Chapter Twenty-Three
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Jax
Silverstone delivered a podium, but it tasted like nothing.
Nan’s voice kept looping in his head—thin, tired, but still carrying that stubborn warmth: Six months. Maybe a bit more if I’m lucky. I want to see you as world champion before I go.
The words sat like lead in his chest. He replayed every syllable, every pause, trying to find the part where it wasn’t real. It didn’t work. She was dying. Quietly. Alone. While he was out here chasing trophies and pretending the world wasn’t cracking open underneath him.
He climbed out of the car after the cooldown lap, helmet off, sweat cooling against his skin. The team swarmed—back-slaps, handshakes, Marcus’s gruff “Good drive, mate”—but it all felt distant, muffled. He nodded, smiled tight, let them pull him toward media.
First thing he did when he had a second alone in the cooldown room was check his phone.
Missed calls from Aria. Starting a couple of hours ago, just before the race. A text: Jax, call me when you can. Everything okay?
Relief hit him so hard it hurt. She’d tried to call back. She hadn’t disappeared completely.
He wanted to call her right then—wanted to hear her voice, wanted to tell her everything: Nan’s diagnosis, the timeline, the way his throat closed every time he thought about it.
He needed her to say You can carry this too.
Needed her to be the one person who could steady him when everything else was falling apart.
But there was no time.
The FIA press officer was already at the door. “Jax? Media room in two.”
He pocketed the phone. Swallowed hard. Forced the mask back into place.
The press conference room was packed—reporters shoulder-to-shoulder, cameras flashing, the usual mix of motorsport journalists and entertainment outlets chasing crossover angles. He sat between Finn and Marcus, still damp with sweat, forcing the practiced smile.
Questions came fast—race strategy, tire degradation, the battle with the McLaren. He answered on autopilot: “Car felt good today, team nailed the strategy, just couldn’t quite close the gap to first.” Safe. Professional. Expected.
Then a reporter near the back stood—entertainment channel, not one of the usual F1 beat writers.
“Jax, massive congrats on another podium. But shifting gears for a second—how do you feel about Aria getting back together with her ex, Min-Jae?”
The room went quiet.
Finn shifted beside him. A second later, Finn’s phone slid discreetly onto the table between them, screen already open to Instagram.
The photo glowed up at Jax: Aria and Min-Jae standing close in a studio, iced coffees in hand, both smiling softly.
The caption read Just like old times. Posted an hour ago.
Jax stared at the image, heart slamming against his ribs, until the barrage of camera flashes pulled him back.
“I… don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, voice flat. “Next question.”
But the damage was done. Murmurs rippled through the room. Phones were already out, feeds refreshing. He sat through the rest of the conference on autopilot — short answers, tight smiles — then excused himself the moment it ended.
Back in the motorhome he locked the door, sank onto the couch, and stared at the photo again. It looked cozy. Familiar. Like two people who still fit together perfectly.
He didn’t call her. He couldn’t. She’d gone back to Min-Jae.
Of course she had. That had always been the plan, hadn’t it?
The whole arrangement — the "relationship", the trackside appearances, the nights in hotel beds — was supposed to make Min-Jae jealous enough to come crawling back. And now he had.
Jax felt the last thread of hope he’d been clinging to snap. Nan was dying. Aria was gone. And he was alone with both truths, miles from anyone who might understand.
He just sat in the silence and let it crush him.
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Aria
Aria had rushed back to her apartment just in time for the race start, settling in with the TV on, heart racing as the lights went out at Silverstone.
She'd been in the studio all Sunday—pushing to wrap the track before watching Jax, hoping to surprise him with the finished file after his podium.
But now, with the missed calls lingering in her mind, the race felt heavier.
She kept her phone close, glancing at it between laps.
He'd tried her so many times before the race. Something must be wrong. She'd called back, texted, but got nothing—voicemail, no replies. He was probably deep in prep, she told herself. He'd call after.
The race blurred by—Jax holding strong, defending like a wall, crossing in P3. She cheered alone in her living room, pride swelling despite the worry. As the podium celebrations wrapped, she tried him again. Voicemail.
He'll call after media, she thought. He's busy.
She waited—pacing, refreshing socials absentmindedly. No call.
Confused, she tried again. Still nothing. Why wasn't he picking up? The race was over; media couldn't take this long.
She opened her socials fully—scrolling through notifications, race highlights popping up. Then she saw it: the photo from Min-Jae, trending now, tagged in fan posts speculating about her and Jax. Just like old times. Heart emoji
Her stomach twisted.
Oh god. That was why he'd called so frantically earlier. He'd seen it. And with her phone dead during the session, she hadn't explained.
She texted again: Jax, please pick up. We should talk.
No read receipt. No response.
She kept trying—calls going to voicemail, more texts: Call me when you can.
Worry gnawed at her. Why hadn't he called back? Had he gotten the wrong idea? Was something else going on?
She sat there—phone in hand, the post-race coverage droning in the background—heart pounding as the silence stretched into the early hours.
Finally—after what felt like an eternity—her phone rang.
His name on the screen.
She answered on the first ring. “Jax—”
“Let me explain,” she started, voice trembling. “The photo—”
A long silence on the other end.
Then his voice—low, flat, exhausted. “It’s okay.”
Her heart stuttered. “No—it’s not okay. I need you to—”
“I’m glad things worked out for you,” he said quietly, cutting through her words. “With Min-Jae. Really. I always knew that was the endgame.”
“Jax, no—”
He kept going—gentle, but final. “I’ve been thinking… maybe this has run its course. You got what you needed. I got what I needed. The team feels I’m on a good trajectory now—consistent podiums, points lead in hand. The pressure of keeping up this… fake thing… probably isn’t needed anymore.”
The word fake landed like a slap.
She opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat.
He continued—voice steady, almost gentle.
“One thing, though… can we hold off making any statement for now? I don’t want to be distracted by media right now.
The season’s heating up, and I just… I need my head in the game.
Maybe we’re just taking a break at the moment—with our schedules being so different.
I know that might delay your reunion with Min-Jae, but I’d really appreciate it. ”
The line crackled softly.
Her mind reeled. Delay your reunion with Min-Jae. He thought she wanted to go back to him. He thought she’d been waiting for this. And instead of fighting for her, he was… giving her permission? Letting her go politely?
She flashed back—unbidden—to Montreal. The grainy photo of him in the hotel bar, that woman pressed against him, lips on his. The way he’d explained it, the way she’d said she believed him, but the doubt had lingered anyway. Small. Sharp. Stubborn.
Maybe he’d felt the same way every time she went quiet.
Maybe he’d already decided then.
She swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “Okay. We can… hold off. If that’s what you need.”
A small, broken sound that might have been a laugh. “Thanks, Aria. Really.”
Silence stretched—thick, painful.
Then he said—quiet, almost tender—“Take care of yourself.”
The call ended.
She sat there—alone in her dark apartment—phone still pressed to her ear, listening to the silence until it hurt.
She stared at the blank screen for a long time—chest tight, eyes burning—then set the phone down.
The silence was deafening.
And for the first time in a while, she didn’t know how to fill it.