Chapter Six #2
“So,” he said, voice lighter but still careful. “If we did this… how do we explain the sudden couple thing? We met once on a grid, talked for five minutes, then dinner in Mexico. Bit fast for soulmates, even by celebrity standards.”
She exhaled, grateful for the shift back to practical ground. “We don’t explain. We let people assume. A few strategic photos, some vague captions—‘good company in Mexico City’ or something innocuous. Fans will fill in the blanks. They already are.”
He nodded slowly. “And when it ends?”
“Mutual statement. ‘We remain friends, grateful for the time we shared, but our paths are taking us in different directions.’ Clean. Respectful. No drama.”
Another long pause. He set his fork down, leaned forward again.
“You’re really serious about this.”
“I am.” She met his eyes. “I know it sounds insane. But right now, insane is better than nothing.”
Jax looked at her—really looked. The candlelight caught the green in his eyes, made them sharper.
“You’re not wrong about the optics,” he said quietly. “Claire’s been on my arse about it. The owners too. But this…” He gestured between them. “This is next-level. You sure you want to tie yourself to me—even fake—for months? I’m not exactly low-maintenance.”
She gave a small, wry smile. “I’m not exactly low-drama either. We’re both walking liabilities. Might as well make it useful.”
He huffed a quiet laugh—the first real one since the proposal. “Fair.”
The silence returned, softer this time. Not hostile. Just… heavy.
Jax picked up his glass, swirled the last of the mezcal. “You really think your ex will come running back if he sees us together?”
“I think jealousy is a powerful thing,” she said. “And right now, it’s the only thing I have left to throw at him.”
Jax nodded once, slow.
“I’ll think about it,” he said again. “Properly. No jokes this time.”
She nodded. “Take your time.”
They finished the meal mostly in quiet—occasional small talk about the food, the city, nothing deep. When the bill came, Jax reached for it without hesitation.
“I’ve got this,” he said. “Business expense.”
She didn’t argue.
Outside, the warm night air wrapped around them. A single paparazzi flash popped from across the street—quick, professional. One clean shot: them side by side, her small frame next to his broad shoulders, both smiling politely as they waited for their cars.
As their drivers pulled up, Jax turned to her.
“Wait,” he said quietly. He pulled out his phone. “Give me your number. If I decide yes—or even if I decide no—I’ll text you directly. No managers, no agents. Just us.”
She hesitated for half a second, then nodded. She recited the digits; he typed them in quickly, saved the contact with a simple “Aria,” and sent her a quick test message so she’d have his too.
Her phone buzzed in her clutch.
“Done,” he said, pocketing his phone. “You’ll hear from me.”
She offered a small smile—still guarded, but softer. “Thank you. For hearing me out. And for not laughing me out of the restaurant.”
He gave her that easy grin again, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Night, Aria.”
“Night, Jax.”
She slid into her car. The door closed with a soft thud. As it pulled away, she glanced back through the tinted window—he was still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching until her taillights disappeared around the corner.
◆◆◆
Jax
Back in his hotel suite, Jax kicked off his shoes and dropped onto the edge of the bed, still in his shirt and jeans, elbows on his knees, staring at the carpet like it held answers.
The night kept replaying in sharp fragments.
The easy rhythm they’d had at the start—laughing about Singapore, trading stories about grandmothers and writing songs. Then the proposal, laid out calm and clinical like a contract negotiation.
Not my type. Still hung up on her ex. Strictly business.
The words had landed harder than he’d expected.
Not because he had any feelings—he barely knew her—but because for a few hours he’d let himself forget the mask.
Let himself sit across from someone who saw the cracks in the charm and didn’t flinch.
And then she’d reminded him: this wasn’t real. It was a transaction.
He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling hard.
The plan was insane. Fake dating for publicity, a mutually beneficial arrangement with zero strings and zero sex.
Four to six months of playing boyfriend in public: hand-holding for paparazzi, casual arm-around-shoulder photos at events, maybe a staged kiss on the cheek at a sponsor dinner.
Then a clean, amicable breakup announcement—something vague and classy like “mutual respect, still friends”—and everyone walks away satisfied.
No messy feelings. No real vulnerability. Just a performance.
He should say no.
He didn’t need a fake girlfriend to fix his season.
He needed podiums. Consistent qualifying.
Better race craft. Not another layer of PR smoke and mirrors.
Pretending to be in a committed relationship wouldn’t magically make the owners trust him again.
It wouldn’t erase the table-dancing videos or the Vegas headlines.
It would just give them something new to talk about until the next slip-up.
And her? She was using him to make another man jealous. A man she still loved. A man she called her soulmate.
Jax wasn’t anyone’s rebound prop. He wasn’t a prop at all.
He reached for his phone, thumb hovering over her contact—newly saved as “Aria.” He could type it now. Polite. Grateful. Final.
Hey Aria – thanks for the lovely evening. Dinner was great, conversation even better. But I’m going to pass on the proposal. Good luck with Min-Jae. Take care.
Simple. Clean. Done.
His thumb moved to type.
Before he could finish, the phone vibrated in his hand.
Claire Whitman.
He opened the message warily.
Attached was the paparazzi shot from twenty minutes ago: them stepping out of the restaurant together.
Her in that sleek black outfit, small and luminous under the streetlights.
Him towering beside her, shoulders relaxed, easy half-smile.
They looked… good. Natural. Like two people who’d just had a real night.
The text read:
Another date with Aria Moon? Do I smell a thing? This is reading well, Jax. Owners saw the photo already. Marcus forwarded it with one line: “Finally some positive press.” Keep it going. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.
Jax stared at the screen.
He read the message twice.
Then he looked back at the draft in his messages to Aria.
The polite rejection still sat there, half-typed.
He deleted it.
And in the sudden quiet that followed, the truth he usually kept shoved to the back of his mind slipped forward.
She wasn’t wrong about him.
He’d never been in a serious relationship. Not once.
Not in karting, when every weekend was a race and every spare minute was spent on simulators or begging sponsors for tires.
Not working his way up, when he was living out of a duffel bag and sleeping in cheap motels, too broke and too focused to think about anything beyond the next grid slot.
Not even when the wins started coming and the women did too.
Women who liked the thrill of him—the smile, the accent, the way he could make a room feel like it was just the two of them.
Wild nights in Monaco penthouses, tangled sheets in Vegas suites, laughter and skin and the kind of heat that burned bright and fast. He’d always been generous in bed, attentive, playful—leaving them smiling and a little dazed.
But no one ever asked for more. And he never offered.
Maybe his charm was designed for short bursts—fun, fleeting, easy to walk away from.
Maybe people got tired of him the way sponsors and owners were starting to: great for a season, great for a headline, but not someone you built anything lasting around.
He’d never had to find out. He’d never wanted to.
Until tonight, when someone had looked straight through the easy grin and called it exactly what it was.
He exhaled, slow and rough.
The plan was still far-fetched. Borderline absurd. Pretending he was tied down wouldn’t magically turn his season around.
But Claire’s text was sitting there like a nudge he couldn’t ignore. Positive press. Owners noticing. A shift in the narrative.
He started fresh.
Hey Aria – Jax here. If you’re around on the weekend, how about you come to the Grand Prix? My guest. Let me know. If you come… we can talk about your proposal.
He hit send before the second thoughts could catch up.
Then he set the phone face-down on the nightstand, leaned back against the headboard, and let out a long, slow breath.
The city lights flickered across the ceiling in slow pulses.
Maybe the plan was crazy.
Maybe it was exactly the kind of reckless, calculated risk that could change everything.
Claire thought it was working. The owners were already noticing. And deep down—beneath the bruised ego and the instinct to protect himself—Jax had to admit something else.
He was curious.
Not just about whether it would save his seat.
But about her.
About what it would feel like to stand next to someone who saw through the charm, who didn’t need him to perform, who was willing to play the game as ruthlessly as he sometimes had to.
He closed his eyes.
The phone stayed silent for now.
But he knew it wouldn’t for long.