I turned at the sound of my name and spotted Caroline leaning against the rail at the top of the stairs leading up to the sponsor lounge terrace, one arm draped over the barrier like she was born to pose there. Her curls bounced with each step as she descended toward me.
“Where are you off to in such a rush?” she asked, sweeping an assessing gaze over me. “You look like you’ve been running a qualifying lap yourself.”
“Trying to get five usable quotes before the Academy race starts,” I said, already half-pivoting to leave. “Jax Rivers promised me a comment and then disappeared into hospitality.”
“Of course he did,” she said dryly. “Well, you’re in luck. He’s upstairs.”
I blinked at her.
“In the suite,” she clarified, nodding toward the VIP lounge perched above the paddock. “There’s champagne, too. You might even survive the rest of the day.”
“I don’t have an invite.”
“You’re my plus one,” she said, linking her arm through mine before I could protest. “Come on. It’s good for your career to be seen in those circles, remember?”
I frowned, hesitating on the stairs.
“Elena.” Her voice dropped, her smile sharpening. “You want to break this story? Then you need allies. Access. Eyes on you. There’s more than one way to dig.”
She wasn’t wrong. But I hated how much sense she made.
With a sigh, I let her pull me along.
The hospitality suite was all polished marble and soft jazz, a sharp contrast to the roar of engines echoing from the track beyond. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave a panoramic view of the circuit, and out on the wide balcony, guests mingled with glasses of Perrier-Jouët in hand.
Everywhere I looked: designer dresses, sleek suits, perfectly styled hair.
I tugged at the hem of my linen blouse, painfully aware of the faint smudge on my sleeve and the slight frizz to my ponytail.
“I don’t belong here,” I muttered.
Caroline was already handing me a glass of champagne. “Fake it, babe. You’re too clever not to. And besides…” Her gaze flicked toward the far end of the terrace. “You’ve got admirers.”
I followed her line of sight and instantly recognised the olive-toned skin and perfectly dishevelled curls of Luca Moretti. Still in his branded race kit, the Hawthorn gold slashes across his chest somehow looked more high fashion than sportswear. He leaned against the balcony rail, sipping from a tumbler and surveying the crowd with bored elegance. Then his eyes landed on me—and sharpened.
He gave a slight nod, then pushed off the rail and made his way toward us like a man who never had to chase.
“I see the smoothest operator in motorsport has found us,” Caroline said. “Careful, Elena. He’ll charm your shoes off.”
“Just her shoes?” Luca asked mildly.
I gave him a look that made Caroline snort into her champagne.
“Shall we?” Luca asked, gesturing back to the balcony. Caroline led the way and I followed, the Italian driver right behind me.
Out on the balcony, the Academy cars were lining up on the grid. Below and opposite us, the stands buzzed with excitement, the low whine of engines building as the seconds ticked down.
Caroline nudged me. “Look at them—half our age, twice our guts. Makes me feel ancient.”
“I know what you mean,” I replied, scanning the cars on the track. It was exciting to be looking at future generations offemale drivers, all vying for a chance to progress into a male-dominated sport.
“Miranda Sterling’s on pole again,” Caroline said, gesturing toward the big screen feed mounted above the balcony. “She’s been on fire this season.”
“She came up through karting with Sofia Vega,” I added, grateful for the shift in topic. “They trained at the same junior academy in Spain. Sofia still talks about her like they’re sisters.”
“Sterling’s got ice in her veins,” Luca said, eyes following the formation lap. “She’ll be in F3 by next year. Maybe higher.”
There was genuine respect in his tone—rare, coming from a man who barely acknowledged most of the grid.
