Chapter 26
JACK
The first-class seat is comfortable enough, the kind of luxury I’ve gotten used to over the years but still appreciate.
I’m waiting for the flight to take off, sipping the whiskey I ordered as soon as I sat down, scrolling through my phone while the flight attendants do their safety demonstration that nobody pays attention to.
I feel for the guy, but he’s in over his head. It took everything in me not to whoop when he crossed the finish line in that position, because at this rate I’ll be back in the seat before next year even starts. Hell, maybe even by the next race if Davis keeps fucking up so spectacularly.
My phone buzzes. Thomas calling. He’s on his way back to Europe while I’m heading to Dark River, different flights since we’re going opposite directions.
We saw each other three hours ago at the track, said our goodbyes, so I can’t imagine what’s so urgent it can’t wait until we’re both on the ground.
“Hello?” I answer, taking another sip of whiskey.
“There’s another video,” Thomas says immediately. “From Monaco. From that party. Someone leaked it last night and it’s spreading fast online. It shows a bit more than the first video did.”
My stomach drops, that familiar dread crawling up my spine. “How much more?”
“Longer footage from the same party. About ten minutes total.” His voice is clipped, professional, but I can hear the underlying concern.
“Shows you arriving, talking to people, having a beer. Talking to everyone who was doing lines. Shows you with Elise.” He pauses deliberately. “Shows you kissing her.”
“Great. That’s just fucking great.” Of course there’s more footage.
Of course someone had their phone out recording the whole fucking time, just waiting for the perfect moment to release it for maximum damage.
Because nothing in my life can ever just stay buried, can just be over and done with.
I take a long drink, the burn doing nothing to calm the anxiety already building.
“Have you heard anything from Ferrari yet? Is this messing up the contract?”
“I spoke with Matteo an hour ago,” Thomas says, and I can hear him typing in the background, probably already drafting statements.
“They’re not thrilled obviously, but since this is from months ago and you’ve been on exemplary behavior since then, they’re not as worried as they could be.
You’ve done everything right: Miami, the social media presence with Lark, staying out of trouble.
That goodwill is buying you some leeway right now.
It helps that they miss your skill badly enough that I think they’re willing to overlook this as old news. ”
Some of the tension in my shoulders eases slightly, but not much. “So we’re okay? Contract’s still looking good?”
“Should be. We’ll put out a statement similar to the one from earlier this year.
That this doesn’t change anything, you’ve learned from past mistakes, you’re focused on your career, the standard language.
It’ll blow over.” He pauses. “But Jack, you need to stay squeaky clean from here on out. Any more incidents and all this goodwill evaporates. Understand?”
“Yeah, I understand,” I say, taking another drink.
“Good. I’ll send you the draft statement to approve before we release it. Keep your head down this week.”
“Will do,” I say, and hang up.
I pull up the video on my phone immediately, needing to see what we’re dealing with. It’s already trending on X, thousands of people weighing in with their opinions about my latest scandal.
The video starts and my stomach sinks lower with each passing second.
It’s not technically wrong. It’s not doctored footage.
Everything shown actually happened: I was at that party, I did have a beer, I did talk to people.
But it looks like I was just there having a good time instead of trying to discreetly extract an eighteen-year-old girl from a dangerous situation without causing a scene.
And there’s the kiss.
Elise stumbling toward me, clearly drunk or high or both, throwing herself at me.
And for maybe two seconds, two fucking seconds, I kiss her back before my brain catches up and I pull away.
Of course the video cuts off right there, doesn’t show me pushing her back gently, doesn’t show me helping her sit down and find her friends.
We’d dated casually for maybe a month two years ago, hooked up at a few parties since when we were both single.
She got engaged six months ago and despite many flaws, I’m not trying to break up someone’s marriage.
But the video doesn’t show any of that context, doesn’t show my reasoning.
Just shows me at a party, looking comfortable and relaxed, kissing someone.
Fuck.
A PR nightmare that Thomas and I need to manage carefully. It’s not personal, it’s just damage control and image rehabilitation and all the other corporate bullshit that comes with being in the public eye.
My phone buzzes again. Robert this time.
Robert: Just saw the video circulating. Is this going to affect the contract situation?
I type back quickly, trying to project a confidence I don’t entirely feel.
Me: Thomas says Ferrari’s handling it well. Since it’s old footage and I’ve been on good behavior, they’re not panicking. Should be fine.
Robert: Good. You’re so close, Jack. That’s a huge relief. Keep me updated if things shift.
I stare at that message. You’re so close.
The flight attendant announces we’re about to take off and I need to put my phone in airplane mode. I down the rest of my whiskey and lean back in my seat, closing my eyes.
The only thing I want right now is to be back with Lark.
To have her curled up next to me in that cabin in Banff, mountains outside the window, fireplace crackling, nothing else mattering except us.
Like we could make this work no matter what.
But that feels like it happened in a different lifetime now.
Thomas’s words from dinner keep circling back, mixing with my own doubts until I can’t tell which thoughts are mine and which are his.
I tap out a quick text to Lark.
Me: Flying back now. I’ll head over to your apartment once I land.
I stare at the message after I send it, waiting for the typing bubbles to appear. They don’t.
That’s weird. Lark always responds quickly, usually within minutes. Even when she’s busy she at least sends back an emoji or a quick “call you later.”
The flight attendant tells me firmly to put my phone on airplane mode, so I do, and try to connect to the Wi-Fi.
It won’t load, and as the plane begins to roll away from the gate, the pilot comes across the PA system: Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be taking off momentarily, but we wanted to let you know that we’re working to correct a glitch in our in-flight Wi-Fi.
We hope to have it working soon after take off. But, well, that may not be possible.
“Fuck,” I whisper. No Wi-Fi. The flight from S?o Paulo to Seattle is over twelve hours. With no fucking Wi-Fi.
I left Sunday evening after the race, exhausted from the weekend but wired from the crazy week and the ongoing PR issues that refuse to die. I doze off a few times but mostly just sit there thinking about the contract situation. How close I am to getting my seat back. How I can’t fuck this up now.
And the Wi-Fi is still dead.
Thoughts of Lark keep breaking through. Looking forward to seeing her, to just being back with her after a week apart. But then Thomas’s words creep back in. I push them down.
When I finally land in Seattle Monday morning, I check my phone immediately. Still nothing from Lark. No response to my text from yesterday.
I text her again while I’m waiting for my luggage.
Me: Landed. Heading to your place.
Still nothing by the time I grab my bag and head to the rental car. Lark’s usually pretty good about responding, though she can be slow to text back when she’s deep in music stuff. Probably working on those demos, lost track of time.
The drive from Seattle to Dark River takes a couple hours. I check my phone at red lights. Still nothing. Not even a read receipt.
By the time I’m getting close to her apartment, there’s this gnawing feeling in my gut I can’t shake. If something serious had happened, Maren would’ve texted. Or one of my brothers. So she’s probably fine. Just busy. Stressed about the label stuff maybe. But still.
I pull up outside her building and spot her car in the lot. Okay, she’s home. That’s good. I take the stairs up to her floor and knock instead of using the code she gave me. I don’t want to startle her by just walking in when she’s clearly not expecting me.
She opens the door and I know immediately something’s wrong. Her face is completely shut down, arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes are red like she’s been crying.
Fuck.
“Hey,” I say. “You didn’t respond to my texts so I figured I’d just come by. Everything okay?”
She steps back without a word, letting me in but not meeting my eyes. The silence feels wrong. Heavy.
I walk in and turn to face her. “Are you okay? Did something happen with the demos?”
“Did you see the video?” Her voice is flat. Emotionless.
“Yeah, I saw it.” Relief runs through me that it’s not something serious.
I run a hand through my hair. “It sucks that it’s out there, but Thomas doesn’t think it’s going to affect things too much.
Ferrari’s not happy but they’re not panicking.
Since I’ve been on good behavior for months now, they’re willing to—”
“I don’t give a fuck what Thomas thinks,” she cuts me off sharply, and the fury in her voice catches me completely off guard. “Is that really what you think I’m worried about here? Your fucking contract? You lied to me, Jack.”
My brain scrambles to catch up. I stare at her, trying to process what she just said. “What? I didn’t lie—”