Chapter Eighteen – Shanghai Fallout
MARTY: And—oh! Oh no, no, no! That is a huge shunt into Turn Fourteen! Yellow flags waving—Volkov and Moretti are both off! That was heavy.
TARA: Jesus, what just happened? Sorry—sorry. Uh, looks like... replay now—yeah, Volkov dives up the inside and—oof—makes contact. Front wing to rear tyre. That is a massive collision!
MARTY: That’s not a tap, folks. That is a serious impact. Moretti’s car is backwards in the runoff and Volkov’s is buried in the barrier. Debris everywhere.
TARA: And this’ll be the headline: both drivers are out. Lap fifteen. No points. No podium. No mercy.
MARTY: Let’s hope they’re okay. The safety car’s out. Medical car on route—Moretti’s moving. Volkov too. Good signs. But the carnage—
TARA: Hold on—hold on, we’re staying with the feed—they’re out of the cars and—
MARTY: Oh no. Ohhhh, this is boiling over. Moretti’s gone after Volkov.
TARA: They're across the barrier. Helmets off. Oh god. Oh—he’s hit him! That was a punch—right to the jaw!
MARTY: Bloody hell.
TARA: Marty!
MARTY: Apologies! But—come on. Moretti just clocked Volkov on live international television. That’s—well, that’s a full meltdown.
TARA: Marshals are in now. They're dragging him back. Volkov’s staying calm—or at least trying to.
MARTY: I... I mean. Wow. That is going to send shockwaves through the paddock.
TARA: It’s already trending. My producer’s holding up a tablet. “Volkov vs Moretti” is blowing up. No surprise.
MARTY: What the hell happens now? Penalties? Suspensions? A full-blown investigation?
TARA: You can bet the stewards will be pulling every inch of footage. And I’d hate to be either team’s PR right now.
MARTY: Yeah. This one’s going to get messy.
TARA: We’ll bring you updates as we get them. For now—deep breath, everyone. The race is still live. The safety car is leading the pack, and we’ll reset as soon as we can. But... that was absolute chaos.
MARTY: Fifteen laps in. Two front runners out. One punch thrown. Buckle up.
Elena Archer – Press Pen, Shanghai Circuit
The gasp that tore through the press pen wasn’t just from me—it was a ripple of shock that silenced every clinking glass and halted every lazy conversation mid-sentence.
I stared at the screen. Watched the impact again in slow motion. The spray. The shudder. The wreckage spinning through the wet.
Then the punch.
My hand flew to my mouth as Luca Moretti’s fist connected with Aleksandr Volkov’s jaw, right there on live television, with marshals shouting and cameras flashing and the whole bloody world watching.
“Oh my god,” I whispered. “He hit him.”
Caroline stepped up beside me. “He deserved it,” she muttered under her breath.
I didn’t answer. My heart was hammering so hard I thought I might be sick. The camera panned to a replay. Multiple angles. Frame by frame. The lunge. The collision. The crash.
I knew what everyone else was thinking: Volkov caused it.
And he had.
But the way he walked away from that car, jaw set, shoulders squared—even after being clocked across the face—it didn’t look like guilt.
It looked like war.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I fumbled to pull it free.
Graham’s name lit up the display.
I hesitated, then answered.
“Tell me you’re still at the circuit,” he said. No greeting.
“I’m watching the feed from the press pen, yeah. I—did you see—?”
“Of course I bloody saw. Every person with a screen saw. This is it, Elena. This is the story.”
My throat dried. “You don’t want the software story any more?”
“Still want it. But this takes precedence. Volkov vs Moretti is everywhere. The crash, the punch, the rivalry—this is your angle. I want something online by tonight. Fast. Sharp. In your voice.”
My eyes were glued to the screen as they showed a close-up of Aleks brushing blood from his lip.
“Is he okay?” I asked, a shake in my voice.
“Still on his feet, which is more than I can say for his reputation. Now go find the pulse of this thing. The emotion. The fallout. Give me fire.”
He hung up.
I stood there, phone still pressed to my ear, feeling like I’d just been dropped into the middle of a war zone. I was furious. But I couldn’t tear my eyes off the screen.
I knew Aleks had made a dangerous mistake.
I also suspected he’d made it because of me.
Elena’s Hotel Room, Sunday Night
The headline glared back at me, sharp and brutal:
‘Volkov vs Moretti: When Rivalry Turns to Ruin.’
Beneath it, the image was already iconic—Luca’s fist mid-swing, Aleks’s head snapping sideways, droplets of rain and sweat suspended in the air like shattered glass.
My byline sat just above it, quiet and damning.
‘Elena Archer, Shanghai.’
I sat cross-legged on the bed in my pyjamas, laptop balanced on my knees, the glow from the screen casting cold light over the hotel room.
My stomach was in knots. The view counter was ticking upward with sickening speed—twenty-three thousand, twenty-eight, thirty-four.
Comments were rolling in so fast the site was glitching.
I couldn’t stop refreshing.
I’d written it fast, fuelled by adrenaline and too many conflicting emotions. The story was clean, urgent, fair… but not soft. I hadn’t held back. I couldn’t afford to. And maybe part of me wanted him to see it. To feel it.
My foot bounced uncontrollably on the mattress.
Graham had already sent a single-word email in response:
Boom.
Caroline had texted me a string of fire emojis and: girl you are trending in motorsport right now.
I wanted to feel good about it. Proud. Maybe even triumphant.
Instead, I felt like I might vibrate out of my own skin.
I’d barely had time to shut my laptop when the knock came at the door.
I froze.
Another knock. Firm. Not urgent, but not casual either.
I slid off the bed, heart hammering, feet silent on the carpet. Crossed the room like I was stepping into enemy territory.
I didn’t ask who it was. I didn’t have to.
I opened the door.
Aleks stood there, damp hair curling at his temples, dressed in black joggers and a clingy Obsidian T-shirt. A thin bruise bloomed along his jaw. His eyes were hard—furious, focused.
“You couldn’t wait even a day,” Aleks said, voice low and cold. “Had to get your story out while the blood was still fresh?”
I stiffened. “It’s news, Champion. It would’ve been someone else if not me.”
“But it was you.”
The words cracked like a whip. He took one slow step forward, not touching me—but close enough to make me feel it.
“You think you’re angry?” I said, heat rising in my chest. “Try being the one left standing on a balcony like an idiot while you vanished into thin air. It’s been days! I’ve heard nothing from you.”
His jaw tensed. “You think that’s the same as what happened out there today?”
“No,” I said. “But you started this fire. Don’t act shocked that it’s burning.”
We stood there, a breath apart, rain still tapping at the hotel window behind me.
I should’ve slammed the door in his face.
But he was lightning fast. He lunged forward and I staggered back. He swung the door shut behind him and grasped me by the throat. Not to harm, no. It was firm but controlled and his blazing eyes searched my face. A beat. And then our mouths collided.
He walked me back into the bathroom wall, pinning me there by the throat while his lips and tongue assaulted mine. I gasped for breath as my hands groped under his shirt, finding warm skin over taut muscles.
The kiss broke just long enough for him to tug the shirt over his head and toss it aside.
Then his mouth was back on mine. I whimpered into it, impatient for more.
I needed it all, now. My hands found the waist of his joggers and tugged them over his hips.
Before I could grab hold of anything else, he pressed his firm body flush against mine, using his weight to pin me to the wall.
His hands fumbled with the waistband of my tiny pyjama shorts and he yanked them down with as little patience as I felt. I swiftly lifted my top and pulled it over my head, sending my thick, dark curls cascading loose from the flimsy knot I’d tied my hair in.
Clothes shed, and not a moment to pause and think about what the fuck we were doing, he hoisted me up and I wrapped my legs around his hips as he thrust into me.
I gasped with the suddenness of it, but his mouth was on mine again and his hands were gripping my backside hard.
No pause, no hesitation. He began thrusting hard and fast, ramming me against the wall.
Pain bloomed but it was dwarfed by the rush of intense pleasure. Fuck. My mind swirled too fast to form thoughts. My body was lit up with sensation.
It was rough, frenzied, passionate. The heat was all I knew.
My climax rushed up through my body and my legs gripped him tighter. I broke the kiss and cried out, unable to contain it as I came.
His grip on my arse tightened and he thrust harder and faster. Rage lit his eyes even in the shadowy corner by the door. I held on tight and moaned my way through another orgasm. My body was on fire, for him.
“Fuck,” he groaned. His thrusts broke rhythm and his cock swelled inside me. With a rush of air, he came, ramming me hard with each stabbing thrust.
I moaned, still shaking through my orgasm. My fingers were threaded together around the back of his neck and I held on tight as he gave me one final slam against the wall. My grip loosened slightly and I released a shaking breath.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out of me and set me on shaking feet. I slumped but he held me up.
“Are you okay?” he asked, concern in his light eyes.
I nodded and straightened, looking into his face.
“That was—”
“Yeah.”
His cum trickled down my thighs, bringing me back to reality with a bump. What had we done? We’d crossed a line that we couldn’t walk back from.
Aleks took an unsteady step back and he stooped to pull up his pants. I stood there, limp as a noodle and emotionally numb.
I watched as he fished his t-shirt from the floor and shoved his arms and head back into it. He didn’t speak. Neither did I. What was there to say? Except for everything still unsaid.
With a brief and awkward glance my way, Aleks slunk to the door, his head hung low. He paused with his hand on the handle. He turned his head slightly, looking back over his shoulder.
“It was a good article. But I hated it.”
And with that, he left.
I collapsed to the floor and pulled my knees against my chest. I was still shaking, still coming down.
Anger pulsed beneath my skin, but it was mixed with something far more dangerous.
Something I had a nagging feeling he felt too.
More than attraction. Connection. Longing.
And crippling fear about what that might mean.