Chapter Twenty-Seven
Victoria
Itake Asher’s regression into being a douche with admirable nonchalance.
He pointedly acts like an asshole every chance he gets, but at the very least, he respects the hard lines I set.
He doesn’t belittle my work, knowledge, or act like a misogynistic jerk.
He’s still a jerk in every other way that matters, but it secretly warms me that he doesn’t deliberately set out to press my sorest spots.
He still isn’t pleasant to be around by any means. He acts like an ass more often than not, but he’s not intentionally cruel. Just grumpy as hell.
Thankfully, I get a day off from him after a week of dealing with his bullshit.
It’s a press day—several major outlets have been invited to headquarters for individual interviews with team management and drivers, along with some photography sessions.
After all’s said and done, the day will be wrapped up with a press conference in the late afternoon.
Thankfully, I have no duties with the press, so I get to hole up in the analyst’s cave and continue working on my algorithm.
My conversation with Ilya was extremely helpful and encouraging, but it’s taken me a week to even find a spot in my program to fit a morale sequence into.
I finally nailed it last night, and after a brainstorming session with Oliver this morning—after I handed over enough cookies to give him a heart attack—I’m furiously writing code.
Once this is done, all I have left are a few finalizing steps and a lot of testing. It’ll take a month or so to beat everything into shape and work out the final bugs… and then, I’ll potentially have a multimillion dollar forecasting system at my fingertips.
“Victoria.” Thomas appears at the door some hours after I’ve started writing code. “Conference time. Get your ass up and in gear.”
I frown. “Why do I need to be there?” I’m not considered an essential or high-profile member of the team.
He shrugs. “No clue. Declan told me you were wanted there. I’m just here to deliver you.”
I cast a long, lingering look at my laptop. I suppose I don’t have to finish everything now; I can do it tonight. Or tomorrow, if it proves to be too much.
“Alright.” I stand up, shutting my laptop and stuffing it into my bag. I don’t have all that much interest in listening to reporters shout invasive questions at our drivers and team management, but these things usually only last an hour or so. I’ll be out of my misery quickly.
The conference takes place in the bowels of headquarters, on the ground floor.
Most of the room is taken up by rows and rows of folding chairs, all of them already filled up.
Reporters snap photos of the dais at the front of the room, where Ilya, Soren, Declan, Elio, Gideon, and Asher sit.
My reaction at seeing Asher is visceral and decidedly unhealthy; every time I see his face, I think about the kiss. I can’t do anything but think about it.
And then I get to thinking about his expression when I hid from him in the maintenance room.
It’s a deadly combination. I’ve wanted to talk to him about it a thousand times this week, but I always clam up.
I might be brave when it comes to numbers and data, but the thought of being vulnerable with people, with Asher, makes me shudder.
He catches my eyes, and I pointedly look away.
“I lost my seat to a reporter because of you,” Thomas mutters. “Let’s hope this’ll be quick. I’ve been running around all day.”
“Let’s hope,” I murmur. I have very little desire to be in a room with Asher any longer than is absolutely necessary.
Not because I’m repulsed by him, but because he’s magnetic.
The reporters know it—many flashing cameras are aimed in his direction.
Elio knows it, whose smile is decidedly strained as he sits next to Asher.
Everyone feels the same inexplicable draw to Asher Lawrence, but I’m the only person in this room who’s felt how soft his lips are, how heady his taste is, and just how irresistible he can be when he drops the asshole act for a few minutes.
“Alright.” Soren pulls his microphone towards himself. “Let’s get started. We’re really looking forward to…” I tune him and the reporters out for the next half hour, as well. I only really start paying attention when somebody has the balls to direct their question towards Asher.
“You took everyone by surprise with your performance in Bahrain,” the beady-eyed reporter says. She looks like she’s spoiling for a juicy story—all of them do. “It seemed like you’d given up on F1 for the last while.”
She waits for Asher to respond. When he doesn’t, she goes on, desperate for the scoop.
“What are your aspirations for the rest of F1 season? Are you shooting high for a podium… or just at the faintest chance to get re-signed?” Asher’s jaw tenses, but she keeps going.
“It’s clear you’ve been slacking off the last several seasons, and many assumed you were riding out the rest of your contract—"
“My aspirations for the rest of the season are to drive well. I can’t predict the future but I can predict I’ll be putting my best foot forward, and I do hope to be re-signed.” Asher bares his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. It’s chilling. “Anything else?”
The reporter is quiet for a beat, but she quickly recovers, clearing her throat. “What do you attribute your surprising performance last race to, and again, are you aiming for a podium?”
Asher works his jaw for a few beats. “There were many moving parts that helped me excel in Sakhir. Gaston has a solid technical team. I’m probably not allowed to speak much on it, but we have a new addition who joined us this season, who’s working on this predictive algorithm.
” Asher’s eyes meet mine, and I feel like a deer in headlights. He’s talking about me. Publicly.
Asher Lawrence is publicly stating that I had something to do with his success. He’s not using my name, which is probably for the best, but members of the team will know what he’s talking about.
“The algorithm has helped us answer questions we didn’t think we should pose,” Asher goes on. “I’ve been working really closely with them and hope to continue doing so.”
Holy. Shit. Elio’s words from the club float across my thoughts: he’ll make it his mission to destroy your name.
Maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll instead help me get a foothold in this competitive sport.
Another reporter stands up. “Is there a reason that Elio wasn’t able to extract the same performance?”
“Well, he doesn’t have Victoria—” Asher trails off when he realizes he’s name-dropped me. Every Gaston employee turns to look at me in unison.
I want to find a hole to crawl into and die. Acknowledging me without my name is nice, but giving it to a bunch of hungry reporters… he’s literally just thrown me to the wolves.
Oh, shit.
“I mean, he doesn’t have the same technical person,” Asher tries to recover, but it’s too late.
In a single press conference, he’s given me internal recognition, potential for job security, and so much validation, but then…
he put me in the public eye. I don’t expect to get excessive attention—my opinion of my importance is not that high—but even a little digging into me could prove problematic and dig up old skeletons.
Fuck.
My phone starts blowing up shortly after the conference. I don’t get called into anyone’s office, at least, which I take to mean that I won’t be getting in trouble for being name-dropped to the press.
It’s very possible, maybe even likely no one will care that an F1 driver gave a shoutout to a member of his technical team. I manage to convince myself of that as I scurry out of HQ and go home.
I don’t even make it into my apartment before a text from Hunter comes through, with a link to an article published minutes ago. A chill settles over me, like a winter freeze right before a storm, as I click the link and scan the text.
Damnit. It’s focused in on everything Asher said during the conference, and it mentions me not just by first name—but by last name, as well. It talks about my goddamn education at MIT and speculates about my road to F1.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
If this becomes a trending story, it’s only a matter of time before sharks smell blood in the water and make the link between me and Reynard.
Him siring a bastard was big news, but that was two decades ago, and the public has a laughably short attention span.
It’s possible that nothing will come of it, and I’ll only be interesting for a single article.
I hope to hell that’s the case.
Delilah calls me as soon as I’m through my apartment door.
“What the hell did he do?” she hisses.
I press a hand to my forehead, take a moment to mourn the temporary loss of my anonymity, and collapse on the ratty couch that the previous owners left behind for me. “Name-dropped me.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean what fuckup did he commit?”
I frown. “What?”
“That conference was streamed live on international television. I assume Asher giving you credit was his way of apologizing for something he did. I am asking you what it was, and whether I need to get the duct tape and shovels ready.”
Oh, Jesus Christ. I squeeze my eyes shut. “He didn’t do anything, Lilah. I’ve been…” avoiding him like the plague. “We haven’t really talked since the kiss. Not about anything related to it.” Aside from that moment in the maintenance room, which did not go over well.
“Oh.” I can almost hear Delilah’s frown in her voice. “Oh, shit. He did that for you for no reason? He’s a total goner.”
I’m this close to slamming my head against the nearest wall. “He’s not a goner. He did something decent for once—that doesn’t mean anything.”
“He sung your praises, and it wasn’t even for the sake of an apology. Total. Goner.” She makes a noise of disgust. “It’s sickeningly sweet.”
I crack one eye open. “You think?”
“What I think is that you need to fuck him already. Keith concurs, by the way.”
Both my eyes open wide at that. “Have you two been gossiping behind my back?”
“We even have a bet going,” she confirms. “If you cave within the next week, he wins, so try to hold out a bit longer. I’m now betting five large.”
I sigh wistfully, gazing around my shithole apartment. “I envy your salary.”
“You have a phenomenally rich father. You’ll be fine.”
“Reynard is not my father. I don’t expect to ever see a dime from him, and I don’t want to.
” Unless Hunter is right and me forming a relationship with Reynard will be the turning point for getting written into the will…
which I doubt, and I don’t particularly want.
I’m not interested in Reynard making up for twenty-four years of abandonment with cash.
“You have a phenomenally rich boyfriend who’s obviously head over heels for you. Did you know he has generational wealth? His parents and grandparents are loaded. You’ll be fine.”
I’ve heard gossip about his famous-painter father and ruthless-businessman grandfather. But I don’t particularly care that he comes from money.
In any case, “Asher is not my boyfriend.”
“I have another bet going with Keith over that.”
I thump my head against the ratty back of my couch. “I hate you.”
“No, you’ve just been celibate for far too long. At this stage, you’re probably a virgin again.”
“Your fascination with my love life is concerning.”
“You don’t have a love life… yet. Mark my words, that’s going to change. Now, listen to me: get over your fear of abandonment and fall into bed with a huge, superhot, super famous driver who’s obsessed with you. And who you’re obsessed with.”
“We’re not obsessed with each other!” I shriek… just as a knock comes on my door.
And then the doorbell rings, followed by another, more rapid knock.
It’s probably the 90 year old woman down the hall with a propensity for doling out noise complaints like candy. She’s knocked on my door when I was breathing too loudly. She’s almost completely blind, but her hearing is insane.
“Hold on,” I tell Delilah, mentally preparing myself to face down a four-foot-ten woman who’s been known to beat misbehaving tenants with her cane.
When I swing open my front door, I find myself face-level with a hard chest instead of a tiny woman. My blood freezes in my veins as I slowly look up, and up, and up… until I meet Asher’s eyes.
“Who are you not mutually obsessed with?” he queries.
Fuck. My. Life.