“Bullshit,” he said gently. No heat, just fact. “You’ve been fine since you were fourteen with all this pressure. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
She looked away, out the window at the city that never slowed down. “Min-Jae’s done. Completely. That photo was him trying to stir something up, but it’s over. For good.”
Robert’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Good. I never liked the way he treated you—like you were a prop he could dust off when itsuited him. You deserve better than that.” He paused. “And what about that Jax fellow?”
Aria’s fingers tightened around the edge of the couch. She kept her voice even. “Things have cooled. We’re both just… focusing on our own careers right now. Differing schedules. It's hard to be in the same place at the same time.”
Robert studied her. “So, nothing to say to the press yet?”
“No.” She shook her head quickly. “If anyone asks, that’s all there is. No breakup. Just… life getting in the way.”
He let out a slow breath. “You know they’ll keep asking. Especially with the album out. The lyrics are personal. People are going to read between the lines—wonder if it’s about him, or Min-Jae, or both.”
“Let them wonder,” she said, a little too sharply. Then softer: “I’m not ready to say anything definitive. Not yet.”
Robert nodded slowly, not pushing. “Okay. We’ll keep it quiet. But you know I’m here when you are ready. Or if you’re not. Either way.”
She managed a small smile. “I know.”
She nodded, wiping at her cheek. “Thanks, Robert. For… everything..”
He gave her a small, crooked smile. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t starve or sign terrible deals. Might as well have been me.”
She laughed—a real one.
He stood, offered her a hand up. “Come on. You’ve got a photoshoot in an hour. And you’re not walking in there looking like you’ve been crying over a boy.”
She took his hand, let him pull her to her feet. “I’m not crying over a boy,” she said, voice steadier now.
Robert squeezed her shoulder again. “Ok then! Right now, we need you to be the artist the world’s about to fall in love with all over again.”
She nodded. Took a breath.
The album was out. The launch show loomed. Streams kept climbing.
And somewhere, in the quiet spaces between interviews and rehearsals, she still missed him.
???
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jax
Three races had already slipped by in Europe since the summer break—Monza, Spa, Zandvoort—and Jax had come through them like a man possessed. P2 in Italy (Monza’s high-speed straights suiting the car perfectly, a late safety car denying him the win), P1 in Belgium (Spa’s rain turning the track into a lottery he won with cold precision), P3 in the Netherlands (Zandvoort’s banking and dunes testing every nerve, but he held the lead pack). Three podiums. No mistakes. The championship lead had grown—narrow, but solid.
He returned to Marina Bay with fire in his belly.
The grief over Nan hadn’t dulled—it had sharpened. Every phone call with her voice thinner than the last, every memory of her porch, her garden, her stubborn insistence that hekeep going, love, had turned into something harder. He wasn’t racing for trophies anymore. He was racing for her. For the promise he’d made on that winter beach:I’ll do everything I can.
Singapore hit like a wall of heat and light. Floodlights turned night into glaring day, humidity so thick it clung to skin like wet silk, the street circuit’s walls closing in with every lap. The paddock smelled of rubber, fuel, and anticipation.
Lucas was waiting in the garage—shoulder healed, grin wide, the same easy confidence that had once made him world champion. Now he was back in a different role: number two, wingman, the guy who’d cover Jax’s line, take points when needed, and do whatever it took to get the team’s lead driver across the line first.
He clapped Jax on the back as they reviewed data, voice carrying over the mechanics’ chatter.
“Shoulder’s good?” Jax asked, glancing at the joint Lucas kept rolling experimentally.
“Better than good.” Lucas flexed it, no wince this time. “Mia says if I crash again, she’s benching me herself.”
