Chapter Seven – Singapore Grand Prix Gala
Elena Archer – Singapore Grand Prix Gala
The party shouldn’t have felt this alive at two in the morning.
But Singapore never slept, and neither did Formula One.
The top floor of the Celestia Hotel shimmered with gold light and motion, a crush of sponsors, drivers, and hangers-on moving like heat haze through the humid night.
Music pulsed low and slow, the kind that made crystal glasses hum against marble tables.
My black, silk dress clung to every curve.
It was shamelessly backless, the halter neck accentuating my assets.
Four inch heels lifted me up so I could match the eye line of most of the men in the room.
A small, black, sequinned clutch was gripped under my arm, and inside, my phone was already set to record everything.
I’d snagged myself an invite the old fashioned way—cash in the right pocket. The view alone made it worth the risk: Marina Bay glittering below, the street circuit a dark shadow weaving through the city now that the floodlights had been switched off.
Champagne fizzed in my glass but I hadn’t sipped it yet. My attention was on this prestigious crowd. Every team was represented: drivers from Nova, Stratos and the rest, with Luca Moretti holding court beside his team mate, Oliver Kane, the Hawthorn podium pair—winners, but not the winner.
And then there was Obsidian.
Ross was at the centre of a perfect little solar system: sponsors orbiting, cameras flashing, his charm turned up to eleven. To his right stood Volkov.
Even out of the car, he radiated control. Black tuxedo, charcoal shirt open at the collar, cufflinks glinting like twin stars. His expression said he’d rather be anywhere else. His jaw was tight, his eyes glassy—he’d been drinking. Not much. Enough.
“Hello again,” a warm voice to my right caught my attention and I spun to face Callum Drake, my full glass spilling slightly over my fingers. “Whoa there,” he said, grinning and passing me a paper napkin.
“Shit,” I muttered.
“No use crying over spilled champagne. How about a toast to being on the winning team?”
I pressed my lips together, clinked my glass against his, and took a sip.
“You might be, but I’m definitely not.”
“Well, only one person can actually win, right?” he said, a bitter note to his voice. His eyes darted in Volkov’s direction. I followed his gaze but quickly focused on Drake. He’d already had a few, judging by the strong odour of alcohol on his breath.
“Too true.” I took another sip, and another. My mind was racing. I got the feeling he wanted to talk. All I had to do was gently encourage him. “It must be hard, being in his shadow all the time.”
“You have no idea.” He leaned conspiratorially close. “Have you ever felt completely overlooked?”
I nodded. “I have.”
“You know, last season, he pretty much won the Constructors’ without me.
I may as well not have shown up. But I did.
I fought for every place. It’s just never come as easily to me as it seems to for him.
” He knocked back the rest of his drink and I mirrored him, nodding sympathetically.
A server with a tray of full glasses approached and Callum scooped up two of them, passing one to me.
“Thanks,” I said, but my voice didn’t seem to register. He jumped right back into his tirade.
“I’m still fighting. Fighting the car, fighting the press, fighting for every little taste of victory. I’m good, Archer. Really fucking good. But next to him? Next to his car?” He shook his head and I pressed closer, my hand on his arm.
“His car? Don’t you drive the same one?”
“You’d think, right?” He downed another glass and I took another big gulp, trying to keep pace with him to keep him talking. “Ross hardly even acknowledges me. In briefings it’s all about Aleks’s results, his concerns, the plan for his race. I’m just an afterthought and not even that sometimes.”
“That sounds awful. Not being appreciated is the worst.” My mind was starting to feel sluggish, but I sipped the champagne anyway. It was working. I glanced down at my clutch on the tall table beside us, hoping my phone was picking this up.
Callum swept a hand through his thick, blonde hair before pressing closer to me.
“You want an exclusive?”
“Do I ever?” I grinned.
“Callum, darling?” A woman materialised beside us as if summoned by dark magic. She was a little older than me, dark hair swept up into a top knot. She shot me a look that made me step back. I vaguely recognised her from Obsidian’s PR team.
“I’m speaking with this lovely lady,” Callum said, waving his glass towards me.
“I know,” the PR woman said, smiling that sickly sweet smile. “But the people from Laurent échelon are eager to talk to you. Come on, darling.” She took hold of his arm and tugged him away, glancing back over her shoulder at me with a satisfied smirk.
Damn.
I put down my glass and picked up my clutch.
I strode from the room, swaying slightly, and headed down the corridor towards the rest rooms. I steadied myself with a hand on the wall.
The flocked wallpaper bumpy beneath my fingers.
I pushed open the door to the bright, white-tiled bathroom, fished out my phone and stopped recording.
I opened the audio file and skipped to a few minutes before the end to listen.
I could make out Callum’s voice, but it was slightly muffled.
It would need a light clean-up, but it was better than nothing.
He hadn’t really given anything away except for his own discontent at Obsidian, but that would add colour to the story.
I grinned at my reflection and stowed my phone back in my clutch.
I needed more. I needed a reputable source on the record saying that they were swapping the mapping software between qualifying and the race, or someone admitting the fuel level is low for race day.
I needed someone to explicitly tell me the team was cheating.
Without that, all I had was conjecture. I couldn’t quite tell what the drivers themselves knew.
That was frustrating. I wanted a name, someone specific to pin it on.
I freshened up and stepped out of the bathroom, bumping straight into a brick wall of a man. I staggered sideways on my high heels, still tipsy from the champagne.
“Sorry,” I muttered before firm hands took hold of my upper arms, steadying me and leaning me back against the wall. I looked up into the ice-blue eyes of Aleksandr Volkov. “Oh. You.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, half scowling, half concerned.
“Fine.” I swept my hair off my face and straightened myself up.
He was standing too close, invading my personal space, his eyes full of cold calculation. Damn, he was big up close. Tall, lean, firm.
“Why are you still sniffing around my team?” he said, his voice low, his accent thick.
“You know why, Champion. I’m pursuing the truth.”
“If you had anything, you’d have published your story by now. Give up. Go home.”
“Oh I have plenty,” I said, tilting my chin up in defiance that wasn’t entirely justified.
He glanced both ways along the corridor. We were completely alone. Then he leaned closer, planting his hand on the wall beside my face. My breath hitched. The scent of whisky on his breath was almost as strong as his designer cologne.
“You scrub up well, by the way,” I said, my voice wavering slightly. What was I doing?
“Hmm.” His gaze flickered down between us. “So do you.”
What the hell was happening here?
“Please stop digging.”
“Please? Are you begging me?” I couldn’t help the grin that split my face.
“I’m asking nicely,” he said, his voice almost a growl. He pressed himself against me, shifting his weight onto his whole forearm, not just his hand. His nose was almost touching mine.
Fuck.
“Why?” I asked, breathless.
“Because this is my life. And you’re inside my head. All the damn time, Archer. You’re a distraction.”
My pulse raced as fast as his car on the straights. He was going to kiss me. Oh my God. This was going to complicate things.
But instead, he pulled back and thumped the wall with the side of his fist before turning and stalking away. I watched him go, shaking and struggling to breathe.
Yes, this was definitely going to complicate things.
Aleksandr Volkov
I flung the door back into the party a little too wide, causing it to bang into a table.
Heads swivelled in my direction, but I didn’t care.
I stalked between clusters of people and scooped a glass of champagne off a passing tray before heading out through the sliding doors onto the terrace.
Beyond the comfort of the air conditioning, the night air was oppressive.
The music inside throbbed through the floor beneath me like a pulse.
There were only a few people out here, looking out over the city and chatting quietly. They hardly spared me a glance.
Exhaustion was starting to pull at my sore muscles. It felt like weeks since I’d last slept soundly. I’d have to fix that before the next race or I could be in trouble.
But that woman—Elena—she was buried deep inside my thoughts, worming her way into everything. Why was I letting her affect me so much?
She was making me doubt my team, my boss, Mac. Mac had been like a father to me since I joined Obsidian and now I was struggling to trust him. Lack of trust in this business could be lethal.
I drained the champagne in one go, the fizz was bitter on my tongue.
Noise pulsed from inside the building—bass-heavy music, drunken laughter, the predictable cadence of meaningless celebration. I hated these things. Always had. Crowds of people pretending they cared, when the only thing that mattered was what happened on track.
And yet here I was. Obliged. Paraded.
I leaned on the railing, the city sprawled beneath me in glittering indifference. The heat clung to my skin. Sweat prickled at the collar of my shirt.
I could still feel her, like static under my skin. The sharpness of her stare. The nearness of her breath. The way her voice cut straight through me like a scalpel made of truth.
Elena was dangerous.
Not because she was wrong. But because she might be right.
I flexed my fingers around the stem of the empty glass.
Inside, someone called my name. Laughter followed. I didn’t turn. I didn’t care.
She was in my head. Turning over stones I’d sealed with concrete. I’d walked away from her tonight because I had to. Because if I didn’t, I might’ve done something reckless. Something stupid.
Something honest.
I shut my eyes for a second, just to centre myself.
No more distractions. Not now. Not with the season still wide open and vultures circling.
But my pulse was still racing—and for once, it had nothing to do with speed.