The article sat at the top of the feed, authored by Oliver Johnson, published just three hours ago, when most of Europe was still asleep.
“How did he get this information?”I wondered aloud as I continued to read, each word worse than the last.
Ollie had taken Lily’s private struggle and turned it into his breakout piece.Over a thousand words of her vulnerability, packaged for clicks and career advancement.He’d included details about deliveries to locked hotel rooms, about the escalation pattern from Miami onward, about specific phrases from notes that Lily had kept hidden from almost everyone.
Details that a journalist covering the sport wouldn’t have access to.Details that someonesendingthe notes would.That felt too wretched, even for Ollie.
My phone was in my hand before I’d made the conscious decision to pick it up.I called Lily.Straight to voicemail.Called again.Same result.A third time—nothing.She hadn’t read any of my texts either.Her phone was either off, or she was somewhere without signal, and neither possibility did anything for the dread climbing out of me.
I pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a crumpled T-shirt and went down to her floor.Knocked once, then harder.Still nothing.I tried the lobby, the hotel restaurant, the gym.She was nowhere.
Back in my room, I tried her again, again getting her voicemail.
Why was she ignoring me?
I scrolled through my contacts and landed on a name I hadn’t called in months.
Alex Muncy.Sports journalist and friend from my early karting days who was now a senior correspondent for one of the largest sports media networks in Europe.He’d been asking me for an exclusive for two years, but I’d always said no.
The call connected on the second ring.
“Dubois?”A laugh, warm and surprised.“It’s not even eight in the morning.You in trouble?”
“Remember when I did that photoshoot for you, and you said you owed me one?I’m calling in that favor.”
A pause.“All right.What do you need?”
“I’ll explain later.”I made it to my room, desperately shoving items into my bag.“Meet me at the track.Driver’s room.In an hour?”
“Henri, what’s this about?”
“Just meet me.Please.”
The drive to the circuit passed quickly.I tried Lily again, but still nothing.The paddock was quiet, except for a few mechanics.
The knock came shortly after I’d settled in my room.Alex looked like he’d dressed in a hurry: jeans, wrinkled button-down, press credentials hanging crooked around his neck.
“This had better be good, Dubois.”
I closed the door.And for a moment, I just stood there, because I knew that once I started, there was no going back.
“Have you seen the article?”I asked.“Oliver Johnson’s piece, published this morning.”
“The harassment story about the Rennen driver?”Alex nodded.“It’s a small sports magazine that published it, but I hear it’s getting a little traction.”
“He didn’t have permission to run that.”My voice was steady, but my hands weren’t.
Alex’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted behind his eyes, the journalist in him waking up.“That’s a serious accusation.”
“I want you to bury his story,” I said, and the words came out harder than I intended.
“I mean, in order to do that, we’d have to run something bigger, Henri.”
“I know.And I have something that might do the trick.”
Alex leaned back, studying me with that careful, assessing gaze I’d seen him turn on interview subjects a hundred times.“And what exactly would that something be?”
This was the part I’d been dreading.Not because I didn’t want to do it, but because I’d spent so long building walls around exactly this.Years of deflection, of “I’m fine,” of toughing it out.
