She closed her eyes.
Something was wrong.
And she had no idea what.
She texted:Jax, call me when you can. Everything okay?
No immediate response. She gathered her things, left the studio, and headed back to her apartment to watch the race, phone in hand, hoping he'd call back soon.
???
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jax
Silverstone delivered a podium, but it tasted like nothing.
P3—clean start, strong defence through the first sector, a calculated push in the closing laps that let him hold off the McLaren behind.
Nan’s voice kept looping in his head—thin, tired, but still carrying that stubborn warmth:Six months. Maybe a bit more if I’m lucky. I want to see you as world champion before I go.
The words sat like lead in his chest. He replayed every syllable, every pause, trying to find the part where it wasn’t real. It didn’t work. She was dying. Quietly. Alone. While he was out here chasing trophies and pretending the world wasn’t cracking open underneath him.
He climbed out of the car after the cooldown lap, helmet off, sweat cooling against his skin. The team swarmed—back-slaps, handshakes, Marcus’s gruff “Good drive, mate”—but it all feltdistant, muffled. He nodded, smiled tight, let them pull him toward media.
First thing he did when he had a second alone in the cooldown room was check his phone.
Missed calls from Aria. Starting a couple of hours ago, just before the race. A text:Jax, call me when you can. Everything okay?
Relief hit him so hard it hurt. She’d tried to call back. She hadn’t disappeared completely.
He wanted to call her right then—wanted to hear her voice, wanted to tell her everything: Nan’s diagnosis, the timeline, the way his throat closed every time he thought about it. He needed her to sayYou can carry this too. Needed her to be the one person who could steady him when everything else was falling apart.
But there was no time.
The FIA press officer was already at the door. “Jax? Media room in two.”
He pocketed the phone. Swallowed hard. Forced the mask back into place.
The press conference room was packed—reporters shoulder-to-shoulder, cameras flashing, the usual mix of motorsport journalists and entertainment outlets chasing crossover angles. He sat between Finn and Marcus, still damp with sweat, forcing the practiced smile.
Questions came fast—race strategy, tire degradation, the battle with the McLaren. He answered on autopilot: “Car felt good today, team nailed the strategy, just couldn’t quite close the gap to first.” Safe. Professional. Expected.
Then a reporter near the back stood—entertainment channel, not one of the usual F1 beat writers.
“Jax, massive congrats on another podium. But shifting gears for a second—how do you feel about Aria getting back together with her ex, Min-Jae?”
The room went quiet.
Finn shifted beside him. A second later, Finn’s phone slid discreetly onto the table between them, screen already open to Instagram. The photo glowed up at Jax: Aria and Min-Jae standing close in a studio, iced coffees in hand, both smiling softly. The caption readJust like old times.Posted an hour ago.
Jax stared at the image, heart slamming against his ribs, until the barrage of camera flashes pulled him back.
“I… don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, voice flat. “Next question.”
But the damage was done. Murmurs rippled through the room. Phones were already out, feeds refreshing. He sat through the rest of the conference on autopilot — short answers, tight smiles — then excused himself the moment it ended.
Back in the motorhome he locked the door, sank onto the couch, and stared at the photo again. It looked cozy. Familiar. Like two people who still fit together perfectly.
