Chapter One #2
Instead, it turned into a PR disaster. Photos leaked online—grainy shots from some influencer's phone, showing him half-drunk in a VIP lounge, shirt unbuttoned, sprawled on a hotel couch with women draped over him like accessories. Laughter frozen in pixels, bottles scattered around. The headlines screamed "PARTY BOY JAX: IS HE SERIOUS ABOUT RACING?" It didn’t matter that he’d been single. It didn’t matter that he’d shown up to the next race in Austin prepared, qualifying on the front row.
It didn’t matter that driving was the only thing that had ever truly mattered to him—the roar of the engine, the g-forces pinning him to the seat, the split-second decisions that made everything else fade away.
The owners wanted a cleaner image. Someone serious.
Someone disciplined. Someone who looked ready to commit—to the team, to the sport, to the grind that left no room for slip-ups.
And they needed proof. Soon. A string of strong results, maybe a win or two, and a public persona that screamed "dedicated professional" instead of "playboy racer. "
Jax left the office with the weight of it pressing down on him, the hum of the paddock suddenly too loud, too alive as he stepped out into the hotel corridor and made his way down to the track.
He walked past engineers huddled over laptops in the lobby, mechanics in grease-stained overalls grabbing quick smokes outside, all of them trusting him, believing in him, even as the people at the top quietly questioned whether he was worth the investment.
The Singapore sun beat down, the air thick with exhaust and anticipation.
He’d come into Formula One with one goal. World Champion. Not influencer. Not headline fodder. Champion.
Sure, he liked the lifestyle. Who wouldn’t?
The private jets whisking him from Monaco to Melbourne, the endorsement deals that padded his bank account, the women who saw the fame and wanted a piece, the freedom to live large between races.
But driving—really driving—was the thing that steadied him.
The only place his mind ever went quiet, where the chaos of expectations and doubts dissolved into pure focus.
The cockpit was his sanctuary, the track his proving ground.
He was happy for Lucas. He truly was. Lucas had the title now, etched in history. He had the girl—Mia, with her sharp wit and unwavering support. He had the storybook ending, the kind fans ate up.
But standing there in the Singapore heat, sweat trickling down his back, Jax couldn’t ignore the ache curling low in his chest, sharp and insistent.
He wanted the title.
And he was running out of time to prove he deserved it.
◆◆◆
Aria
Aria Moon woke up to silence.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
Her mornings with Min-Jae had always been a symphony of small sounds—the low hum of K-pop playlists drifting from his phone as he scrolled through social media, the clink of mugs in the kitchen as he brewed her favourite matcha latte, his body heavy and warm beside hers until the last possible second before she had to face the day.
He liked to send her off properly, hands roaming lazily over her skin, mouth teasing her neck, a promise murmured against her ear that he’d miss her while she was gone, that he'd be waiting when she returned from whatever tour stop or promo event pulled her away.
Instead, the apartment was empty. Echoing. The kind of quiet that pressed in on all sides, making the spacious Seoul penthouse feel claustrophobic.
Sheets cold on his side of the bed, the imprint of his body long faded.
She sat up slowly, heart already picking up speed, and glanced around.
The closet door hung slightly ajar, and even from the bed, she could see the gaps—his favourite hoodies missing, the row of sneakers thinned out.
Half-cleared, like he'd packed in a hurry while she slept.
She told herself not to panic as she reached for her phone on the nightstand, fingers trembling just a fraction.
Maybe he’d gone for an early run, or to the studio for a quick session.
They’d argued last night—nothing major, just the usual strain of her schedule clashing with his, the long distances and missed calls—but it hadn’t felt like the end.
Where are you? she typed quickly.
Will I see you before I leave?
She hit send and waited, staring at the screen as the minutes ticked by. Nothing. No read receipt, no typing bubbles.
She showered, the hot water doing little to wash away the unease settling in her stomach.
Packed her suitcase with mechanical precision—outfits for the Singapore trip, performance wardrobe for the after-party gig, the little things like her lucky necklace that Min-Jae had given her on their first anniversary.
Changed outfits twice, opting for comfortable travel wear: oversized sweats, a cap pulled low, sunglasses ready to shield her from the paparazzi at the airport. Still nothing on her phone.
It wasn’t until she reached the airport—navigating the VIP entrance with her security detail, assistants buzzing around her like bees, sunglasses firmly in place to hide the worry in her eyes—that her phone finally buzzed in her hand.
Sorry. I can’t do this anymore.
Her breath hitched, the world tilting for a moment as she stopped dead in the terminal.
What do you mean? she typed back, heart pounding hard enough to make her lightheaded, fingers flying over the screen.
Us. It’s not working. I’m moving my stuff out while you’re in Singapore.
The words blurred on the screen, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.
This wasn’t how breakups happened. Not after six years together.
Not after shared albums topping charts, shared stages under stadium lights, shared plans for a future that included rings and quiet nights away from the spotlight.
They'd met in the K-pop scene, both rising stars, bonding over the grind of idol life—the endless rehearsals, the fan expectations, the isolation that came with fame.
He'd been her anchor, the one who understood the pressure without words.
She stopped walking entirely, ignoring the concerned glance from her assistant. Please don’t do this over text, she wrote, desperation creeping into her words. We should talk. Face to face.
It’s over. I’m sorry.
She called him immediately, the phone pressed to her ear as she paced a small circle in the lounge.
Straight to voicemail. His voice, warm and familiar, asking her to leave a message. It twisted the knife deeper.
We need to talk, she texted again. This isn’t you. We can fix this.
Unread. Unanswered. The silence stretched, louder than any rejection.
Now, on the private jet soaring toward Singapore, Aria scrolled through photos of them on her phone—on tour in Tokyo, backstage in LA, tangled together in hotel rooms that felt like stolen worlds away from the chaos.
Her chest burned, grief tangling with disbelief, memories flooding in: the way he'd surprise her with handwritten lyrics, the late-night drives through Seoul with the windows down, the promises whispered during quiet moments that they'd make it work, no matter the distance.
Then something else took root, hot and fierce.
Anger.
How dare he erase them like this? How dare he decide it was finished without looking her in the eye, without giving her a chance to fight for what they had? He'd always been the impulsive one, but this? This was cowardice.
No. Things didn’t end this way. Not for her.
She'd built her career from nothing—a mere teenager in a cutthroat industry, debuting solo after years of being part of the biggest girl group, climbing to global stardom with hits that blended pop and R&B into something uniquely hers. She didn't back down.
She lifted her chin, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, jaw setting as resolve settled in like armour.
One way or another, she would make him see he was wrong. She'd confront him when she got back, force the conversation he owed her. For now, she had a performance to nail, a crowd to wow. Singapore awaited, and Aria Moon didn't let personal storms derail her shine.