Chapter Two
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Aria
Marina Bay Street Circuit – Race Night, Pre-Grid
The Singapore night pressed in like a living thing—thick heat wrapping around her skin, white floodlights casting harsh shadows across the asphalt, engines idling low and menacing on the grid like predators waiting to pounce.
The air carried the acrid scent of burned rubber, high-octane fuel, and the sharp metallic bite of money and expectation.
This wasn't just a race; it was a spectacle, a billion-dollar circus where the world's elite converged under the humid sky.
Aria Moon walked the pit lane because her studio had asked.
“Pre-race pit walk,” they’d said in their crisp email from Seoul.
“Five minutes. Smile for the content. It’ll cross over perfectly with your performance at the after-party.
Think of the cross-promotion—racing fans discovering your music, your followers getting a glimpse into F1 glamour. ”
She hadn’t argued. Arguing took energy she didn’t have, not after the emotional gut-punch from Min-Jae's texts. Her mind was a whirlwind, replaying their last conversation, dissecting every word for clues she might have missed.
Her black silk slip dress catching every light like it was designed for the spotlight, oversized sunglasses hiding eyes that still stung from crying on the jet—silent tears she'd hidden from her team by pretending to nap. Heels clicked against the concrete with each step, echoing amid the organized chaos. Security flanked her on both sides, burly figures in black polos scanning the crowd, while her assistant hovered close with a phone already recording discreetly for social media clips. She moved through the frenzy like she was underwater—mechanics in fireproof suits darting between garages, engineers barking orders into headsets, VIPs in designer outfits posing for selfies. Min-Jae’s text still looped in her head, the silence after it louder than any engine revving nearby.
The pit lane was alive, pulsing with pre-race tension.
Tires stacked in neat rows, tools clanging as final adjustments were made, the hum of generators underpinning it all.
Drivers in full race suits stood by their cars, some pacing, others deep in conversation with crew chiefs.
Celebrities and influencers drifted through, phones out, smiling for photos that would flood Instagram within minutes.
Aria felt out of place yet oddly at home—the energy reminded her of backstage before a concert, that electric buzz before the lights dimmed and the crowd roared.
Her assistant, a sharp-eyed woman named Lena who'd been with her since debut, leaned in quietly, voice low enough not to carry. “That’s Eddie Hale up ahead—Ascari driver, multiple champion. Watch him. He has a reputation. Serial dater, always in the tabloids with models or actresses. Charming, but slippery.”
Aria gave the tiniest eye-roll under her sunglasses, lips twitching despite herself. “Noted.”
Eddie stood just outside his garage, arms folded across his chest, race suit zipped up to his neck, helmet tucked under one arm like an afterthought.
Early forties, with silver threading through his dark hair at the temples, he exuded a calm that only came from years at the top—like the chaos around him was just background music to his symphony of success.
Three championships under his belt, a legend in the sport, but whispers followed him: the playboy who collected hearts as easily as trophies.
He looked up as she approached, his smile slow and practiced, the kind that had probably worked on every beautiful woman who’d ever walked this paddock—or any red carpet, for that matter. Blue eyes locked on hers, appraising without being overt.
“Aria Moon,” he said, voice low and gravelly, warm with just the right amount of appreciation as he extended a hand. “Eddie Hale. Thanks for coming through. Means a lot to the fans—having a star like you here elevates the whole weekend.”
She shook his hand—firm, warm—and felt the subtle linger in his grip, the way his eyes flicked over her dress, tracing the silk's drape, then up to her face, her mouth. Classic flirtation, polished to a shine from years of practice.
“I’m looking forward to performing later,” she said, voice light and polite, pulling her hand back smoothly.
His smile tilted higher, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that screamed calculated charm.
“Of course. You’re already stealing the spotlight without even trying.
” He leaned a fraction closer, conspiratorial, lowering his voice like they were sharing a secret amid the noise.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you timed your entrance to upstage the grid.
Not that I’m complaining—gives us something better to look at than tire compounds. ”
Aria smiled at his charm—light, confident, effortless. Predictable, but… harmless in the moment. It was a distraction from the ache in her chest, and she let a small, amused smile slip out—the first real one since the jet, even if it was fleeting.
“You’re not wrong,” she said, tilting her head just enough to play along without committing. “I do like making an entrance. Keeps things interesting.”
Eddie chuckled—low, genuine-sounding, though she wondered how many times he'd rehearsed it. “Dangerous talent. Keep that up and half the drivers will be too distracted to race. Myself included.”
She gave a soft laugh—performative, quick, the kind that said I see you and I’m not buying, but thanks for the effort. It felt good to flex that muscle, to remind herself she could still command a conversation. “I’ll keep that in mind. Wouldn’t want to cause any crashes.”
He raised a brow, grin widening as if he'd scored a point. “Break a leg tonight, Aria. I’ll be watching—from the podium, hopefully.”
“Thanks, Eddie.” She flashed one more small smile—polite, amused, already disengaging. “Good luck out there. Drive safe.”
She kept walking, the exchange lingering like a light breeze—refreshing but gone in an instant.
Lena fell in step beside her, murmuring approvingly, “Smooth. You handled that like a pro.”
Aria’s lips curved faintly. “He’s had practice. Lots of it, from the sound of it.”
They continued down the lane, the crowd parting slightly as fans spotted her, whispers and phone cameras following. Lena drew closer once more. “That’s Lucas Moreau—Ashworth driver, current points leader and reigning world champion. Quiet type, but he's on fire.”
Aria tilted her head, keeping her voice low so only Lena could hear over the engine hum. “So… points leader means he’s winning the whole thing? How does that actually work? Do they get points just for winning, or for every race?”
Lena glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear, then answered quietly as they kept walking.
“Every race. The winner gets twenty-five points, second gets eighteen, down to one point for tenth place. It all adds up across the season and whoever has the most points at the end wins the Drivers’ Championship.
The teams add up both their drivers’ scores to fight for the Constructors’ title.
That’s why every position matters so much. ”
Aria’s brows lifted slightly. “That sounds exhausting. No wonder they look like they’re carrying the weight of the world out here.”
Lucas leaned against his car, race suit on, hair damp under the lights from a quick pre-race sweat. Tall and lean, with a quiet intensity rolling off him—eyes flicking toward the timing screens mounted nearby, already half in race mode, mentally mapping out the first corners.
He looked up as she approached, gave a quick nod and a small, polite smile that didn't reach too deep—professional, not personal.
“Aria. My girlfriend Mia’s a huge fan—she’s been playing your music non-stop back home. Says your last album got her through some tough travel days.”
Aria managed a small, polite smile, genuine warmth breaking through at the mention of a fan. “That’s kind of her. Tell her I appreciate it.”
Lucas nodded once, already glancing back at the crew signaling final checks, tools whirring as they secured the car.
“Yeah, she’ll be gutted she missed you here—she’s stuck handling some sponsor thing tonight.
” He straightened, hand resting on the cockpit edge, fingers drumming lightly.
“Good luck with the show tonight. If you ever want a track walk—no cameras, just the inside scoop—Mia would love to sort it.
She's all about that behind-the-scenes stuff.”
He offered a brief, distracted smile—friendly, but clearly counting down to lights out, his mind shifting gears to the race ahead.
“Thanks,” she said softly, appreciating the no-frills interaction. It felt real, unforced.
He gave a quick lift of his chin in acknowledgment. “See you around.”
Then he turned back to his engineer, already talking strategy—tire degradation, fuel loads, overtaking points—the moment over as quickly as it began.
Aria moved on, the pit lane narrowing as they continued along the Ashworth garages.
Lena came closer, voice dropping. “And that’s Jax Callaghan—Ashworth’s other driver. The charismatic one, big personality. Australian, I think. Been in the news for some party stuff, but he's fast on track.”
Jax stood beside his car, race suit zipped up, helmet off for now, dark hair messy and damp from the humidity.
Tall—much taller than the others she’d passed, easily over six feet—with broad shoulders and long legs that made the space around him feel smaller, more contained.
He exuded a relaxed energy, like the pre-race jitters didn't touch him, but there was an undercurrent of intensity in his stance, muscles coiled under the fireproof fabric.