross nodded to my PR handler at the mention of her name and she and I exchanged nods.
Mac, leaning forward on the table, his hands clasped, said nothing. Just watched me with that unreadable expression he’d perfected over two decades in this sport. He hadn’t spoken to me properly since Monday. I wasn’t sure where we stood.
“Understood,” I said finally.
“Good,” Ross replied. “Then let’s move forward.”
Like that was ever easy.
I still felt her lips on mine. Still saw her eyes in that lobby, pleading with me to cross the line again.
And for one stupid moment, I’d wanted to.
Still did.
Control. Control. Control.
The next fifteen minutes were all tyre strategy, long-run simulations, and pit window timing. I absorbed it all like I always did. My brain was built for this—data, rhythm, split-second decisions. But behind every graph, every number, I could still feel the judgement in the room.
Callum was scribbling notes beside me, nodding along to everything the lead engineer said. He’d be on the simulator all afternoon, trying to find an edge I didn’t need.
Or didn’t normally need.
