Chapter Two – Melbourne Grand Prix Sunday #2
The Obsidian PR handler, Heidi, guided me through the maze of cables and microphones. “Sky first, then RTL, then the written press,” she said, already waving to the next crew. I’d done this dance enough times to know the steps.
“Congratulations, Aleksandr,” came the first voice. “Strong start to the season. What was going through your head those last few laps?”
Same questions. Always the same.
“Stay clean, keep focus, trust the team,” I said, nodding for the camera. The taste of victory and carbonation still sat on my tongue.
Another mic. Another grinning presenter.
“How confident are you going into Singapore?”
“As confident as today.”
“What about the rumours about the engine performance?”
My expression never faltered. “Rumours don’t win races.”
That line landed well.
Heidi steered me toward the final section—the written press. Not live, but worse in its way: more time to twist your words.
I recognised half the faces behind the barriers, phones ready, eyes sharp. And then I saw her.
Elena Archer, leaning on the rail, phone poised like a weapon. Hair pulled back, sunglasses gone this time. She looked every bit as composed as yesterday, but there was something new in her expression—amusement, maybe, or calculation.
The PR handler gestured. “We’ll take three questions.”
A man near the front got in first. “Aleksandr, a clean lights-to-flag victory. You make it look easy. Were you ever under pressure today?”
I gave him a practised half-smile. “It only looks easy because of the people behind me.”
A murmur of polite laughter. Cameras clicked and flashed.
Then Elena leaned forward over the barrier, voice cutting clean through the noise.
“Congratulations on the win, Aleksandr. You said yesterday that rumours are for people who don’t win. But do they ever start with something real?”
The air tightened. A few heads turned.
I tilted my head, feigning confusion. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
She didn’t blink. “Obsidian’s car sounded… different today. Smoother. Almost like the limiter isn’t catching in the same place. Any adjustments since qualifying?”
The question was tidy, professional—nothing you could call an accusation. But she knew exactly where to press.
My pulse ticked once, sharp and fast. I made sure it didn’t reach my face.
“Every team optimises,” I said evenly. “We all chase the same tenth of a second. But no, the car was in parc fermé, just like everyone else’s. Maybe your headphones need recalibrating.”
A few reporters chuckled, relieved for the tension to break. Elena only smiled, slow and knowing.
“Maybe,” she said. “But if you ever want to talk engines, I hear the fans love transparency.”
I gifted her with my signature scowl. “And I hear writers love fiction. Seems we’re both in the right profession.”
Heidi called time, stepping in with a cheerful “That’s all, thank you!” as the press pack broke into low chatter.
I turned away, jaw tight beneath the veneer of composure.
The champagne had gone flat on my tongue.
On the other side of the doors, marching along the corridor surrounded by Obsidian handlers, my temper snapped.
“Someone get that woman out of the press briefings. I’m done answering her insidious questions. Put me in a room with Ross. Now.”
Norton Ross was waiting when I stormed in—hands clasped behind his back, the Obsidian team shirt fitted like it had been tailored for him rather than issued.
Black with chrome piping along the seams, the embroidered logo glinted on his chest just above a line of discreet sponsor badges.
The short sleeves showed forearms still lean and strong for a man in his fifties, the tan earned from decades track-side rather than any beach.
He was all polish and poise, salt-and-pepper hair trimmed close, his jaw clean-shaven and camera-ready. The kind of man who smiled for headlines and lied between sentences.
When he turned, that smile was already there—charming, steady, and as practised as his handshake.
“Ah, Aleks. Congratulations on the win. Perfect execution out there.”
I didn’t sit. “We’ve got a problem.”
Ross tilted his head, the smile never faltering. “If you’re referring to the reporter, I saw the broadcast.”
“She’s not just fishing. She’s making things up. And you’re letting her get away with it.”
He gave a soft chuckle, the kind meant to sound indulgent. “Aleksandr, please. The press have to justify their credentials somehow. It’s noise. Nothing more.”
“Noise becomes narrative,” I said flatly. “It spreads.”
Ross moved toward the desk, resting one hand on its gleaming chrome edge.
“And what’s the narrative? That our reigning champion might be driving the best car on the grid?
” He gave a faint, amused snort. “Hardly a scandal. If the other teams can’t match our engineering, that’s their problem, not ours. ”
“You think this is funny?”
“I think,” he said smoothly, “that you’re letting a journalist live rent-free in your head. You need to focus on what matters. The win was flawless. The car’s perfect. You, my friend, are untouchable.”
He moved closer, lowering his voice, all paternal reassurance now. “Don’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. You keep winning, and she’ll get bored. They always do.”
I folded my arms, staring him down. “She’s not going to stop. I saw her today—she’s digging.”
Ross’s eyes flicked—just for a heartbeat, a slip of something cool and calculating beneath the charm. Then he smiled again, that same slow, deliberate smile that never quite reached his eyes.
“Let her dig. She won’t find anything worth publishing.”
There was something in his tone that didn’t sit right. Too polished. Too easy.
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re certain about that?”
“Of course.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder—firm, confident, claiming control.
“Aleksandr, you’re the face of Obsidian.
The champion. The embodiment of Precision, Power, Perfection.
Leave the conspiracy theories to the internet.
” He straightened, his expression light again.
“Take a few days off. Rest, reset. The engineers are flying back to Oxfordshire for data analysis, you’ll have simulator prep next week before Singapore. Let the dust settle in the meantime.”
He gave me a smile that was all teeth and diplomacy. “And Aleks—try to play nice with the press next time. Confidence looks good on us, but arrogance? That’s harder to market.”
I didn’t answer. The office door clicked softly behind me as I left, sealing in the scent of cologne and chrome polish.
For the first time in a long while, victory didn’t feel clean.