I felt the temperature in the room drop three degrees.
Volkov’s fingers tapped once against his thigh. Then he spoke.
“There’s no room for personal grudges in a car moving at three hundred kilometres per hour,” he said, quiet but firm. “I made a mistake in Shanghai. I’ve reviewed the data. I’ve taken responsibility. That’s where it ends.”
And just like that, he put the fire out.
The next few questions felt like background noise. The real headline had already happened.
By the time the drivers were ushered offstage and the handlers swarmed in like bees to a shaken hive, my phone was already lighting up.
One message stood out:
Graham:You’re a menace. I adore you. That clip will be on every highlight reel by dinner.
He was right.
And I hadn’t even touched my backup question.
Yet.
Seoul Circuit Plaza, Thursday Evening
The Seoul paddock plaza had transformed.
Gone were the sterile concrete paddocks of the afternoon press conferences—now, it buzzed with twilight energy, strings of golden fairy lights strung between vendor stalls, the scent of sizzling dumplings and soy drifting through the air. A local band played near the media centre steps, the music soft but rhythmic, drawing knots of people to linger longer than planned.
I was doing my best to appear chill.
Which was difficult, because Aleks Volkov was standing across the plaza under a canopy of lights, talking with Mac and a member of the Obsidian PR team.
And he looked unfairly good. Charcoal shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows. Hair artfully tousled. Drink in hand like he was modelling for some kind of F1 lifestyle spread. And of course—he was watching me.
I turned away, a little too fast.
“You’re twitchy,” Graham said, eyeing me as he chewed his skewer of fried tofu like it had wronged him. “Bad bao?”
“No, it’s good,” I muttered, stuffing the last bite into my mouth and pretending to study the band.
“You’re acting like someone who’s about to publish a correction. Or a retraction. Or a love letter.”
My phone buzzed.
Crash:That queue must’ve been hell. You looked like you were plotting someone’s murder.
I pressed my lips together to hide a smile and quickly typed a reply.
Danger:Only yours, Champion.
Crash:Fair.
I smirked, just a twitch, and Graham immediately squinted at me.
“You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I’m texting a man who’s ruined my life but also probably my bedsheets’ look.”
