Chapter Eighteen
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Jax
Bahrain testing was hell.
Jax climbed out midway through the afternoon session of the day, helmet hair plastered to his forehead, race suit soaked through with sweat that had long since stopped evaporating.
He stripped off the top half in the garage, letting the cool blast from the fans hit his skin, and checked his phone with shaking hands.
No new messages from Aria.
He’d been promising her he’d make the awards show for weeks.
Mid-February. Seoul. Her presenting, not performing, but still a big night—red carpet, cameras, industry eyes everywhere.
He’d told her he’d be there. Sworn it over late-night calls from the simulator rig.
Now the team was talking about extending testing an extra day—critical long-run data needed before the final pre-season sign-off.
If he stayed, he’d miss her show. If he left early, he’d be flying red-eye, landing with barely enough time to shower and change, and the team would quietly note his “lack of commitment” again.
Whispers about divided focus had already started after Brisbane.
He typed quickly, thumb slick on the screen.
Jax: Long day. Car’s still a bastard. Might need to stay an extra session tomorrow. Really sorry. You ok if I miss the awards?
The reply came faster than he expected.
Aria: It’s ok. I understand. The team needs you. I’m not even getting an award—just presenting. Don’t stress.
He exhaled through his nose, thumb hovering. The words felt too easy. Too polite.
Jax: You sure? You said you were nervous about it.
Aria: A little. Min-Jae might be there. But I’ll be fine. Go fix the car. I’ll watch the live stream and cheer you on from my seat.
He stared at the screen. Min-Jae might be there.
That was why she wanted him there, wasn’t it?
Perfect optics. Perfect jealousy fuel. The ex seeing her happy, successful, on the arm of someone else.
The arrangement had always circled back to that for her—he was still the prop, the weapon, the rebound.
Brisbane, London, … maybe those had blurred the lines for him, but not for her.
She was still playing the long game to win Min-Jae back.
The thought twisted in his gut—sharp, unexpected. He typed before he could overthink it.
Jax: I’ll make it up to you. Promise. Melbourne in a few weeks—looking forward to it.
Aria: Deal. Be safe out there. Talk soon.
He pocketed the phone, jaw tight, and headed back to the engineers.
The garage lights buzzed overhead; someone handed him a fresh bottle of water.
He drank half in one go, then climbed back into the cockpit.
The seat was still warm from his last stint.
He pulled the belts tight, visor down, and pushed the radio button.
“Let’s go again.”
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Aria
Her penthouse in Gangnam smelled faintly of hairspray and jasmine.
Aria sat at the vanity, stylists hovering—one pinning the final curl, another touching up her smoky liner.
The silver gown clung like liquid mercury, low back dipping to the small of her spine, high slit flashing leg with every shift.
Diamonds sparkled at her throat and ears.
She looked polished. Beautiful. Ready.
Inside, nerves twisted tighter than usual.
Min-Jae would almost certainly be there tonight—his new single had dropped, and the event was prime visibility.
She hadn’t seen him since the breakup texts.
The thought of crossing paths made her stomach knot, but the unease felt different now, layered with something quieter she couldn’t quite name.
While the stylists worked, she kept her lyric notebook open on the vanity, pen moving across the page in small, deliberate strokes. She was rewriting the bridge again—the same one she’d first touched up the morning after the London gala.
She smiled faintly at the memory. She’d woken tangled in hotel sheets, city light striping the bed, and found Jax still asleep beside her.
Hair messy, lashes dark against his cheeks, one arm flung across the pillow like he’d reached for her even in dreams. She’d lain there watching him, chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with the arrangement, and the words had simply changed under her pen.
A line that once ached with absence had become something steadier, more intimate—about the quiet safety of someone who showed up, who stayed.
Now, weeks later, the shift had only grown clearer. The verses she kept revising carried warmth instead of bitterness, presence instead of loss. They felt like Jax. The way he made her feel seen. The way her body responded to him.
She thought about the first time they’d fucked—how completely he’d blown her away.
The intensity of it, the way he’d drawn pleasure from her like he’d studied every inch of her just to watch her fall apart.
She’d never felt so undone, so powerfully wanted.
And then London… riding him in the dark, city lights painting his skin, seeing his control fracture beneath her, his hands gripping her hips like he was the one losing his mind.
That moment had shifted something deep inside her.
She had felt powerful in her own body for the first time in years—confident, desired, in control.
She wanted more of that feeling. More of him.
The pen paused.
Was that why the thought of seeing Min-Jae tonight unsettled her so much?
Not because she was afraid of old feelings rushing back, but because she wasn’t sure she was still the girl who had once been shattered by him.
That girl had needed to win him back to feel whole.
This version of her—the one who laughed uncontrollably at ridiculous late night memes, who rewrote songs with someone else’s steady heartbeat in her chest—felt like she might already be moving on.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to be that girl anymore.
And she definitely wasn’t sure what it meant if seeing Min-Jae tonight only confirmed it.
The realization settled low and warm and terrifying all at once. She closed the notebook with a soft snap, telling herself the changes were just the music evolving. Nothing she had to name tonight.
Lena appeared in the mirror. “Car’s downstairs. Five minutes.”
Aria nodded, stood, and smoothed the silver fabric. The elevator ride was silent. When the doors opened into the lobby, she stepped out—and froze.
Jax stood near the entrance, tall and impossibly handsome in a midnight tux, hair still a little messy from travel, hands in his pockets. Dark circles under his eyes, but that slow, devastating grin spread across his face the second he saw her.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She crossed the marble floor quickly and threw her arms around his neck. He caught her, lifted her just off the ground, and kissed her—deep, hungry, like he’d been starving for it the entire flight.
“You’re here,” she whispered against his mouth, voice cracking.
“Couldn’t miss it,” he murmured back, setting her down but keeping her close. “Red-eye from Bahrain. Barely slept.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him—eyes bright, cheeks flushed. “You look exhausted.”
“I look like I just flew fourteen hours to see you in that dress. Which is exactly what I did.”
She laughed—shaky, relieved—and kissed him again, slower this time, fingers threading into his hair.
They slid into the back of the waiting car. The moment the door closed, Jax hit the button for the privacy screen. It rose smoothly, sealing them in.
He looked at her—really looked—taking in the silver gown, the way it caught the passing streetlights, the nervous energy still humming under her skin.
“You’re tense,” he said quietly.
She exhaled. “Just nerves. Big night. Cameras. Everything.”
He studied her for a beat.
Then he smiled—slow, wicked.
“I know what helps with nerves.”
Before she could speak—before she could even draw breath to tease him—he was moving.
Hands sliding up the outsides of her thighs, warm palms dragging the fabric higher with torturous patience.
The fabric whispered against her skin, cool in contrast to the heat of his touch.
She felt the air shift against newly bared skin, felt the faint tremor that always started low in her belly when he looked at her like that.
He knelt between her legs on the wide leather seat, broad shoulders filling the space, careful not to rush. One hand braced on the door behind her; the other stayed on her thigh, thumb stroking slow, absent circles that made her muscles flutter.
“Jax…” Her voice came out softer than she meant, almost a question.
“Shh.” He leaned in, pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee—soft, almost reverent. Then another, slightly higher. Then another.
Each one landed like a spark.
She leaned back against the door, head tipping, eyes half-closing as the city lights painted shifting patterns across the ceiling.
The car turned a corner; the motion pressed her more firmly against the leather.
His mouth followed the slow path upward—kisses turning open-mouthed, lingering, the faint scrape of stubble sending tiny shocks along her nerves.
Her breath hitched when he reached the lace edge of her underwear. He paused there, nose brushing the sensitive skin just above it, inhaling like he was memorising her. She felt the warmth of his exhale against her, felt herself clench in anticipation.
He didn’t rush.
Fingers hooked the lace—gentle, deliberate—easing it aside. Cool air kissed her, then his breath, then nothing for one endless second that stretched until she thought she might beg.
Then his tongue—slow, flat, exploratory.
She arched hard, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat. Her fingers flew to his hair, threading tight, holding him there even though he showed no sign of moving away.
He took his time.