I nodded, slipping out before I could talk myself into staying.
The hallway was empty, thank God. I all but jogged to the lift with my shoes in my hand and hammered the button like it owed me money. My heart was still racing—not just from the illicit escape, but from the echo of that look on his face when I left.
This was getting dangerous.
And I couldn’t bring myself to stop.
By the time I reached my own floor, I’d mostly composed myself. A quick shower, clean clothes, and fresh lipstick would help sell the illusion that I hadn’t just snuck out of a very expensive bed with a very complicated man.
Graham was waiting.
And I had a story to chase.
The hotel dining room buzzed with low conversation and the soft clatter of cutlery. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the Seoul morning sun, warming the sleek marble floors and linen-draped tables. Most of the paddock had descended already—drivers, engineers, comms people, all mingling awkwardly in team gear and lanyards.
I sat across from Graham at a table near the back, nursing a second coffee and doing my best not to look like I had secrets. I was sure he’d clocked the flush in my cheeks the second I walked in, but he hadn’t commented. Yet.
We were surrounded, so every word had to be careful. Measured.
I buttered a croissant and kept my voice low. “I need you to promise not to yell.”
Graham paused with a forkful of scrambled egg halfway to his mouth. “Why would I yell?”
“Because Luca gave me a solid tip.”
His brows jumped. “Before he hated you?”
“Before he hated me,” I confirmed, flicking a glance around the room. No one seemed to be listening—but a PR rep from Hawthorn was seated two tables away. I dropped my voice further. “And I’ve been following it up. I think the FIA is helping Obsidian cover it up.”
He set his fork down, wiping his hands on his napkin. “Why do you think that?”
I leaned in slightly. “Okay so here’s the thing. The cars go back to their garages after qualifying and are there for about one, maybe one and a half hours. Then they’re moved to the supervised area and stay there until a couple of hours before the race. The software swap has to happen in one of those windows where the car is with the team in the garage. ”
“Right,” he said, nodding and moving his eggs around on his plate.
“The tech guy you put me onto in Melbourne thinks it’s being done with a hardline.”
“Why?” Graham asked, leaning forward now. “Why not do it remotely?”
“For one, the data packet would be massive. Upload speeds wouldn’t cut it, especially with the car only back in the garage for an hour or so. Second—it’s risky. Wireless signals can be intercepted. No, this has to be physical. They’re plugging in a high-speed cable.”
“Okay,” he said. “So where’s the FIA angle?”
“There’s only one port on the car they could use to do it.” I paused for effect. “And the FIA seals it during parc fermé. With tape. Official tape.”
Graham let out a low breath, stirring his tea to cover it. “So how the hell are they breaking the seal and not getting caught?”
“That,” I said, “is the big question.”
He watched me for a second, the cogs turning.
“Do you have any contacts inside the FIA?” I asked. “Someone shady? Or someone who knows who’s shady?”
“Maybe,” he said, tapping the table. “But we have to tread carefully. If we spook the wrong person—”
“Exactly. Obsidian obviously know I’m sniffing around. They’ve closed ranks. But no one knows I’m looking at the FIA.”
“What about Moretti?”
