Chapter Eight
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Jax
Interlagos came wrapped in Brazilian rain, the circuit a slick, unforgiving ribbon under skies that couldn’t decide whether to pour or tease.
The fake-dating rhythm had locked in over the previous weeks: Jax’s hand finding Aria’s in the paddock whenever cameras were near, fingers threading together with practiced ease; his arm slung loosely around her shoulders during sponsor walkthroughs; quick hugs after every session that ended with her cheek pressed briefly to his chest. Cheek kisses had become their signature—soft, affectionate, always timed for maximum visibility.
It was mechanical now. Almost comfortable. Almost.
He caught himself noticing things he shouldn’t: the way her thumb sometimes brushed the back of his hand when they walked, the faint scent of her shampoo when she leaned in for a staged kiss, the way she’d tilt her head and smile up at him like the moment belonged to them alone.
But he reminded himself it was performance.
Nothing more. He wasn’t emotionally invested.
This was good publicity, results, survival. That was all.
Aria had arrived in Brazil alone—no Lena trailing, no full entourage shadowing her every move.
When he’d asked about it casually during the flight over, she’d given a small shrug and said her team was busy back in Seoul.
“They’re looking after the apartment, handling logistics, getting things ready for the new album recording in the new year,” she’d explained, voice light but eyes flicking away.
Jax had nodded, but something about it nagged at him. Fewer eyes on the relationship. Fewer people who knew her well enough to spot the cracks.
Qualifying delivered his strongest grid position of the season: P4.
The race was a nightmare of standing water, aquaplaning cars, and two safety cars.
From the start, the track was treacherous—visibility low, spray turning the straights into white walls.
Jax launched cleanly, holding position through the chaos of Turn 1, where cars spun and slid like leaves in a storm.
On lap 8, the radio crackled: “Jax, heavy rain incoming sector two. Box this lap if it worsens—intermediates are struggling.”
He gripped the wheel tighter, feeling the car skate on the edge. “Copy. Car’s on rails for now. I’ll push.”
Lap 15 brought the first yellow flag—massive crash, debris everywhere. Restart behind safety car, then green. Jax attacked, defending hard against a charging Mercedes into the downhill esses. “Push now,” his engineer urged. “Gap to P3 is 1.2. You’ve got pace.”
He dove inside at Descida do Lago, tyres screaming, emerging ahead. “Nice move,” came the call. “P3 now. Lucas is pulling away up front, but you’re clear.”
The rain intensified mid-race. Standing water pooled in sector one; cars aquaplaned wildly. Second yellow flag on lap 32—another multi-car incident. Jax pitted under the stoppage for fresh inters, rejoining in P2 after others hesitated.
The final laps were survival—rain easing slightly, but the track still slick. Crossed the line P2. Second podium in succession.
When he climbed out in parc fermé, helmet in hand, rain dripping from his hair and race suit, he scanned the barriers and found her immediately.
The hug was automatic: arms around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground despite the wet conditions, her surprised laugh muffled against his shoulder.
Wet race suit against her rain jacket. Her fingers curled briefly into his back, holding on just a second longer than the cameras required.
Eddie Hale appeared at his shoulder as he set Aria down, rain streaming off his own helmet, a wide grin splitting his face.
“Careful, Callaghan,” he said, clapping Jax on the back.
“You’re making it bloody hard for the rest of us bachelors out here.
Steady girlfriend, podiums every other weekend—looks like relationships actually get results. You’re ruining my reputation.”
Jax managed a tired laugh, wiping rain from his eyes. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta show you old-timers how it’s done, Eddie.”
Eddie barked a laugh and jogged off toward the Ascari garage, leaving Jax shaking his head.
Later, in his hotel suite, Aria showed him her phone. Min-Jae’s latest message: You look way too comfortable with him. This isn’t you. She grinned, eyes bright with something fierce and fragile at once. “He’s cracking. The plan’s working.”
Jax stared at the screen for a beat, then handed it back. “Good,” he said evenly. “That’s what we’re here for.”
The team was ecstatic.
Marcus pulled him aside that evening, voice gruff with approval. “This stable image? It’s translating on track. Sponsors are thrilled—positive press, no drama. Keep doing whatever the hell you’re doing.”
Emails from brand partners arrived the next day: The committed narrative is resonating. Numbers are up across the board. The social metrics showed spikes in engagement, merchandise sales, hospitality bookings. The narrative was shifting. Jax felt the pressure in his chest ease, just a little.
Mid-week they drafted the joint statement together—sitting side by side on the couch in his suite, her head bent close to his phone as they debated captions.
The final post went up: a candid shot from the Sao Paulo grid, his arm around her waist, both looking straight at the camera.
Caption: “Happy to confirm what everyone’s been guessing. Grateful for this one cheering me on.”
The internet detonated. Fans flooded the comments. Media ran headlines. Everything appeared seamless.
◆◆◆
Las Vegas arrived like a fever dream—neon-drenched streets, the circuit slicing through the Strip under blinding lights. Jax qualified P3, the car hooked up perfectly, every sector feeling alive under his hands.
Race day was relentless: high-speed straights that blurred into tight, unforgiving corners, aggressive overtakes lit by the artificial glow. From lights out, Jax held P3 off the line, slotting cleanly through the first few corners before settling into rhythm and beginning the hunt for the leaders.
By lap 12 he was already closing fast. Down the long back straight he tucked into the slipstream, DRS flap open, then dived inside Lucas at the chicane.
The move was clean, decisive—no contact, just precise timing.
The radio crackled immediately: “P2 now. Lucas behind—push hard, you’ve got the pace to chase the leader. ”
The gap to first stabilised, then began to shrink lap after lap as Jax found his rhythm.
The car responded to every input, tyres holding strong under the lights.
He stayed composed, defending his position when Lucas tried to retaliate into Turn 14, holding the inside line and forcing the pass to fizzle out.
“Good defence,” his engineer said. “Gap to P1 is 2.8 seconds. Keep it steady—tyres are still in the window.”
The final stint turned brutal. Traffic thickened as backmarkers appeared, the pack behind grew restless and aggressive, closing in with every lap.
Jax nailed every apex, threaded precise lines through the chaos, and stretched just enough breathing room.
When the chequered flag finally waved, he crossed the line in P2—a late charge from behind had narrowed it dangerously, but he’d held on. Three podiums in a row.
The garage erupted. When he reached the barriers, he lifted Aria off her feet in the hug—her laughter vibrating against him, her arms tight around his neck.
For a split second he let himself feel the warmth of her body against his, the way she fit there.
Then she pulled back, phone already in hand, showing him Min-Jae’s newest rant: You’re really doing this? With him? Call me.
She grinned. “He’s losing it. Perfect.”
Jax nodded once. “Yeah. Perfect.”
◆◆◆
Aria
The Vegas after-party thumped in a sprawling rooftop club—bass pounding through the floor like a second heartbeat, champagne towers glittering under strobing lights, bodies pressed close in a haze of perfume, sweat, and expensive cologne.
Aria stayed glued to Jax’s side in her silver dress, the fabric catching every flash like liquid mercury.
Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, steadying herself against the crowd and the lingering adrenaline from the race.
They moved through the throng like they belonged together: his palm warm and firm at the small of her back, guiding her without crowding; her fingers occasionally brushing the rolled sleeve of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath the fabric.
Quick cheek kisses whenever a photographer appeared—soft, practiced, always angled just right for the lens.
She’d spoken to Lena the night before, a quick call while Jax was in debrief.
Lena had sounded relieved but wary. “Apartment’s fine.
Plants alive. You sure you’re okay out there alone?
” Aria had laughed it off—“I’m not alone, I’ve got security and Jax’s team”—but the lie had sat heavy in her throat.
Lena had been quiet a beat, then said, “Just… don’t forget to breathe, unnie.
And call me when you’re ready to really talk.
” Aria had promised she would. She hadn’t yet.
Lena would hear the strain, the careful wording, the things she wasn’t saying.
Better to keep her in Seoul for now, looking after the empty apartment, believing the relationship was real while Aria guarded the secret herself.
Mia and Dana found them near the bar later. Dana was already half a drink in, swearing cheerfully about the music being “too bloody loud for my old ears,” while Mia laughed and tugged Aria into a quick hug.
“You two are disgustingly cute,” Mia said, eyes twinkling. “The hug after the race? I thought the internet was going to explode.”
Dana snorted. “Explode? It did. Saw the clip on my feed three times before I even got here.”