Chapter 11
Zoltán
Three weeks later
She didn’t look at me once throughout the interview. She translated questions from English to Hungarian for me in that clinical, clear way of hers. The same way as she did for the other Veltar racer, Henrik. But she smiled at him. She’d had a drink with him at the bar after last week’s press conference.
I fucking hated him.
With Henrik, her voice was light, her laugh was easy.
Today, with just me, a camera crew, and the interviewer, she was all business. Her voice cut like glass — sharp, smooth, polished.
No emotion.
I might hate Henrik, but I abhorred myself.
It was all making my head pulse more than usual — a constant, grinding, swirling pain stabbing at my temples.
And seeing her at that bar… the agony had sliced my chest too.
During the interview, I tried to find ways to get her to speak to me. I used niche words from my region of Hungary, daring her to ask me for clarification. I got tongue-tied and contradicted myself.
It was like water off a duck’s back.
She translated like a computer, glossing over my mistakes and making me sound eloquent.
Maybe she did care.
Or she cared about her sister’s best friend, Livie, and the reputation of StormSprint.
The second it was wrapped up, she was gone, notepad pressed to her chest like armour as she strutted out of the dark room and into the tunnels of the Japanese track.
I was hot on her heels. But she was gone. I stalked the corridor, opening every door, glancing inside for any sign of her before moving on to the next.
She was at a printer, pressing buttons with one hand, snacking on an apple with the other.
When I opened the door, she froze, looking up at me with wide eyes, before turning her attention back to her photocopying.
I’d already accepted that she’d gone back on our retreat when she’d vanished from my house after breakfast.
When she refused to talk to me at the race the week after, I thought she just needed some space.
I accepted it, but I didn’t like it.
And I also knew it wouldn’t last long.
“How much have you raised?” I asked, leaning back on the printer and crossing my arms.
She picked up each warm sheet of paper as it came out of the printer, analysing it.
“What?” she asked in English, refusing to look up at me.
“How much have you raised?”
She dragged her eyes up to mine. “What?” she repeated curtly.
“How much have you raised for your sponsored silence?”
