Chapter Eleven – Japan to Shanghai
Elena Archer
The reply came through two hours later. I’d checked my inbox at least a dozen times already, convinced I’d missed it. But there it was, subject line: Your story.
It’s not publishable. Not yet. But there’s something here. I’m extending your clearance for Shanghai. One week. Make it count.
– G
I exhaled so hard my whole body slumped. Relief didn’t quite settle. It was too wrapped in pressure. He hadn’t killed the story—but he hadn’t guaranteed anything, either.
I closed my laptop and stared at the wall above the tiny desk. The room felt even smaller now, like my choices were pressing in on me.
If I flew to Shanghai, I’d be gambling again. But how could I not go? The race was in a week. I needed to be there before media day. Needed to see Volkov again. Needed—
No. Focus.
This wasn’t about him. Not really.
Except that it was. And that terrified me more than Graham ever could.
I booked the first flight I could get—Tuesday afternoon—banking everything on one last week.
About an hour into the relatively short flight, I opened my email on my phone. I didn’t look at the article again—I couldn’t—but I reread Graham’s reply until the words started to blur.
Make it count.
I locked my phone and stared out into the blue.
Fluffy clouds between me and the sea. My reflection in the plane window looked hollow.
This should have been the moment I exhaled, the tension finally easing now that I wasn’t being dragged home in disgrace.
But it wasn’t. Because this wasn’t about the story any more.
I was still chasing the truth. But now, I wasn’t sure I wanted to find it.
I told myself it was the kiss. The proximity. The adrenaline. That if I could just put some space between me and Aleks Volkov, I’d get my head back.
But as the wheels touched down in Shanghai, I knew I was lying.
The truth was, he’d gotten inside my head. And I didn’t know how to get him out.
By the time I made it to my next hotel, I was wired on stale airplane coffee and exhaustion.
Seeing as I was back in with the press gang, I was in the same hotel as most of the other media.
It was modest, but not as compact as my last room.
I dumped my bag on the bed and opened my laptop, fingers hovering over the trackpad.
I checked my inbox again—no new messages.
Not that I expected anything more from Graham. He’d made himself clear: I had one shot left. I was lucky he hadn’t pulled the story entirely.
I opened a browser tab and pulled up race footage. The Suzuka race highlight reel was easy to find. I clicked play.
Moretti’s win dominated the headlines—Italy’s favourite son back on top. Rivers and Kane rounding out the podium had social media in raptures. Stratos scored no points, and Drake’s P12 finish had the pundits asking whether he’d peaked too soon.
But it was Volkov I watched.
He was off from the start. His aggression too sharp, his timing too messy. That pit stop—what the hell had he been thinking? And then the lock-up, the contact with Kane…
The commentators danced around the issue, calling it a “rare off-day.” But I knew better. I’d seen the fire in his eyes when he kissed me. The fury when he let go.
He was unravelling.
Because of me?
My stomach twisted. I didn’t want that power. I didn’t want to be the reason he lost his edge. But I couldn’t back off either. Not now.
He said he wasn’t involved. I believed him. But Ross? The engineers? The silence inside that garage had screamed complicity.
I closed the laptop again and dropped my head into my hands.
Shanghai was my last chance. One more week.
And if I couldn’t find proof by Sunday, I’d walk away.
From the story. From the paddock.
From him.
I wasn’t sure which would hurt more.
It was getting late and my stomach gave an angry growl. I tidied myself up and headed down to the hotel lobby, intent on a quick dinner in the hotel restaurant. In the marble lobby, a group of my fellow journalists were laughing and chatting loudly, their voices echoing brightly.
“Hey! Archer!” A familiar voice called from the edge of the cluster. My old friend, Caroline from my last job waved me over. I greeted her with a grin and approached the group. “Did you just get here too?”
“Yep. I was just about to get dinner.”
“Perfect. We’re all going down the road for a meal now.
Join us?” Caroline was a smart, savvy reporter for one of the sports channels now, but we’d worked together for a sports website in London a few years ago.
She was tall, had dark skin like silk and a smile that lit up the room.
She linked arms with me as the group moved towards the glass doors onto the street.
I let myself be led, too tired and hungry to resist, even though my social battery was pretty low.
It was a short walk down the bustling Shanghai street, cool and chaotic, before we got to a brightly-lit restaurant.
A guy at the head of the party did a quick head count before leading us inside and it was only as I reached the door that I realised it was Jamie Kavanagh from the Pulse Team.
I couldn’t help feeling a touch star struck. I’d never met him before.
We were seated at a long table in the centre of the dining area and I found myself tucked in between Caroline and a guy from her team.
Opposite us were staffers from a couple of the red-tops.
Jamie sat at the far end of the table with people he evidently knew.
I wasn’t close enough to talk to him but I flashed him a smile and he returned it, which was enough to make me a touch giddy.
I looked around the restaurant as we all made ourselves comfortable.
It was sleek and polished with mirrors everywhere and screens dripping with decorative blossoms and fairy lights.
Over in one corner was a group of Stratos engineers.
Near the windows overlooking the street was Nova’s Team Principal with a group of men in suits that had the air of sponsors and executives about them.
There was another long table next to ours, right behind me, but it was empty, with little ‘reserved’ signs at intervals along it.
I ordered my food—beef noodles—and chatted with Caroline while we waited. I was warming to the group now, almost comfortable, and was glad I’d run into them.
“So,” the guy on my other side said, turning to me as our meals arrived. “You think Obsidian are cheating?”
“Well,” I said, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. “I haven’t accused anyone of that.”
“No, but we all saw you questioning Volkov in Melbourne.” He was adding food to his plate from a sharing platter in the middle of the table, just glancing at me every few seconds. People went quiet around us and I shifted in my seat, suddenly uneasy with the spotlight.
“Well, yeah. I was following up on information from a source, you know? Looking for the story.”
“And what’s the story?” A woman opposite me asked.
“I can’t comment just yet.” I lifted my glass of wine and took a sip, not meeting her gaze.
“It’s got to be juicy though, if I know you.” Caroline grinned and gave my arm a light nudge.
“Oh, it is.” I grinned back, trying to play along, despite my reservations and conflict.
The glass doors opened and a large party filed in.
I glanced their way automatically and recognised Jax Rivers at the head of the group, closely followed by his team mate, Ren Takeda.
Behind them were the Falcon Edge drivers.
My stomach sank when I realised the whole group were drivers and among them—
“Speak of the devil,” Caroline murmured at my ear.
“Right? What are the odds?” I whispered back, averting my gaze from Aleksandr Volkov.
The ten drivers were all dressed up in smart-casual attire, looking like models and heading for the table next to ours. I focused on my food, even though most of my dining companions were unashamedly watching the new arrivals and whispering amongst themselves.
At the head of our table, Jamie got to his feet and bumped fists with Jax and Ren, greeting them like old friends. As the pit-lane reporter for Pulse, he had near-daily contact with most of the drivers, so I supposed he was friendly with some of them.
I glanced over my shoulder just as Volkov took his seat… the one directly behind mine.
“Fuck’s sake,” I hissed to myself. If I reached back, I’d be able to touch his chair.
“Too close for comfort, eh?” Caroline asked, doing a terrible job of hiding a smirk.
“Something like that,” I replied. I tucked into my food and tried not to think about Volkov’s hot, firm body pressing me against that car. Or about how the very next day he’d had a terrible race.
I kept my eyes on my bowl and my mouth full, praying no one else would bring up the story.
Thankfully, they didn’t. Whether it was professional courtesy or fear of being quoted out of context, the conversation slid back into safer waters—race predictions, weather complaints, hotel horror stories.
“That room in Suzuka?” someone groaned. “I could touch both walls without getting out of bed.”
“That’s Japan for you,” Caroline said, rolling her eyes. “You booked the capsule special.”
A few of them laughed. I managed a smile. Added a half-hearted “at least yours had working air-con” when prompted. But my nerves stayed on high-alert.
Because I could feel him.
Right behind me, just inches away. A wall of heat and silence.
He didn’t speak. Not to me. Not to anyone near me. But up at the other end of the table, where the conversation flowed more freely between tables, laughter burst now and then. Glasses clinked. It wasn’t drivers versus press. It was like a big, dysfunctional family.
“Mate, did you see Ramos’s double overtake?” Kane was saying. “I was bloody cheering and I was one of the people he passed.”
“I taught him that,” Jax called. “Didn’t I, Ren?”
“No,” said Ren. “And also, no.”
They laughed. All of them—even Aleks. A quiet chuckle. A flash of teeth in the mirror across the restaurant. It hit me like a punch.
He was always more human when he thought no one was looking.
I told myself it wasn’t about me. That he was just unwinding. That he didn’t even know I was here.
But I didn’t believe that for a second.
After dinner, there was that awkward, milling moment where half the group wanted to go home, the other half wanted to keep the night going, and no one knew what to do with the bill.
Jamie Kavanagh clapped his hands together. “Right—who’s coming to the bar down the street? First round’s on Pulse.”
That settled it.
We spilled out into the Shanghai night in a noisy cluster. More than a dozen of us trailing down the neon-lit pavement. The city pulsed around us—horns blaring, lights flashing, the distant sound of music from a rooftop venue.
Aleks was near the back of the group, hands in his pockets, collar flipped against the breeze. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—but he came anyway.
“I swear to God,” Mason Hale was saying, “I spent six hours yesterday posing with a can of energy drink. If I have to do re-shoots, I’m walking into the sea.”
“You’re in Shanghai,” Jax said. “Plenty of options. River, bay, traffic…”
“I’ll pick the most dramatic.”
More laughter. Even Aleks cracked a smile.
The bar was dim and low-ceilinged, with mismatched furniture and pendant bulbs that cast everyone in a soft, hazy glow.
We pushed two tables together and filled the space fast. Drinks were ordered—cocktails, beers, the odd whisky—and I ended up wedged between Caroline and Jamie this time, further from him.
It should’ve helped. It didn’t.
I ordered a whisky. Neat. A terrible idea, but I needed something that burned.
“Okay, okay,” Jamie was saying, grinning. “Best and worst fan gifts you’ve ever gotten. Go.”
“Someone gave me a baby goat once,” Jax said. “At Silverstone. In a box.”
“Was it alive?”
“Of course it was alive!”
“I got a marriage proposal written on a mango,” Kane offered.
“Was it signed?”
“Yep. From ‘Lucy. 26. Surrey.’ If you’re out there, Lucy—I enjoyed the mango.”
They all roared with laughter. Volkov gave a crooked smile, lifting his glass in salute.
He was at the other end of the joined tables, wedged between Oliver Kane and Mason Hale.
Someone had convinced him to trade his usual scowl for a half-pint of dark beer, which he nursed with slow sips and a guarded expression.
But the more they laughed, the more he seemed to soften.
His mouth twitched at Kane’s sarcastic commentary.
He murmured something to Hale that made the younger driver grin.
He even offered a toast when Jax declared that “Sundays are for saints, but Saturdays are for sinners.”
Still—he didn’t look at me.
Not even once.
And god, it hurt more than it should’ve.
Because we’d kissed. And for one brief, bright second, I’d believed it had meant something.
Now, we were strangers again. And the wall between us wasn’t distance—it was choice.
His choice.
I threw back the rest of my whisky and welcomed the burn.
It didn’t help.
Not really.
Because I could feel him laughing.
And I wasn’t part of the joke.