While I’m still allowed to attend the Suzuka Grand Prix, I’m told in no uncertain terms to stay away from the pit, or anywhere I might be spotted by Asher.
Ilya seems slightly more invested in appeasing me than anyone else on the team, so he decides that the best way to achieve his goal of keeping me away from Asher without sequestering me at a hotel is to stuff me into shitty economy seats for the flight, then place me in the team’s hospitality suite on race-day… after prohibiting me from being near the tracks any time Asher’s on-site.
Needless to say, I’m not happy when I stalk into the suite, laptop and tablet in hand. The space is gorgeous, and I instantly hate it. The large, bright room sits one level above the garages in the Paddock Club. The team’s colors are threaded through the furniture and signage with the kind of subtlety that only serious money can buy. A sleek bar runs along one wall, with champagne flutes already lined up and leaking perspiration. Flat screens are mounted everywhere, showing live race footage and onboard cameras, and beyond the open terrace, there’s anunobstructed view of the pit lane and the track stretching out below.
This is where people come to be seen watching Formula One, not toactuallywatch it.
Every well-dressed sponsor enjoys champagne and hors d’oeuvres while mingling and chatting among each other. I sidestep the filthy-rich patrons and navigate to the back of the room, where there’s a setup of overstuffed chairs, sofas, and coffee tables. I choose a chair with a spine large enough to hide my frame, spin it away from the people, and fire up my laptop.
By some miracle, Hunter’s cryptanalyst managed to crack through Oliver’s encryption in a single day. I didn’t bother asking about his methods. The only important thing is that I now have all three years of telemetry data converted, clean, and ready to use. Now, most of what I have left to do is feeding the data into my models, fine-tuning variable inputs, and testing outputs.
The mechanical and environmental variables are coming together nicely—tyre degradation, fuel loads, weather patterns, track-specific data. It’s thehumanside that’s still a mess. I can’t figure out how to quantify the range of human emotion and error, translate it into something my algorithm can process, and train that aspect of it.
My only current solution is to formulate every single primary and secondary emotion, but the complexity of that would create countless bugs I’d need to spend months fixing. Therehasto be an easier solve; I just can’t see it right now.
So, I spend my time working on the aspects that are simpler to me. Organizing data fields, double-checking lines of my model’s logic, testing inputs and outputs. A few hours pass as I work, listening to the broadcasters dictate every move of the race in the background. If I turned the seat around I’d have a prime view of the trackandseveral screens showing up-close footage of the race, but that also means I could see people and they would see me. I’m in no mood to deal with humanity.
Try as I might, I’m too distracted to work at peak efficiency—and that's not because of the race. It’s because I can’t stop replaying my most recent interaction with Asher on a continuous loop.
No more dates.
I’m not interested in getting you fired.
No more dates.
He’s infuriating, unreasonable, and beguiling… and yet, I can’t stop thinking about him, no matter how hard I try. And Idotry—desperately.
For the most part, my thoughts are a loop of fury over his gall tobenchme because of his own screwups, but that’s not the only thing keeping him on my mind. It’s also his attitude—I can’t help but questionwhyit’s always so bad. And if that isn’t bad enough, I also can’t help but wonder what exactly is prompting his resistance to changing with the times, why he seems to have a special level of hatred for me, and how thehellI’m supposed to help him when he’s exiled me from the track.
I'm so lost in thought, I don’t realize that I have company until a smooth voice rings out from beside me. “Are those telemetry models?”
I startle so much I nearly jump out of my skin, but attempt to recover with a shaky smile cast at the newcomer. He’s older—somewhere in his sixties—American, and pristinely dressed in a three-piece suit. He has a stern face, hard set to his jaw, and silvery hair, but there’s an edge of kindness to his eyes.
“Uh… yes.” I clear my throat and half-close my laptop. “My apologies if I was distracting you.”
“No distraction,” he says. “You’re squirreled away in the back of the room. If I hadn’t seen you walk in, I wouldn’t have noticed you.” He glances at my laptop. “May I ask what you’re working on?”
“Just an algorithm I’m building,” I say vaguely. When he arches an eyebrow, I offer a shaky smile. “It’s for forecasting outcomes. I’m sorry, but it’s… kind of sensitive.” As in, I could get in very deep shit for sharing this with someone who isn’t authorized. Getting kicked off the team would be the least of my troubles; I’d probably get in legal trouble for leaking proprietary information.
“I see.” He gives a serious nod and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. My brows furrow as he dials a number and holds the phone to his ear. “Hello, Ilya? Yes, so sorry to interrupt. I’m just upstairs in the lounge with a lovely young woman building some sort of forecasting algorithm for your team, and she seems a touch hesitant to share anything about it with me. Could you confirm that—yes, I believe it’s Victoria Linden,according to her pass.” He glances down at the pass hanging around my neck, nods, and pauses. “Ah, she’s the intern I’ve heard so much about? Well, then.” Another pause. “Would you mind assuring her that I’m authorized to take a peek at—yes, here she is.”
I feel the blood drain away from my face as I accept the phone from him with a trembling hand. Who the hell is this guy? How does he know who I am? What does he mean,he’s heard so much about me?
“Show Frank Sterling everything he wants to see,” Ilya says impatiently. “He’s one of our biggest investors, and Elio’s biggest sponsor. Give him what he wants.Now.”
“Of course.” My words are scarcely a horrified whisper, and Frank’s brows furrow at my reaction. He takes his phone back from me when I hold it out, and presses it to his ear.
“What did you say to the poor girl? She’s white as a sheet!” Pause, and nod. “Yes, I’ll convey that she’s in no trouble. Of course, you as well.” He hangs up, pockets his phone, and gestures to my laptop. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Of course, Mr. Sterling,” I squeak, and reopen it fully.
“Please, call me Frank. Mr. Sterling was my father, and I believe the world breathed easier when he died.”
I blink.Well, then. Frank drags an armchair closer, propping it arm-to-arm with mine, takes a seat, and leans over to gaze over my algorithm.
“Oh, that’s quite interesting,” he says. “You said something about forecasting?”
I nod mutely. I’m speaking with a sponsor significant enough to make Ilya drop all of his dutiesmid-racefor a phone call.
