She was teasing… but she wasn’t backing away.
He tilted his head, voice dropping low, rough around the edges. “And what do you think about that assessment?”
Aria’s lips parted, surprise flickering through her eyes before she recovered, lifting her chin just enough to meet his stare.
“I think Dana talks too much,” she said, but her voice was softer now, breathier. “And I think… we shouldn’t complicate things.”
She paused, then added quietly, “But the proposal—I still want to do it. If you’re in.”
Jax’s pulse was still hammering, but he nodded once, slow.
“I’m in,” he said, voice steady despite the heat still simmering under his skin. “All the way. Let’s make it work—for the optics, for the narrative, for both of us.”
A small breath escaped her—relief, maybe something else. She gave a tiny nod.
“Good.”
She stepped back first, breaking the charged air between them, but her eyes stayed on his—bright, uncertain, alive with the weight of what they’d just agreed to.
“Goodnight, Jax.”
“Goodnight, Aria.”
She slipped inside.
The door clicked shut.
Jax stood there, heart still racing, staring at the door.
He pressed his palm flat against the door, right where her fingers had brushed his chest moments ago.
Then he smiled—slow, private, a little stunned.
Yeah.
This was definitely going to be interesting.
???
Chapter Eight
Jax
Interlagos came wrapped in Brazilian rain, the circuit a slick, unforgiving ribbon under skies that couldn’t decide whether to pour or tease. The fake-dating rhythm had locked in over the previous weeks: Jax’s hand finding Aria’s in the paddock whenever cameras were near, fingers threading together with practiced ease; his arm slung loosely around her shoulders during sponsor walkthroughs; quick hugs after every session that ended with her cheek pressed briefly to his chest. Cheek kisses had become their signature—soft, affectionate, always timed for maximum visibility. It was mechanical now. Almost comfortable. Almost.
He caught himself noticing things he shouldn’t: the way her thumb sometimes brushed the back of his hand when they walked, the faint scent of her shampoo when she leaned in for a staged kiss, the way she’d tilt her head and smile up at him like the moment belonged to them alone. But he reminded himself it was performance. Nothing more. He wasn’t emotionally invested. This was good publicity, results, survival. That was all.
Aria had arrived in Brazil alone—no Lena trailing, no full entourage shadowing her every move. When he’d asked about it casually during the flight over, she’d given a small shrug andsaid her team was busy back in Seoul. “They’re looking after the apartment, handling logistics, getting things ready for the new album recording in the new year,” she’d explained, voice light but eyes flicking away.
Jax had nodded, but something about it nagged at him. Fewer eyes on the relationship. Fewer people who knew her well enough to spot the cracks.
Qualifying delivered his strongest grid position of the season: P4. The race was a nightmare of standing water, aquaplaning cars, and two safety cars. From the start, the track was treacherous—visibility low, spray turning the straights into white walls. Jax launched cleanly, holding position through the chaos of Turn 1, where cars spun and slid like leaves in a storm.
On lap 8, the radio crackled: “Jax, heavy rain incoming sector two. Box this lap if it worsens—intermediates are struggling.”
He gripped the wheel tighter, feeling the car skate on the edge. “Copy. Car’s on rails for now. I’ll push.”
Lap 15 brought the first yellow flag—massive crash, debris everywhere. Restart behind safety car, then green. Jax attacked, defending hard against a charging Mercedes into the downhill esses. “Push now,” his engineer urged. “Gap to P3 is 1.2. You’ve got pace.”
