On the podium: the anthem played. Champagne sprayed in wide arcs. The constructors’ trophy went up first—team lifting it high, Marcus grinning through tears. Then the drivers’—silver, heavy, engraved with legends.
He raised it overhead. The crowd roared. Fireworks burst across the desert sky. He pointed the trophy straight at Nan. Mouth forming the words:For you.
She blew him a kiss.
Later, in the cooldown room, the trophy sat beside him on the couch—heavy, real, cold. Mia slipped in quietly.
“She’s glowing,” she said. “You gave her that.”
He nodded. “Couldn’t have done it without her.”
Mia sat. “And now?”
He looked at the trophy.
The win was everything he’d chased for years. And it was nothing.
Because Nan was still dying.
And Aria was still gone—back with Min-Jae, where she’d always belonged.
He felt the joy of the moment crash against the grief—two waves colliding, leaving him raw and unsteady. Overwhelmed. The trophy sat there like proof of everything he’d fought for, but it couldn’t fill the hollow spaces inside him. Nan’s thin arms around him. The ticking clock on her life. The quiet hurt of knowing Aria had chosen someone else.
He exhaled slowly, the sound ragged in the quiet room.
“Nan’s all that matters now,” he said quietly. “Whatever time she has left… that’s where my focus goes. Being there. Holding her hand. Sitting with her. Everything else… it can wait.”
Mia studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded—gentle, no argument.
“You’re a good man, Jax,” she said softly.
He looked at the trophy again.
The win was great.
But the sorrow was greater.
And tomorrow, he’d be on a plane back to Brisbane.
To sit with Nan.
To hold her hand.
To be there.
???
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Aria
The backstage holding area beneath the Seoul Arena felt smaller than it should have—walls draped in black velvet, a single folding chair, the faint metallic tang of dry ice still hanging in the air from soundcheck. Aria sat alone, knees drawn up under the oversized hoodie she’d thrown over her sequined performance bodysuit, phone resting face-down on her thigh. The launch show for False Start was minutes away—her first full arena headline performance of the album that had already gone multi-platinum in Korea, climbed global charts faster than anything she’d released before, and earned reviews calling it “career-defining” and “brutally honest.”
She’d been a successful solo artist for years now. Chart-topping singles, sold-out tours, awards lining her shelf. But this album was different. False Start wasn’t the polished, crowd-pleasing pop she’d built her name on. It was raw—stripped-back production, lyrics that bled, songs written in the dark hours when she couldn’t pretend anymore. Tonight wasn’t just a concert. It was the first time she’d stand in front of twentythousand people and sing the parts of her heart she’d kept locked away.
And yet, as the countdown ticked in her in-ear, her mind wasn’t on the vocal runs or the lighting cues or the way the dancers were running final marks.
It was on Yas Marina.
