Chapter Sixteen – Shanghai Race Weekend
Aleksandr Volkov – Qualifying
“Ease off earlier on Turn Eleven, Aleks. That was too hot.”
“Copy.” I loosened my grip on the steering wheel and flexed my fingers. I’d put in a few good times already and even though I started the session tense, I was loosening up now. I was more focused than I’d been in weeks and it showed.
“Nice work,” Mac said in my earpiece. “You’ve got clean air and good delta—push for a flying lap.”
“Copy.” I put my foot down and pushed for a timed lap to get me through Q2.
After the previous night’s rain, the track was wet, but it wasn’t raining for the session, which worked in my favour. The car was responding well to me. I’d had some sleep and some space. Not seeing Elena seemed to have been good for my mental state.
I soared through the last turn with a feeling like I was flying. I’d crushed my lap, I knew it before Mac said anything.
“That’s P1 for Q2, Aleks. Solid lap. That’s more like it.”
“Yes!” I pumped my fist in a slightly uncharacteristic show of emotion. But the relief to be back on my game was big.
I pulled back into the pit lane and hoisted myself out of the car.
“Good job out there,” Ross said, as he swept over to me.
I nodded in reply and tugged off my helmet. The mechanics swarmed the car, making their checks. I watched them like a hawk. Elena’s suspicions still ringing in my ears. I wanted to have faith in my team, but the doubt was there and the only thing I could do about it was be observant.
“Callum’s out,” Mac said in my earpiece. He was still sitting out on the pit wall, waiting for Q3. “So it’s all on you now, lad. You up to securing us P1?”
“As always.”
The mechanics finished their checks and I hopped back into the car, securing my helmet and strapping back in for the final stint of qualifying.
The green light blinked at the end of the pit lane and I rolled out behind two other cars. We were on slicks now—a bold call, with the racing line just starting to dry.
“Grip’s coming, but it’s not perfect yet,” Mac warned in my ear. “Be patient on the first lap, then push. Track should come to you.”
“Copy that.”
The world narrowed to the cockpit, the sound of the engine, the feel of the track beneath me.
I twisted through the corners with more confidence than I’d had all season—reading the grip, adjusting on instinct.
Sector one came clean. Sector two, I clipped the apex a little too sharp into Turn Seven and had to correct.
“Careful there,” Mac warned. “Keep it tidy.”
“Copy.”
I let the mistake go. No time to dwell. Coming out of Turn Ten, I spotted the racing green and gold flash of Luca Moretti in my mirrors—Hawthorn’s golden boy, already on a flying lap and closing fast. I could’ve moved aside, lifted off and let him through. But I wasn’t going to hand him P1.
I stayed my line through Turns Twelve and Thirteen.
He tucked in close, then pulled alongside as we approached the straight, like he was going to drag me down the stretch.
“Volkov, play nice,” Mac warned, firm now. “Don’t take the bait.”
“I’m not,” I said, jaw tight.
But I didn’t lift either.
We ran almost side-by-side for a heartbeat too long—close enough that I could see his helmet turn toward me. He held his nerve a second longer than I did, peeling off with a cocky swerve toward the racing line.
Bastard.
I let it go and focused on the next lap.
Clean entry. Strong exit. I kept my foot down through sector three, chasing purple times, hunting milliseconds.
The chequered flag waved as I crossed the line.
“P2,” Mac called. “Moretti just snatched pole.”
I let out a breath and eased off the throttle. It wasn’t the top spot—but I’d made the front row. That was what mattered.
“Good recovery, Aleks,” Ross said, voice crackling in. “You’re where you need to be. We fight from the front.”
“Copy that.”
I coasted into the pit lane and pulled up to the garage, engine winding down. Mechanics lined up like soldiers, clapping as I climbed out.
Mac met me by the car, his expression somewhere between satisfied and unreadable. “Tidy work. You let him through when it mattered. Smart choice.”
I pulled off my gloves and nodded. “He’s fast.”
“So are you.”
I caught a glimpse of Moretti receiving congratulations from his team just the next garage down, all swagger and smirk, his gold-tipped visor now propped on his helmet like a crown. He glanced my way and tipped two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute.
I didn’t return it.
Let him enjoy the win today. Tomorrow was the real race.
And I’d be right beside him when it counted.
Elena Archer – Shanghai Circuit, Saturday Afternoon
I jogged down the media corridor, clutching my notebook to my chest and dodging camera crews like I was on a timed obstacle course.
The paddock was chaos—drivers darting between debriefs, engineers on headsets, PR reps with clipboards barking orders like drill sergeants.
The kind of chaos I usually thrived in. But today?
Today I was barely holding it together.
I’d just wrapped interviews with three midfield drivers—none of whom had anything useful to say—and still had to upload notes, chase a quote from someone at Nova, and maybe breathe at some point. Just not yet.
“Elena!”
I turned at the sound of my name and spotted Caroline leaning against the rail at the top of the stairs leading up to the sponsor lounge terrace, one arm draped over the barrier like she was born to pose there. Her curls bounced with each step as she descended toward me.
“Where are you off to in such a rush?” she asked, sweeping an assessing gaze over me. “You look like you’ve been running a qualifying lap yourself.”
“Trying to get five usable quotes before the Academy race starts,” I said, already half-pivoting to leave. “Jax Rivers promised me a comment and then disappeared into hospitality.”
“Of course he did,” she said dryly. “Well, you’re in luck. He’s upstairs.”
I blinked at her.
“In the suite,” she clarified, nodding toward the VIP lounge perched above the paddock. “There’s champagne, too. You might even survive the rest of the day.”
“I don’t have an invite.”
“You’re my plus one,” she said, linking her arm through mine before I could protest. “Come on. It’s good for your career to be seen in those circles, remember?”
I frowned, hesitating on the stairs.
“Elena.” Her voice dropped, her smile sharpening. “You want to break this story? Then you need allies. Access. Eyes on you. There’s more than one way to dig.”
She wasn’t wrong. But I hated how much sense she made.
With a sigh, I let her pull me along.
The hospitality suite was all polished marble and soft jazz, a sharp contrast to the roar of engines echoing from the track beyond. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave a panoramic view of the circuit, and out on the wide balcony, guests mingled with glasses of Perrier-Jouet in hand.
Everywhere I looked: designer dresses, sleek suits, perfectly styled hair.
I tugged at the hem of my linen blouse, painfully aware of the faint smudge on my sleeve and the slight frizz to my ponytail.
“I don’t belong here,” I muttered.
Caroline was already handing me a glass of champagne. “Fake it, babe. You’re too clever not to. And besides…” Her gaze flicked toward the far end of the terrace. “You’ve got admirers.”
I followed her line of sight and instantly recognised the olive-toned skin and perfectly dishevelled curls of Luca Moretti.
Still in his branded race kit, the Hawthorn gold slashes across his chest somehow looked more high fashion than sportswear.
He leaned against the balcony rail, sipping from a tumbler and surveying the crowd with bored elegance.
Then his eyes landed on me—and sharpened.
He gave a slight nod, then pushed off the rail and made his way toward us like a man who never had to chase.
“I see the smoothest operator in motorsport has found us,” Caroline said. “Careful, Elena. He’ll charm your shoes off.”
“Just her shoes?” Luca asked mildly.
I gave him a look that made Caroline snort into her champagne.
“Shall we?” Luca asked, gesturing back to the balcony. Caroline led the way and I followed, the Italian driver right behind me.
Out on the balcony, the Academy cars were lining up on the grid. Below and opposite us, the stands buzzed with excitement, the low whine of engines building as the seconds ticked down.
Caroline nudged me. “Look at them—half our age, twice our guts. Makes me feel ancient.”
“I know what you mean,” I replied, scanning the cars on the track. It was exciting to be looking at future generations of female drivers, all vying for a chance to progress into a male-dominated sport.
“Miranda Sterling’s on pole again,” Caroline said, gesturing toward the big screen feed mounted above the balcony. “She’s been on fire this season.”
“She came up through karting with Sofia Vega,” I added, grateful for the shift in topic. “They trained at the same junior academy in Spain. Sofia still talks about her like they’re sisters.”
“Sterling’s got ice in her veins,” Luca said, eyes following the formation lap. “She’ll be in F3 by next year. Maybe higher.”
There was genuine respect in his tone—rare, coming from a man who barely acknowledged most of the grid.
The cars lined up.
I took a sip of champagne, forcing myself to focus. This was what I needed: proximity to drivers. A chance to listen. Observe. Ask the right question at the right moment.
But I felt Luca’s gaze shift back to me.
“You’ve got something in your eyes,” he said softly.
I looked up.
“Curiosity,” he added. “It suits you.”
My heart gave a small, treacherous stutter.
I was supposed to be here chasing leads.
But at that moment, the lights on the gantry blinked off, and the cars launched from the grid with a scream of power.
And Luca Moretti didn’t look at the track.
He looked at me.
He leaned closer to speak softly at my ear despite the volume of the track. “You’re chasing the wrong tail.”
“I’m sorry?” I turned to look at him but he swiftly manoeuvred himself back to my ear.
“Your story has legs. I know it does. But you won’t find anything sniffing around the Obsidian garage. Do you really think they’d pull off any kind of tampering under parc fermé conditions without someone at the FIA helping them?”
“Do you know something specific?” I asked, barely able to contain myself.
“I wish I did, I’m just trying to point you in the right direction.
It’s where I’d look, if it were me,” he said, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “But what do I know? I’m just the guy who drives fast.” He stepped back, sipped his drink, and turned his attention to the track as Miranda Sterling came screeching past at a hundred and fifty miles per hour.