Chapter Six
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Aria
Mexico City hummed outside the restaurant windows, the distant pulse of traffic and laughter filtering through the thick glass like background music.
The place was everything she’d hoped for when she’d asked Robert to find somewhere quiet: tucked in a leafy corner of Polanco, no neon sign out front, just a discreet brass plaque beside a heavy wooden door and a valet who knew to keep cameras at bay.
Inside it was all low amber light, dark walnut tables set with crisp white linens, and the soft clink of crystal against marble.
Their corner booth was half-hidden behind a living wall of ferns and trailing vines that smelled faintly of earth and green, candles flickering in smoked-glass holders that cast warm, shifting shadows across the table.
Private. Intimate. Perfect for a conversation she needed to keep professional—even if the air already felt charged.
She arrived early, sliding into the booth in a simple black tank top matched with a short silk skirt that skimmed her thighs, thin straps over bare shoulders, no bra beneath the cool, liquid fabric.
Hair down in loose waves that caught the low light, minimal makeup—just enough liner to make her eyes pop, red lipstick that felt like armour.
She wanted to look good, but not like she was trying too hard.
This wasn’t seduction. It was negotiation.
A calculated move in a game she was still learning the rules to.
Jax walked in five minutes later, scanning the room with that easy confidence until his gaze landed on her.
He wore a charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm to show the corded muscle and faint tan lines, dark jeans that fit just right across long legs, and that loping, unhurried stride that made the hostess glance twice before looking away.
He slid into the booth across from her, grin already in place—slow, warm, the kind that probably melted most women on contact.
“You look incredible,” he said, voice low, Australian accent wrapping around the words like smoke.
She smiled—small, polite, controlled. “Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself. No race suit tonight?”
“Saving the hero costume for the track.” He leaned back, studying her with open appreciation that lingered just long enough to make her pulse kick. “I like this version. Less sequins, more… real.”
The waiter appeared with menus and chilled water infused with cucumber and mint. They ordered quickly—barbacoa tacos to share, grilled octopus with salsa verde for her, a mezcal old fashioned for him, a mezcal negroni for her. When the drinks arrived, Jax raised his glass.
“To unexpected nights in Mexico City.”
She clinked hers against it. “To unexpected conversations.”
They started light—Singapore still fresh enough to laugh about. The rooftop party, the way the infinity pool had reflected every light in the skyline like liquid stars. Jax told her about the debrief after Austin, the quiet tension in the motorhome when Claire slid that bar video across the table.
“They’re not wrong,” he admitted, turning the glass in his hand, ice clinking softly.
“I’ve been coasting on charm too long. It used to work—podiums, points, sponsors happy.
But this season…” He shrugged, the movement easy but the eyes serious.
“Eighth, twelfth, DNFs. They want someone who looks like they’re starving for it again. ”
Aria nodded slowly, tracing the rim of her glass with one finger. “I know that feeling. Every album drop—people wait for you to slip. One off note, one weak single, and the narrative flips. ‘She’s lost it.’ ‘She peaked.’ I’ve spent years proving I haven’t.”
He tilted his head. “How do you keep going when the pressure’s that constant?”
She exhaled, gaze drifting to the candle flame between them. “I remember why I started. Not the fame, not the money—the feeling of a song coming together, when the world’s quiet and it’s just me and the melody. That part never changes.”
Jax watched her for a beat, something softening in his expression. “That’s it, isn’t it? The one place that still feels clean.”
“Yeah.” She met his eyes. “For you it’s the car. For me it’s the stage. Everything else is noise.”
They lingered there, the conversation easing deeper.
He asked about her writing process—how she switched between Korean and English mid-verse, how some songs came in twenty minutes and others took months of bleeding on the page.
She asked about his early days—karting in Brisbane, the long drives to tracks with his grandmother in the passenger seat, yelling at him to slow down even as she secretly loved the speed.
He laughed at that, low and real. “Nan still thinks I’m thirteen and invincible. Calls after every race to make sure I ate something green.”
Aria smiled—genuine this time, the tension in her shoulders loosening just a fraction. “She sounds like the best.”
“She is.” He paused, then added quieter, “She’s the only one who ever told me I could cry if I needed to. Never made me feel weak for it.”
The vulnerability landed softly between them. Aria felt the air shift—warmer, closer. Jax leaned forward a fraction, elbows on the table, gaze steady on hers. The way he looked at her now wasn’t casual. It was interested. Intent.
The realization hit her like cold water.
He thought this was a date.
The compliments, the lingering eye contact, the easy way he’d steered the conversation toward personal ground—he wasn’t just being friendly. He was flirting. Gently, confidently, the way a man does when he’s enjoying himself and thinks the feeling might be mutual.
Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t meant to send that signal. She needed him to understand this was business, not chemistry. Not possibility.
She set her glass down carefully.
“Jax,” she said, voice steady. “I have a proposal for you.”
His brows lifted, a slow, wicked grin spreading. “Is it indecent? Because I’m definitely listening.”
She laughed despite herself—soft, surprised—but shook her head. “No. Strictly business.”
The grin faltered for half a second. He leaned back slightly, curiosity sharpening. “Go on.”
She exhaled, choosing her words with precision. “Under any other circumstances… maybe we could be something. You’re charming, funny, obviously attractive. But you’re not my type. And I’m still very much hung up on my ex.”
His expression shifted—surprise, then a flicker of something that might have been hurt, quickly masked by that trademark easy humour. “Ouch! Straight to the ego, Moon.”
“I’m being honest,” she said gently. “Because I need you to understand this isn’t about attraction. It’s strategy.”
She laid it out then: Min-Jae’s jealous texts after Singapore, the possessive edge in his messages, the way he’d finally cracked open after weeks of silence. How it had hurt, but also given her hope. A way back in.
“And then I remembered what you said on the rooftop,” she continued.
“About the team wanting a different image. More stable. More serious. I looked into your history—socials, interviews, articles. You’ve never really been in a relationship.
Plenty of women, plenty of nights out, but nothing public, nothing lasting.
I don’t think you’re gay—there’s ample proof of…
liaisons.” She gave a small, wry smile. “But no actual girlfriends. No one you’ve ever called yours. ”
Jax stayed quiet, listening, jaw working slightly.
“So I started thinking,” she said. “What better way to show the sponsors, the owners, the paddock, that you’ve turned over a new leaf?
That you’re taking things seriously? A stable, high-profile relationship.
We both get what we want. I make Min-Jae jealous enough to come back.
You create the narrative they’ve been asking for. ”
He let out a low whistle, leaning back fully now. “You seriously think me looking like I have a girlfriend will be enough to make the sponsors happy?”
“Maybe not on its own,” she admitted. “But it changes the story. No more party-boy headlines. No more table-dancing videos the week before a race. You’d agree to no public liaisons with anyone else—not saying you have to be a saint, but any hook-ups would need to be incredibly discreet.
This would be strictly business. We date publicly for four to six months—long enough to sell it, long enough for the optics to shift.
Then a clean, amicable breakup. Mutual respect. No mess.”
She held his gaze. “And nothing else. No funny business. We’d do some PDA for the cameras—hand-holding, a kiss on the cheek, whatever looks natural—but once the doors close, it’s just an arrangement. Professional.”
Jax studied her for a long moment, the easy charm replaced by something sharper, more thoughtful.
“Of course,” he said finally, voice dry, “you’ve already made it perfectly clear I’m not your type.”
She winced. “I’m sorry if that sounded harsh. I didn’t mean to offend you. I love Min-Jae. He’s the one I’m meant to be with. He’s my soulmate. But of course I find you attractive—you’re a very handsome, …large— man.”
His eyebrows shot up at “large,” a reluctant grin tugging at his mouth. “Large, huh?”
She flushed, laughing softly. “You know what I mean. Physically… imposing.”
He chuckled—low, warm—but the humour didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Here I was thinking my height was my best feature.”
The waiter returned with their food, setting plates down with quiet efficiency. The scent of charred meat and fresh cilantro rose between them, but the easy rhythm they’d had earlier was gone. The proposal hung in the air like smoke—thick, impossible to ignore.
They ate in near silence for a while. Jax picked at a taco, eyes on his plate. Aria speared a piece of octopus, chewing slowly, the tang of lime and salsa verde sharp on her tongue. Every clink of cutlery, every sip of mezcal felt amplified in the quiet booth.
After a few minutes, Jax cleared his throat.