Chapter Fourteen – Shanghai Media Day
Elena Archer – Shanghai, Thursday
The paddock buzzed like a live wire—cameras whirring, lenses clicking, voices rising in a dozen languages. The air was warm with the promise of rain, heavy with humidity and tension. By mid-morning, my shirt clung to my back and my feet already ached, but I kept moving.
Media day was a war of smiles and soundbites, and I was deep in the trenches.
I made the rounds like my career depended on it—because it did.
Team principals. PR reps. Mechanics I’d charmed over dumplings on Wednesday lunch time.
Never underestimate the journalistic power of a free lunch.
I asked questions that wouldn’t ruffle feathers, took notes I’d probably never use, nodded like everything they said mattered.
The socialising I’d done earlier in the week was finally paying off; the frostiness that had followed me through Singapore and Suzuka had thawed into cautious smiles and a few whispered tips.
Nothing concrete. Nothing I could run with.
But the shift in energy was enough to keep me going.
And for now, that had to be enough.
I hovered just behind the TV cameras, pretending to check my notes while Caroline prepped for her next interview. Her dark curls were slicked back today, her makeup matte and camera-ready despite the heat. She glanced at me and shot a smile before turning back to the crew.
Her guest was already waiting, arms folded across his Hawthorn-branded polo, one eyebrow raised in what could only be described as theatrical impatience.
Luca Moretti.
If Volkov was ice, Moretti was flame—pure Mediterranean swagger and impossible charm. Charisma dialled up to eleven. Hair just messy enough to look accidental, smile full of teeth and trouble. Every inch the golden boy of Hawthorn Racing. And he knew it.
“Rolling in five,” the cameraman called. “Four, three…”
Caroline stepped into frame and launched into her intro on the signal. “I’m joined now by Luca Moretti— Shanghai’s three-time race winner, crowd favourite, and a man who always gives us something to talk about. Luca, welcome.”
He flashed the camera a grin so dazzling it probably had its own fan club. “What about my four other podiums here? Caroline, you wound me.”
“Oh, forgive me,” Caroline said, playing along. “I forgot you measure success in champagne showers.”
“The sticky ones are the most satisfying,” he replied, deadpan.
Behind the camera, a few of the crew snorted. Caroline kept her composure, just.
“I’ll rephrase,” she said. “You’ve got a strong record here. Is it one of your favourite circuits?”
“Shanghai is bella,” he said, eyes misting with something that might’ve actually been fondness. “Fast corners, technical sectors… she rewards precision. And when she gets wet?” He flashed a grin. “Even better.”
“And speaking of rain…” Caroline said with rock solid composure. “The forecast says there’s a good chance of showers on Sunday.”
“I like rain,” he said, voice dropping half an octave. “It levels the field. Brings out the real drivers.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a dig or a flex, but I made a note anyway.
“You raise a good point about the field…” Caroline said, her smile turning sly. “Obsidian Performance haven’t looked quite as untouchable lately. You think you’ve got a shot at taking down Volkov this weekend?”
Moretti’s grin sharpened.
“I always have a shot. Volkov’s a machine—but machines break. Especially when the pressure’s on.”
Oof.
That one landed like a punch.
Caroline arched a brow. “Strong words.”
“I have stronger ones,” he said. “But I’ll save them for the grid.”
The interview wrapped with a few standard questions, talk of set-up, strategy, tyre choice. He handled it all with flair, the consummate showman. But underneath the charm, there was steel.
Luca Moretti wasn’t just here to race.
He was here to win.
And if Volkov got caught in the crossfire, well… I didn’t get the sense he’d lose sleep over it.
As the crew started packing up, Moretti stepped off the platform and immediately zeroed in on me. I straightened instinctively, pen poised.
“Archer,” he said, like he was tasting the name. His accent wrapping around the ‘r’ with a caress. “Going to keep poking the bear until he bites?”
I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
He leaned one shoulder against a crate, easy and infuriating. “Volkov. You rattle him. I like it.”
“I’m not—” I began, but he held up a hand.
“Relax. I’m not judging. If you can get under his skin, you’re doing something right. Makes the rest of us look better by comparison.”
“I’m not here to make anyone look good,” I said.
His grin widened. “Shame. You’d be excellent at it.”
He pushed off the crate, flashing one last wink before strolling away towards his next interview.
And just like that, I had a whole new problem.
Because Luca Moretti might be smug, slick, and way too confident for his own good.
But I couldn’t deny it.
He was very, very good at making you want to listen.
It was the final panel of the day.
The media theatre at the Shanghai circuit was sleek and overlit, decked in matte black panels and sponsor logos that gleamed under the lights.
At the centre of it all sat the now-familiar white sofa where the drivers gave their best PR smiles and answered questions they’d already fielded five times that day.
A smaller armchair was set off to the side for the FIA-appointed moderator, Richard Haversham.
Richard was a staple of the paddock—silver hair, navy suit, impeccable posture.
He used to run sponsorship operations for a mid-tier team back in the 90s before transitioning into F1 media full-time.
These days, he was the voice of the official driver pressers: authoritative, dryly humorous, and just the right amount of smarmy.
A velvet-gloved hand delivering the occasional steel-spined reprimand.
Every driver respected him. Every journalist tried to stay on his good side.
Caroline leaned toward me and whispered, “Five quid says he calls Volkov ‘enigmatic’ before the session’s out.”
I smirked. “You’re on.”
We were seated a few rows back, alongside two of the other journos from the dinner.
I’d been running into them all day—corridor crossings, mutual grumbling in the coffee queue—and I had to admit, it was kind of nice.
This world could feel solitary, but having allies—even ones with rival bylines—made it easier.
A ripple of interest passed through the room as the final pairing of the day appeared at the edge of the stage. Aleksandr Volkov and Callum Drake, walking in alongside their shared press officer, Heidi, who looked like she was already planning where to stand for the least damage control.
Drake flopped onto the far end of the sofa, slouching with long limbs and an insouciant grin. Aleks took his seat with military precision, spine straight, expression unreadable. His mic wire trailed neatly across his lap. Even from across the room, he looked… sharp. Sharper than usual.
Caroline caught me watching and gave me a look. “Enigmatic,” she mouthed.
I rolled my eyes and faced forward, notebook in hand. The odds of me getting called on were slim—but I had to be here.
Because Aleks Volkov was still giving nothing away.
And I was dying to find out what he’d do next.
“You got a question?” Caroline whispered to me.
“I always have questions.” I grinned. “But they won’t pick me.”
“Ugh. Don’t be one of those women, Elena.” Caroline sat up straighter and part of me bristled at her comment. But I didn’t have time to ruminate. The room was settling, the cameras turning red, and the press conference was officially live.
Richard Haversham leaned forward in his armchair, legs crossed, tablet in hand.
“Final panel of the day, ladies and gentlemen. We’re joined now by Callum Drake and Aleksandr Volkov.
Let’s keep things concise and professional—no dramatic monologues, please.
” His tone was dry, the kind of wit that earned smirks from the paddock regulars.
“We’ll take a few questions from the floor.
Bill?” He indicated one of the old guard from a daily sports publication.
He asked something bland about Obsidian’s position in the Constructors’ Championship being challenged by Hawthorn and Nova. Volkov gave the answer that he’d undoubtedly been told to give.
“We respect our rivals,” he said coolly. “It’s a long season. We focus on one race at a time.”
A few more questions followed. Drake handled them with charm, Aleks with steel. I tried to watch both equally, but my gaze kept drifting back to Volkov. He hadn’t looked at me once—but I could feel him. That electric undercurrent. The live wire no one else could see.
“Yes, Caroline?” Richard said, tugging me out of my thoughts. I hadn’t even seen Caroline’s hand go up.
My friend dropped her hand and looked down at her notes, coming over flustered, which was not like her at all.
“Sorry, I had something, just a sec…” She flipped through her notebook but her foot pressed down hard on mine and I winced. “Grab it,” she hissed.
Oh! Realisation dawned. I jumped to my feet. “Callum, there’s been a lot of speculation about how certain teams manage performance across different conditions. From a driver’s perspective, how much influence do you really have over setup strategy?”
The room was deathly quiet. Heidi, standing just out of the shot of the cameras, barely contained her irritation. Volkov’s face was unreadable, but I sensed the effort he was exerting to maintain his neutral expression. I lowered myself back into my seat, stunned that I’d got my question out.
Richard didn’t flinch—just turned his head slightly to Callum, eyebrows arched in polite invitation. “That’s a good one. Care to enlighten us, Mr Drake?”
Callum shifted in his seat and gave a sheepish half-laugh, buying himself a second.
“Well, that depends how many races you’ve won.” He glanced sideways at Aleks with a grin. “Some of us have more say than others.”
A few chuckles rippled around the room. But his expression quickly sobered.
“No, seriously—it’s a team sport. We give feedback, we talk through balance, tyre behaviour, things like that.
But setup? That’s mostly the engineers. I mean, we’ve got the data, the sims, the historical models.
You don’t argue with that. You just… trust the process.
” He shrugged. “Sometimes it works. Sometimes you’re P12 in Japan. ”
More laughs, but Aleks didn’t crack a smile. He stared ahead, stone-faced.
Callum glanced his way again, then turned to the crowd.
“I think every driver wants more control. But the truth is, nine times out of ten, the car decides how the race is going to go.”
Trust the process. That phrase again. I’d heard it twice already today. Once from a team rep, once from an engineer.
The process.
The software.
The voice in the earpiece.
I scribbled the words into my notes, then glanced back at Volkov. Still silent. Still guarded. But his jaw was clenched hard enough to crack stone.
Richard glanced at his tablet, then addressed the room. “All right, folks. That’ll wrap us up for today. Gentlemen, thank you for your time.”
Heidi was already moving, ushering both drivers off-stage with brisk professionalism. The second they disappeared through the door, the atmosphere relaxed.
“Nice one” Caroline said. “That rattled a few cages.”
“Thanks. I can’t believe you did that. Won’t your producer be pissed off?”
She shrugged. “He’ll be more bothered about Moretti’s double entendres earlier, to be honest. Don’t worry about it.” She began packing her things and I followed suit.
We headed out into the cool, late afternoon air. The sky was heavy with clouds, but so far it was staying dry.
“You owe me a fiver.” I hitched my bag higher on my shoulder and grinned at Caroline. “Haversham never called Volkov ‘enigmatic’.”
“Damn. I’ll give it to you later.”
“Sure.” I smirked.
A group of F1 Academy drivers walked past us, laughing and pointing at something over my shoulder.
I turned and caught sight of Luca strolling down the paddock, hands in his pockets.
The Academy drivers broke into giggles when he granted them with a dimpled grin.
I would not be an eighteen year old girl again for the world.
I rolled my eyes and hitched my bag up onto my shoulder.
“Hey, Archer,” Luca said as he drew near. Caroline looked my way and pressed her lips together, biting back whatever she was thinking. I glowered at her before turning my attention to the sexy Italian.
“Hey yourself.”
“I caught the end of the Obsidian panel. Blistering question. I enjoyed watching Volkov squirm.”
“I’m sure you aren’t the only one,” Caroline said, smirk fixed on her round face.
“I like to keep you guys on your toes.” I put in.
“Oh, don’t group me together with them, my ego can’t take it.” He placed a hand on his heart in mock offence.
“As if your ego isn’t big enough for plenty of bruises,” I chided back, grinning. OK, I admit it, I was flirting. Sue me.
The smile withered on my face when the Obsidian team filed out of their hospitality suite—both drivers, PR people, Norton Ross, and a few engineers—like the New Zealand All-Blacks, moving in sync in their black uniforms. They swept past us and I felt myself shrinking under the watchful gaze of Ross and several others.
Volkov shot daggers at Moretti, and then me, and something unpleasant happened to my insides. They seemed to turn to jelly.
I tucked my hair behind my ear, pulse stuttering, and clutched my bag tighter. Guilt, fear, something else—I couldn’t name it, but it burned.
Luca watched the Obsidian team pass then returned his attention to me, shaking his head slightly.
“Yeah, they’re rattled. Keep it up, Archer.” He gave my shoulder a playful nudge and swept off in the opposite direction to the black-uniformed unit still moving down the middle of the paddock.
“Oh God.” I groaned and looked up at the sky.
“That was interesting,” Caroline said, her voice soft and contained.
“Fascinating, sure.” I said, no energy left in my body.
A single drop of rain landed on my cheek. I straightened my head and swiped it away.
“Quick dinner before the event tonight?” Caroline asked, smiling. The events of the last half hour were nothing to her. Nothing personal. Nothing critical. As easily dismissed as that rain drop. But to me, I was right in the middle of a storm.