I stood, and forced in a slow breath.
Seoul was coming up fast.
I needed to get my head back.
Before the wheels came off completely.
Elena Archer – Arrival, Seoul Grand Prix Week
The Seoul skyline shimmered like a promise as the car pulled up outside the hotel—glass and steel rising against a pale blue sky, banners for the Grand Prix flapping along the boulevard. The air was crisp, the kind that woke up your lungs whether you wanted it to or not.
Inside the hotel lobby, it was chaos. Cameras slung over shoulders, radio teams coordinating interviews on Bluetooth headsets, team personnel wheeling black-and-silver flight cases through the crowd. It wasn’t uncommon for media and some of the teams to be booked into the same hotel, but it still made for awkward elevator rides and stilted breakfast buffets.
Graham’s voice rose beside me as we walked in. “Elena, tell me you brought a second pair of shoes. Those heels look like they’re about to surrender.”
“They’re broken in,” I muttered.
“So is my trust in humanity, but here we are.” He grinned, checking the contents of his bag.
He wove through the press scrum just ahead of me, trench coat flapping, messenger bag bouncing against his hip. Mid-fifties, silver hair in need of a trim, and the kind of face that looked like it had seen every scandal, strike, and celebratory champagne spray the motorsport world had to offer. His shirt was wrinkled and his shoes looked like they’d fought off a boarding gate delay—but his eyes were sharp, alive.
“Why did you fly all the way out here?” I asked with an exasperated sigh.
“There’s blood in the water,” he said, passing me a lanyard with our Seoul paddock credentials. “And I want to see the sharks circle in person.”
“Right.” I fought an eye-roll.
“Okay. You’ll be in the paddock first thing. I want colour, energy, snappy quotes. But whatever else you do—if you see Volkov, I want his mood in three adjectives or less.”
I arched a brow. “You planning to print emojis next?”
“Don’t tempt me. Your punch piece is still trending. Social media can’t shut up about it. We’re top of the aggregate feed for the week. I haven’t seen numbers like this since Jax Rivers was photographed in Monaco getting slapped by that supermodel.”
“I’m glad you’re thrilled,” I muttered. “I’m not sure Aleks would agree.”
“He’s a big boy,” Graham said. “He’ll live. Unless Moretti finds him first.”
That made my stomach twist.
We crossed the lobby toward the lifts, weaving through a sea of branded backpacks and hotel staff wheeling crates of camera gear. That was when I felt it—a prickling along my spine, the sense of being watched.
I glanced left.
Luca Moretti stood at the check-in desk, flanked by a pair of Hawthorn staff. He wasn’t talking. Just staring. Right at me.
His curls were damp, a hood hanging over the collar of his jacket, eyes hidden behind sleek black sunglasses—but thetension rolled off him like a storm front. The way his jaw clenched as he watched me, the way his hand flexed against the strap of his duffel bag…
Yeah. He’d read the article.
And he hadn’t liked what he saw.
Our eyes locked. Or at least, I was pretty sure they did. It was hard to tell through the shades, but I felt it in my bones. Recognition. Disbelief. Fury.
He didn’t say a word.
He didn’t have to.
I turned away first, pulse quickening as I hit the elevator button and stared too hard at the closed doors.
