Chapter Seventeen
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Aria
January in Seoul was a frost-bitten blur of early mornings and late nights. The Han River bridges sparkled under pale lights, breath clouding the air the moment she left the car, and the sharp scent of street food mixed with exhaust followed her into the studio.
Inside the vocal booth, the world narrowed to headphones, glass walls, and producers watching quietly from the control room.
The new album was slowly taking shape—darker verses laced with fractured trust, glittering choruses that dressed up the pain.
She told herself every raw edge in her voice was intentional.
Artistic. Not the heavier ache that settled in whenever she let herself think about the unread messages from Min-Jae still sitting in her notifications.
Lena kept her anchored. Fresh iced americanos appeared exactly when her throat burned.
Timers reminded her to rest. Late-night ramyeon arrived without being asked.
“You’re killing that bridge,” Lena would say, sliding a protein bar across the console, “but if you live on nothing but noodles, I’m calling in reinforcements. ”
Aria would laugh, grateful for the normalcy, and Lena would add casually, “Jax texted again. Said the car feels alive and you’re hotter than any podium finish.”
The messages came steadily—short, warm, pulling her out of her own head.
Simulator day 3. Car is awake.
Your last studio story looked intense… and unfairly hot. Call when you surface?
She replied in fragments: husky voice notes between takes, blurry photos of lyric sheets marked with red corrections, selfies of midnight ramyeon with steam curling above chopsticks. Each exchange felt dangerously easy. Domestic. Like something real instead of borrowed time.
She caught herself smiling at her phone more than once, then shoved it away like it might burn her. This was still the arrangement. Good optics for him, a convincing distraction for her while she worked on the album that would finally make Min-Jae see what he’d lost.
One afternoon, halfway through recording the lead single, the confusion hit.
She’d written the original lyrics months ago—sharp, aching lines about betrayal and the sting of being left behind. They were meant to be her break-up anthem, the emotional core of an album designed to reach him. But every time she stepped back into the booth, the words kept shifting.
A line about “the way you walked away without looking back” became “the way the silence felt heavier than goodbye.”
A verse that once blamed cold distance now carried an undercurrent of warmth she hadn’t intended—quiet mornings, steady hands, laughter that lingered longer than it should.
She frowned at the page, pen hovering. Why does it keep changing?
The producers loved the new versions, said they felt more honest, more layered.
But the shift unsettled her. For a fleeting second she wondered if the songs were quietly rewriting themselves around someone else—around sunlit waves in Brisbane, around Jax’s low laugh in the dark, around the way he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
The thought sent a jolt through her chest.
No. She shook her head, pressing her lips together. These were still songs for Min-Jae. A break-up album wrapped in enough beauty to make him regret walking away. The changes were just… artistic growth. The studio atmosphere bleeding in. Nothing more. She couldn’t let herself question it.
She took a slow breath, adjusted her headphones, and sang the revised bridge again—pouring every ounce of conviction into making the words fit the story she still needed to believe.
Late January came faster than expected. She boarded the private jet to London on a Thursday evening, camel coat buttoned high against the cold, and let the long flight blur the studio days behind her.
Heathrow greeted her with freezing fog and sideways rain. A black Range Rover waited, heater blasting. Jax’s texts lit up her phone the moment she slid into the back seat.
Just finished final debrief. Car looks like a weapon. You landed?
VIP entrance, 7 sharp. Bring the green dress. I like how it moves when you walk.
The words sent a low, familiar heat curling through her belly. She remembered the first time she’d worn that emerald gown—the night they met in Singapore. Now the memory carried new weight: Brisbane nights, slow kisses by the pool, the way his hands had learned every curve of her.
She sent back a single winking emoji and watched rain-streaked London slide past the window.
The day dissolved into preparation—hair and makeup in the hotel suite, stylists fussing over the gown, a quiet vocal warm-up in the marble bathroom because the single’s new bridge still wouldn’t leave her head.
By six-thirty she was ready: emerald silk hugging every line, high slit flashing with each step, diamonds catching the light like ice.
When she stepped onto the red carpet and saw Jax waiting, everything else faded.
Jax
He’d been at the factory since dawn—simulator runs, sponsor meetings, endless tweaks—but the moment she emerged from the car in that emerald gown, the rest of the day vanished.
He crossed the carpet in long strides, took her hand, and brushed a deliberate kiss across her knuckles. Cameras flashed wildly.
“Evening, superstar.”
“Evening, race car driver.”
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, palm settling low on her back as they faced the lenses together.
She leaned into him naturally, her free hand resting lightly on his chest for the main shots.
The questions came fast and teasing, and they answered in the easy rhythm they’d perfected—joking about his terrible shower singing, her pretending to fear speed while secretly loving being a passenger in his road car.
Inside the venue, golden lights glowed over the sleek new Ashworth car on its raised platform.
Lucas and Mia were already waiting. Mia pulled Aria into a warm hug, eyes sparkling.
“That dress is still lethal. And I finally have a night off—girls’ night in Melbourne is officially happening. No boys allowed.”
“Count me in,” Aria said, tension visibly easing from her shoulders.
At their table, Jax’s hand found her knee under the cloth, thumb tracing slow circles that made her thighs press together. When he was called to speak, he thanked the team, then paused, looking straight at her.
“And to the person who’s been keeping me sane through all the late nights… thanks for flying across the world to be here. Means more than you know.”
The room softened with a collective aww. Aria mouthed idiot at him with a grin. He just smiled back, private and warm.
The night slipped away in music and quiet conversation. On the edge of the dance floor he pulled her close, swaying more than dancing, his hand warm at the small of her back. They left just after midnight, slipping into the waiting car and then the hotel suite.
They slipped away just after midnight—security clearing the path to the waiting car.
Back at the hotel the suite was dark except for the city lights spilling through the windows, painting faint gold stripes across the carpet.
Jax kicked the door shut, hands already on her waist, spinning her gently until her back met the wall with a soft thud.
“Been thinking about getting you out of this dress since the second you stepped onto that carpet,” he rasped, fingers finding the zipper at her side.
She tipped her head back against the cool plaster, pulse racing. “Then stop thinking.”
He kissed her—slow, deep, tasting of champagne and restraint finally snapping.
The zipper slid down in one smooth pull; emerald silk whispered to the floor in a cool puddle.
She stepped out of it in nothing but black lace panties and heels, hands already working his bow tie loose, shirt buttons following with impatient tugs until she could push the fabric off his shoulders and feel the heat of his skin under her palms.
They made it to the bed in a trail of discarded clothes—his tux jacket slung over a chair, her diamonds scattered on the nightstand like forgotten stars, his trousers kicked aside.
She pushed him down first this time—palms flat on his chest, straddling his hips before he could take control.
The city lights painted faint stripes across her skin as she leaned over him, hair tumbling loose from its pins, brushing his shoulders.
She kissed him harder, hungrier, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles that dragged her lace-covered centre along the thick length of him.
He groaned low in his throat, hands gripping her thighs hard enough to leave faint marks, but he let her set the pace.
“Fuck, Aria…” His voice was wrecked already. “You’re killing me.”
She smiled against his mouth, reached down between them, and freed him from his boxers—hot, hard, pulsing in her hand. She stroked him once, twice, slow and teasing, watching his jaw clench and his eyes darken.
Then she guided him to her entrance, pushed the lace aside, and sank down—slow at first, inch by thick inch, until he was buried deep. A shared breath escaped them both—hers shaky, his ragged.
She paused there, feeling every inch of him stretch her open, fill her completely. His hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, then cupping them fully, rolling her nipples between his fingers until she shivered and rocked forward.
She moved above him—rhythmic, unhurried—head tipped back, lips parted on soft gasps every time she took him fully.
He watched her like she was the only thing in the world: the arch of her neck, the way her breasts rose and fell with each roll, the faint sheen of sweat catching the city glow.
His hands roamed—gripping her ass, guiding her down harder, then sliding up to tangle in her hair and pull her mouth back to his.
“God, you feel so fucking good,” he growled against her lips. “Ride me just like that—take what you need.”
She did. Faster now—small circles turning into deeper drops, thighs trembling, breath hitching every time he hit that perfect spot inside her.
He surged up suddenly—arms wrapping around her waist, flipping them so she was beneath him without breaking the connection.
He hooked one of her legs over his hip, the angle deeper now, every thrust long and deliberate, dragging against every sensitive place.
Their eyes locked—his dark, intense, hers wide and unguarded. No words, just the sound of their breathing, the soft slap of skin, the creak of the mattress beneath them.
Her nails dug into his shoulders; his mouth found hers again, swallowing her moans.
She tightened around him—breath hitching, body trembling on the edge—then shattered with a quiet, broken cry, walls pulsing in slow, rolling waves that milked him deep.
The feel of her coming around him dragged him right to the brink, but he held on—slowing, grinding, letting her ride every aftershock until she was whimpering, oversensitive.
Then he moved again—deeper, harder—chasing his own release. A few more powerful thrusts—his rhythm faltering, breath harsh against her ear.
“Gonna come inside you,” he rasped, hips locking tight. “Fuck—Aria.”
He buried himself deep one last time. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat as he pulsed inside her, hips pressing forward, holding himself there until the last tremor faded.
They stayed tangled after—sweaty, sated, breathing in sync. His weight pressed her into the mattress, comforting rather than heavy; her fingers traced lazy patterns across his back. He pressed a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, lingering there.
“Stay tonight?” he murmured, voice rough and quiet.
She nodded against his chest, arms tightening around him. “Yeah.”
Tomorrow the grind would pull them apart again — more simulator sessions for him, the studio and interviews waiting for her in Seoul.
But right now, with her warm and soft against him, London lights flickering beyond the windows, Jax didn’t want to think about calendars or separate cities.
He wanted to hold onto this — the way she fit against him, the quiet sound of her breathing, the feeling that whatever was happening between them had already gone far beyond the original arrangement.
He wasn’t ready to name it.
Not yet.
But he knew he didn’t want to let it go.