Chapter Eight – Singapore to Japan
Elena Archer – Singapore Hotel
I woke with my mouth tasting like regret and champagne.
Light cut through the hotel curtains in hostile slats, and I groaned, flinging a hand over my eyes. My head throbbed in time with the memory of Volkov’s voice, low and dangerous in that corridor.
You’re inside my head. All the damn time.
Yeah, well. He was in mine too.
I sat up slowly, one heel still on, the other lost to the void somewhere between the party and my room. My clutch was on the floor beside the bed, its sequins glinting like it had secrets. I fished out my phone. Battery at seven percent. Two missed calls from Graham. And a text:
Where’s the story, Archer? Don’t tell me you’re still chasing shadows.
I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, willing my hangover to back off long enough for me to lie convincingly.
It was just after noon, making it four am back home, not remotely a suitable time to call him back.
I crawled from the bed and into the shower, peeling my clothes off on the way.
My head buzzed incessantly and my mouth was dry.
As I let the hot water soak me, memories of the party flickered through my mind.
Everything Callum Drake had said, and the encounter with Volkov in the corridor.
That memory did something unsettling to my insides.
I’d never much liked the metaphor of butterflies in the stomach, but for the first time, I had an idea of what that meant.
I closed my eyes and remembered the way he leaned against me, pinning me to the wall. I could still smell the whisky and cologne, mingling with my mint-scented shampoo. My nipples pebbled under the hot stream of water and my hand roamed down my body, seeking the heat growing between my thighs.
My eyes pinged open and my hand snatched back. I couldn’t go there. I couldn’t start thinking of him like that. I had a story to write that was likely to kill his career and ruin his team. It would be impossible to do that if I went and developed feelings for the guy.
And yet, something told me that he might not be involved in the scandal. There was something so earnest about him, even though he was extremely guarded. I trusted him. That might make me a fool. But it wouldn’t stop me from digging up everything I could.
I finished my shower, got dressed and went in search of food. I had a lot to do and no time to waste.
It was just after four pm when my phone interrupted my research. Graham’s name lit up the screen and I took a steadying breath, knowing this conversation was coming.
“Hi boss,” I said in as bright a voice as I could muster.
“Where’s my story, Archer?” His tone was pure newsroom steel.
“I’m working on it,” I said, dragging myself to the edge of the bed. “I’ve got a lead—actually, I’ve got two—but I need time.”
“You’ve had time. You’ve had over two weeks, flights half way around the world, and a press pass with more access than God. I need copy. Not poetic quotes from disgruntled second-stringers.”
I flinched. Callum Drake: disgruntled second-stringer. Not wrong. But also not the whole picture.
“There’s more,” I said. “Obsidian’s got something shady going on with engine mappings—maybe fuel loads. It’s technical, and it’s well covered up. I need the next race. Japan. I can get confirmation there.”
A pause. Then: “At your own expense.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You’ve already drained the travel budget. Unless I have a file in my inbox by Sunday, you’re off this assignment. I’ll give it to someone who actually knows how to stick to a brief. Go find me a scandal, or come home.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the screen for a moment, then dropped the phone on the bed like it had burned me. I looked up at my reflection in the black television screen. Despite the dark, faint image, I saw it: the fire in my eyes. The need.
He wanted a scandal?
He was going to get the whole fucking inferno.
Suzuka, Japan
The cherry blossoms mocked me.
They fluttered across the pavement like confetti, delicate and stupidly picturesque as I dragged my battered suitcase up the narrow road toward the shoebox hotel I’d booked on a discount site that screamed ‘you’ll regret this’.
The air smelled like spring—floral, clean, annoyingly hopeful. I wanted to punch it.
Everything about Japan was beautiful, precise, immaculate. My hotel room simple, efficient.
The check-in clerk barely looked at me as he handed over the keycard. Room 406. No elevator. No apology. No soul.
It took everything in me not to groan aloud as I opened the door to a room the size of a particularly generous coffin. A single bed pressed against one wall, a desk barely wider than my laptop against the other, and a bathroom pod that looked like a spaceship toilet.
I sat on the edge of the bed and opened my banking app.
The balance stared back at me like a death sentence.
No more room service. No more taxis. No more screw-ups.
This was it.
One race. One story. Or it was game over.
I pulled out my laptop and tried to work at the tiny desk, but I could barely breathe in the space. The walls pressed in. The silence buzzed. The hum of the minibar fridge was louder than my thoughts.
Nope.
I slammed the lid shut, grabbed my phone and notebook, and stuffed them into my bag. If I was going to find the truth, it wasn’t going to be in this glorified closet.
I needed names. Whispers. A sliver of real proof. Something I could wave in Graham’s smug face that said I told you so.
Out on the street, the city moved like a dream. Polite footsteps. Quiet voices. Trees blooming like hope. I hated how beautiful everything was while my career circled the drain.
I caught a bus to the circuit and headed toward the media centre near the paddock, half-hoping I’d trip over a whistleblower on the way.
Instead, I’d have to earn it. Charm, lie, manipulate, investigate — whatever it took.
Because this story wasn’t going to write itself.
And if I didn’t crack it by Sunday, I’d be on the first flight home.
Aleksandr Volkov – Suzuka Practice Session
Suzuka wasn’t cooperating. Neither was the car. Neither was my brain.
The lap times on the screen were an insult.
Sector two was loose. My braking? Late. Correction?
Indecisive. I was second-guessing myself into every turn, and by the time I tried to correct, it was already too late.
I could feel it in the grip—tiny hesitations that added up to tenths, to headlines.
Every lap I ran was more tense, more calculated, more fucking wrong.
Back in the garage, I pulled off my helmet. Mac was already at the telemetry wall, arms folded, his face unreadable. Ross stood beside him, whispering something under his breath to one of the engineers. No one looked at me. Not properly.
I stripped off my gloves and balaclava, sweat clinging to the back of my neck. My throat was dry. My pulse too high for someone who’d been out of the car for five minutes.
“You’re not yourself. Want to talk about it?” Mac asked, not looking away from the screen.
“No.”
“You’re braking late. Overshooting corner exits. Oversteer into 130R.”
I said nothing.
Ross turned, finally. “You haven’t had numbers like that since Bahrain last year. What’s going on?”
I stared him down. “Just a bad run.”
“Sure. Maybe you’re distracted.”
I clenched my jaw. If I opened my mouth, I’d say something I couldn’t unsay. Like how tired I was of the whispers. Of the weight. Of her in my god damn head.
I turned on my heel and walked out of the garage.
The air outside was cool but sharp. It carried the scent of spring — something faintly sweet, faintly cloying. I hated it.
I tugged the zip of my suit down and rounded the corner behind the paddock, away from the eyes, away from Ross’s constant scrutiny.
I should have been sharper. More focused. The car wasn’t the problem. I was.
Because instead of analysing brake balance and torque curves, I was picturing a woman pressed against a hotel wall, fire in her eyes and defiance in her voice.
She was in Japan. I hadn’t seen her, but I knew. She wouldn’t leave. Not without her story.
Mac was right — I wasn’t driving like myself. I was driving like a man with something to hide.
I closed my eyes, inhaled, exhaled. Tried to reset.
“You’re inside my head.”
I hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to mean it.
But it was true.
And I had no idea how to get her out.
F1 Pulse Broadcast: Japanese Grand Prix, Post-Qualifying Coverage
MARTY: Well, that is the chequered flag on qualifying here at Suzuka, and what a turnaround for Aleksandr Volkov. Yesterday’s practice session looked like he was driving a tractor, not an Obsidian.
TARA: To be fair, the Obsidian does handle like a tractor until they turn the engine on.
JAMIE: I asked him about it in the paddock earlier and he said—and I quote—“It was acceptable.” Which, from Volkov, is basically Shakespearean emotion.
TARA: Still, P2 is a solid recovery. He didn’t put a foot wrong today, but that last lap from Luca Moretti? Stunning. Hawthorn have brought the upgrades they promised.
JAMIE: Moretti looked far too smug for someone who almost binned it at Spoon.
MARTY: That’s his natural state, Jamie. Smug and sideways.
TARA: Speaking of sideways—Sofia Vega. P7. I’m starting to think she’s actually driving a different car to Ben Walker, who is starting right at the back of the grid.
JAMIE: She overtook three cars in the first five minutes of FP2. I swear she would’ve overtaken the safety car if they’d let her.
MARTY: She’s becoming a fixture in the points predictions. The fans adore her. Half the paddock is terrified of her. I’d call that a successful rookie season so far.
TARA: She’s got that hungry energy, for sure.
JAMIE: I did ask if she was aiming for a podium this weekend. She laughed in my face and said: “Jamie, I’m always aiming for a podium.” God, I love her.
TARA: Meanwhile, Callum Drake. P15. Again. I know Obsidian don’t like talking about it, but that’s a pattern.
MARTY: It is starting to look like Callum and that car have a fundamental disagreement about which direction is forward.
JAMIE: Do you think Obsidian will keep him next year?
TARA: Depends. If he’s driving badly, that’s one problem. If Obsidian are making him drive badly… that’s another. There’s something political going on there.
MARTY: Oof, that’s a spicy take.
TARA: I’m not saying sabotage. I’m just saying… resource distribution. The number-two syndrome. Anyone who remembers the early 2000s knows what I’m talking about.
JAMIE: Poor guy. He looks like he wants to apologise to the tyres every time he pits.
MARTY: He might be safe for now. But with results like this? That seat’s going to look awfully tempting to a few hungry young drivers.
TARA: Final thoughts before we wrap?
MARTY: Moretti on pole, Volkov breathing down his neck, Vega climbing like she’s allergic to being behind anyone… Suzuka’s going to be a cracker.
JAMIE: And I’ll be in the pit lane trying not to get run over. Tune in tomorrow!