Chapter Twelve
Victoria
While I’m still allowed to attend the Suzuka Grand Prix, I’m told in no uncertain terms to stay away from the pit, or anywhere I might be spotted by Asher.
Ilya seems slightly more invested in appeasing me than anyone else on the team, so he decides that the best way to achieve his goal of keeping me away from Asher without sequestering me at a hotel is to stuff me into shitty economy seats for the flight, then place me in the team’s hospitality suite on race-day…
after prohibiting me from being near the tracks any time Asher’s on-site.
Needless to say, I’m not happy when I stalk into the suite, laptop and tablet in hand.
The space is gorgeous, and I instantly hate it.
The large, bright room sits one level above the garages in the Paddock Club.
The team’s colors are threaded through the furniture and signage with the kind of subtlety that only serious money can buy.
A sleek bar runs along one wall, with champagne flutes already lined up and leaking perspiration.
Flat screens are mounted everywhere, showing live race footage and onboard cameras, and beyond the open terrace, there’s an unobstructed view of the pit lane and the track stretching out below.
This is where people come to be seen watching Formula One, not to actually watch it.
Every well-dressed sponsor enjoys champagne and hors d’oeuvres while mingling and chatting among each other.
I sidestep the filthy-rich patrons and navigate to the back of the room, where there’s a setup of overstuffed chairs, sofas, and coffee tables.
I choose a chair with a spine large enough to hide my frame, spin it away from the people, and fire up my laptop.
By some miracle, Hunter’s cryptanalyst managed to crack through Oliver’s encryption in a single day.
I didn’t bother asking about his methods.
The only important thing is that I now have all three years of telemetry data converted, clean, and ready to use.
Now, most of what I have left to do is feeding the data into my models, fine-tuning variable inputs, and testing outputs.
The mechanical and environmental variables are coming together nicely—tyre degradation, fuel loads, weather patterns, track-specific data.
It’s the human side that’s still a mess.
I can’t figure out how to quantify the range of human emotion and error, translate it into something my algorithm can process, and train that aspect of it.
My only current solution is to formulate every single primary and secondary emotion, but the complexity of that would create countless bugs I’d need to spend months fixing. There has to be an easier solve; I just can’t see it right now.
So, I spend my time working on the aspects that are simpler to me.
Organizing data fields, double-checking lines of my model’s logic, testing inputs and outputs.
A few hours pass as I work, listening to the broadcasters dictate every move of the race in the background.
If I turned the seat around I’d have a prime view of the track and several screens showing up-close footage of the race, but that also means I could see people and they would see me. I’m in no mood to deal with humanity.
Try as I might, I’m too distracted to work at peak efficiency—and that's not because of the race. It’s because I can’t stop replaying my most recent interaction with Asher on a continuous loop.
No more dates.
I’m not interested in getting you fired.
No more dates.
He’s infuriating, unreasonable, and beguiling… and yet, I can’t stop thinking about him, no matter how hard I try. And I do try—desperately.
For the most part, my thoughts are a loop of fury over his gall to bench me because of his own screwups, but that’s not the only thing keeping him on my mind.
It’s also his attitude—I can’t help but question why it’s always so bad.
And if that isn’t bad enough, I also can’t help but wonder what exactly is prompting his resistance to changing with the times, why he seems to have a special level of hatred for me, and how the hell I’m supposed to help him when he’s exiled me from the track.
I'm so lost in thought, I don’t realize that I have company until a smooth voice rings out from beside me. “Are those telemetry models?”
I startle so much I nearly jump out of my skin, but attempt to recover with a shaky smile cast at the newcomer.
He’s older—somewhere in his sixties—American, and pristinely dressed in a three-piece suit.
He has a stern face, hard set to his jaw, and silvery hair, but there’s an edge of kindness to his eyes.
“Uh… yes.” I clear my throat and half-close my laptop. “My apologies if I was distracting you.”
“No distraction,” he says. “You’re squirreled away in the back of the room. If I hadn’t seen you walk in, I wouldn’t have noticed you.” He glances at my laptop. “May I ask what you’re working on?”
“Just an algorithm I’m building,” I say vaguely.
When he arches an eyebrow, I offer a shaky smile.
“It’s for forecasting outcomes. I’m sorry, but it’s…
kind of sensitive.” As in, I could get in very deep shit for sharing this with someone who isn’t authorized.
Getting kicked off the team would be the least of my troubles; I’d probably get in legal trouble for leaking proprietary information.
“I see.” He gives a serious nod and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone.
My brows furrow as he dials a number and holds the phone to his ear.
“Hello, Ilya? Yes, so sorry to interrupt. I’m just upstairs in the lounge with a lovely young woman building some sort of forecasting algorithm for your team, and she seems a touch hesitant to share anything about it with me.
Could you confirm that—yes, I believe it’s Victoria Linden, according to her pass.
” He glances down at the pass hanging around my neck, nods, and pauses.
“Ah, she’s the intern I’ve heard so much about?
Well, then.” Another pause. “Would you mind assuring her that I’m authorized to take a peek at—yes, here she is. ”
I feel the blood drain away from my face as I accept the phone from him with a trembling hand. Who the hell is this guy? How does he know who I am? What does he mean, he’s heard so much about me?
“Show Frank Sterling everything he wants to see,” Ilya says impatiently. “He’s one of our biggest investors, and Elio’s biggest sponsor. Give him what he wants. Now.”
“Of course.” My words are scarcely a horrified whisper, and Frank’s brows furrow at my reaction. He takes his phone back from me when I hold it out, and presses it to his ear.
“What did you say to the poor girl? She’s white as a sheet!” Pause, and nod. “Yes, I’ll convey that she’s in no trouble. Of course, you as well.” He hangs up, pockets his phone, and gestures to my laptop. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Of course, Mr. Sterling,” I squeak, and reopen it fully.
“Please, call me Frank. Mr. Sterling was my father, and I believe the world breathed easier when he died.”
I blink. Well, then. Frank drags an armchair closer, propping it arm-to-arm with mine, takes a seat, and leans over to gaze over my algorithm.
“Oh, that’s quite interesting,” he says. “You said something about forecasting?”
I nod mutely. I’m speaking with a sponsor significant enough to make Ilya drop all of his duties mid-race for a phone call.
He smiles. “Tell me everything, please.”
I clear my throat, gather my courage, and start to explain.
I hand him the laptop, directing him to scroll between screens and tabs, outlining the blueprints of the algorithm, the parts already completed, the formulas I’m using, and the data I’ve gathered and converted.
I talk for nearly half an hour, explaining the problem I’m stuck on with human emotion and error.
Oddly, it feels nice to explain my work to someone who’s listening.
Ilya’s shown interest, but it’s been vague and offhanded at best.
Frank doesn’t just listen; he asks questions, reads everything on my computer, and seems deeply interested in what I’m building.
“You’re weighing these variables too evenly,” he says, nodding at the laptop with narrowed eyes.
“Tyre degradation and fuel load don’t carry the same predictive value.
You need to weigh them independently or your output is going to be muddy.
Also,” he points to the screen, “these two inputs are redundant—combine them into a single composite variable.” He clicks over to another tab, pauses, and taps the screen where my incomplete emotion variables sit.
“This is… integral, but overcomplicated. Figure out how to measure the aggregate. One well-built composite variable will give you more predictive power than fifty granular ones.”
My eyebrows rise. “You know data?”
“Certainly. I built a company off analytics.” Before I can ask more, Frank twists in his seat and waves someone over. “Connor, would you happen to remember the times Asher and Elio had at last season’s qualifiers?”
Connor replies without hesitation, reeling off a list of times, and Frank types the numbers into my model.
He beams at the results before meeting my eyes.
“Don’t forget to incorporate qualifying data, not just race-day data.
You’re relying too heavily on race-day results; everything that leads up to it is equally as important.
” He hands my laptop back to me. “How long have you been working on this?”
I clear my throat. “I built the theoretical framework last year for my thesis. I started building the practical framework about two months ago, and began tailoring it to the team after the first race.”
Frank’s eyebrows raise. “You’ve done this in less than a month?”
“I’m fresh out of grad school, so I’m used to all-nighters.”
“Well done.”
A waiter approaches us, asking if we’d like refreshments.
“An old fashioned for me, please, and as for the young lady… a coffee, black.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and my brows furrow. “How’d you guess my order?”
“No guessing involved.” Frank smiles. “A little birdy mentioned it to me. She’s actually told me quite a lot about you.”
It only takes me a moment to pinpoint who that little birdy must be, since only one person on the team knows how I take my coffee. “You know Amanda?”
“I should hope so. She’s my daughter.”
My head jerks back an inch. Amanda is one of the sponsor’s daughter? How didn’t I know about this?
I recall what she said the last time we spoke, about Elio not being able to fire her if he wanted to.
No wonder. If her father’s pouring money into her boss’s career, I imagine that’d make it quite difficult to get rid of her.
I didn’t pinpoint her as a nepo hire—she doesn’t conduct herself with the arrogance I’ve come to expect from them.
The waiter returns with our drinks. Frank clinks his glass against my mug. “Keep me apprised on your algorithm, and do let me know if you need any help. It looks quite promising.” He downs his drink in a single gulp, sets the glass on the table, and strolls away.
My eyes fall back on my computer. Frank gave me more valuable suggestions in the span of a few minutes than I’ve gotten from any team members in weeks.
Well, shit.