Jax’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking under his stubbled cheek. Alternatives sounded a hell of a lot like replacement. Like scanning the driver market for someone hungrier, someone without the baggage.
“They want someone who can rival Lucas,” Marcus said, leaning forward slightly. “Someone who looks like they eat, sleep, and breathe racing. Day in, day out.”
Jax laughed, short and sharp, the sound echoing off the hotel walls. “Because I don’t?”
Marcus sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Because the optics say you don’t. And in this sport, optics are everything.”
Las Vegas. It always came back to bloody Las Vegas.
Mid-season break. A few nights meant to blow off steam before the final push toward the end of the calendar. Jax had needed it—after a string of frustrating races, the pressure building like a storm. He'd hit the Strip with a few mates, nothing out of the ordinary. Casinos, clubs, the neon blur of it all.
Instead, it turned into a PR disaster. Photos leaked online—grainy shots from some influencer's phone, showing him half-drunk in a VIP lounge, shirt unbuttoned, sprawled on a hotelcouch with women draped over him like accessories. Laughter frozen in pixels, bottles scattered around. The headlines screamed "PARTY BOY JAX: IS HE SERIOUS ABOUT RACING?" It didn’t matter that he’d been single. It didn’t matter that he’d shown up to the next race in Austin prepared, qualifying on the front row. It didn’t matter that driving was the only thing that had ever truly mattered to him—the roar of the engine, the g-forces pinning him to the seat, the split-second decisions that made everything else fade away.
The owners wanted a cleaner image. Someone serious. Someone disciplined. Someone who looked ready to commit—to the team, to the sport, to the grind that left no room for slip-ups. And they needed proof. Soon. A string of strong results, maybe a win or two, and a public persona that screamed "dedicated professional" instead of "playboy racer."
Jax left the office with the weight of it pressing down on him, the hum of the paddock suddenly too loud, too alive as he stepped out into the hotel corridor and made his way down to the track. He walked past engineers huddled over laptops in the lobby, mechanics in grease-stained overalls grabbing quick smokes outside, all of them trusting him, believing in him, even as the people at the top quietly questioned whether he was worth the investment. The Singapore sun beat down, the air thick with exhaust and anticipation.
He’d come into Formula One with one goal. World Champion. Not influencer. Not headline fodder. Champion.
Sure, he liked the lifestyle. Who wouldn’t? The private jets whisking him from Monaco to Melbourne, the endorsement deals that padded his bank account, the women who saw the fame and wanted a piece, the freedom to live large between races. But driving—really driving—was the thing that steadiedhim. The only place his mind ever went quiet, where the chaos of expectations and doubts dissolved into pure focus. The cockpit was his sanctuary, the track his proving ground.
He was happy for Lucas. He truly was. Lucas had the title now, etched in history. He had the girl—Mia, with her sharp wit and unwavering support. He had the storybook ending, the kind fans ate up.
But standing there in the Singapore heat, sweat trickling down his back, Jax couldn’t ignore the ache curling low in his chest, sharp and insistent.
He wanted the title.
And he was running out of time to prove he deserved it.
???
Aria
Aria Moon woke up to silence.
That was the first thing that felt wrong. Her mornings with Min-Jae had always been a symphony of small sounds—the low hum of K-pop playlists drifting from his phone as he scrolled through social media, the clink of mugs in the kitchen as he brewed her favourite matcha latte, his body heavy and warm beside hers until the last possible second before she had to face the day. He liked to send her off properly, hands roaming lazily over her skin, mouth teasing her neck, a promise murmured against her ear that he’d miss her while she was gone, that he'd be waiting when she returned from whatever tour stop or promo event pulled her away.
Instead, the apartment was empty. Echoing. The kind of quiet that pressed in on all sides, making the spacious Seoul penthouse feel claustrophobic.
Sheets cold on his side of the bed, the imprint of his body long faded. She sat up slowly, heart already picking up speed, and glanced around. The closet door hung slightly ajar, and even from the bed, she could see the gaps—his favourite hoodies missing, the row of sneakers thinned out. Half-cleared, like he'd packed in a hurry while she slept.
She told herself not to panic as she reached for her phone on the nightstand, fingers trembling just a fraction. Maybe he’d gone for an early run, or to the studio for a quick session. They’d argued last night—nothing major, just the usual strain of her schedule clashing with his, the long distances and missed calls—but it hadn’t felt like the end.
Where are you?she typed quickly.
Will I see you before I leave?
She hit send and waited, staring at the screen as the minutes ticked by. Nothing. No read receipt, no typing bubbles.
She showered, the hot water doing little to wash away the unease settling in her stomach. Packed her suitcase with mechanical precision—outfits for the Singapore trip, performance wardrobe for the after-party gig, the little things like her lucky necklace that Min-Jae had given her on their first anniversary. Changed outfits twice, opting for comfortable travel wear: oversized sweats, a cap pulled low, sunglasses ready to shield her from the paparazzi at the airport. Still nothing on her phone.
It wasn’t until she reached the airport—navigating the VIP entrance with her security detail, assistants buzzing around her like bees, sunglasses firmly in place to hide the worry in her eyes—that her phone finally buzzed in her hand.
Sorry. I can’t do this anymore.
Her breath hitched, the world tilting for a moment as she stopped dead in the terminal.
What do you mean?she typed back, heart pounding hard enough to make her lightheaded, fingers flying over the screen.
