“I’m watching the feed from the press pen, yeah. I—did you see—?”
“Of course I bloody saw. Every person with a screen saw. This is it, Elena. This is the story.”
My throat dried. “You don’t want the software story any more?”
“Still want it. But this takes precedence. Volkov vs Moretti is everywhere. The crash, the punch, the rivalry—this is your angle. I want something online by tonight. Fast. Sharp. In your voice.”
My eyes were glued to the screen as they showed a close-up of Aleks brushing blood from his lip.
“Is he okay?” I asked, a shake in my voice.
“Still on his feet, which is more than I can say for his reputation. Now go find the pulse of this thing. The emotion. The fallout. Give me fire.”
He hung up.
I stood there, phone still pressed to my ear, feeling like I’d just been dropped into the middle of a war zone. I was furious. But I couldn’t tear my eyes off the screen.
I knew Aleks had made a dangerous mistake.
I also suspected he’d made it because of me.
Elena’s Hotel Room, Sunday Night
The headline glared back at me, sharp and brutal:
‘Volkov vs Moretti: When Rivalry Turns to Ruin.’
Beneath it, the image was already iconic—Luca’s fist mid-swing, Aleks’s head snapping sideways, droplets of rain and sweat suspended in the air like shattered glass.
My byline sat just above it, quiet and damning.
‘Elena Archer, Shanghai.’
I sat cross-legged on the bed in my pyjamas, laptop balanced on my knees, the glow from the screen casting cold light over the hotel room. My stomach was in knots. The viewcounter was ticking upward with sickening speed—twenty-three thousand, twenty-eight, thirty-four. Comments were rolling in so fast the site was glitching.
I couldn’t stop refreshing.
I’d written it fast, fuelled by adrenaline and too many conflicting emotions. The story was clean, urgent, fair… but not soft. I hadn’t held back. I couldn’t afford to. And maybe part of me wanted him to see it. To feel it.
My foot bounced uncontrollably on the mattress.
Graham had already sent a single-word email in response:
Boom.
Caroline had texted me a string of fire emojis and: girl you are trending in motorsport right now.
I wanted to feel good about it. Proud. Maybe even triumphant.
Instead, I felt like I might vibrate out of my own skin.
I’d barely had time to shut my laptop when the knock came at the door.
I froze.
Another knock. Firm. Not urgent, but not casual either.
I slid off the bed, heart hammering, feet silent on the carpet. Crossed the room like I was stepping into enemy territory.
