Chapter Nineteen – Consequences
Aleksandr Volkov – Shanghai Hotel Conference Suite, Monday Morning
I’d faced post-race debriefs before. But never like this.
Obsidian had commandeered one of the hotel’s conference suites—navy carpet, beige walls, rows of uncomfortable chairs that looked like they’d witnessed their share of corporate bloodbaths—seeing as our garage and support suite had already been dismantled and was on its way to Seoul.
The rest of the team were already seated, some still bleary-eyed from the aftermath of yesterday’s disaster.
No one talked about it openly, but every glance, every stiff posture said the same thing:
They were waiting for me to break.
I’d rather have taken another punch than sit through this meeting.
Ross paced in front of the projector screen, arms folded so tight I half expected the seams of his shirt to rip.
His usually impeccable appearance was a little askew, his hair not quite as neat, a faint sign of stubble on his jaw.
Mac sat at one end of the table, jaw clenched, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.
Terri typed notes into her tablet with the ferocity of a woman who’d been awake since dawn.
Drake was leaning back in his chair, his feet up and crossed at the ankle on another chair beside him.
Cocky bastard. He hadn’t crashed. He’d scraped seventh place, bagging his first points of the season.
I took my seat opposite him without a word.
Ross didn’t waste time.
“Well,” he said, pinning me with a stare that could’ve cut metal. “I think we all know why we’re here.”
Silence. Heavy enough to choke on.
“Aleks,” he continued, stepping closer. “Would you like to explain what the hell happened yesterday?”
Every eye turned to me. My pulse thudded in my throat.
I kept my voice even, steady. “The conditions were poor. I misjudged my braking point. I took too much speed into the corner.”
“A misjudgment,” Ross repeated, slow and biting. “Is that your final answer?”
“It’s the truth.”
Not the whole truth—because the whole truth was that I’d lost control long before the car did.
The whole truth was standing on a balcony with Moretti’s mouth too close to her ear.
The whole truth was eight seconds of blind rage carried straight into Turn Fourteen.
And really, the whole truth was up against her hotel room wall.
But none of them needed to know that.
Ross exhaled sharply, pacing again. “Let me be crystal clear. I don’t care that you DNFed. I don’t care that we lost points. We can claw that back.”
He stopped. Turned. Smiled.
Smiled.
“What I do care about,” he said, “is that Moretti punched you on live television. That—” he jabbed a finger in the air, “—was the real gift of the weekend.”
A ripple of uncomfortable laughter passed through the room. My stomach twisted.
Ross continued, “Luca will be reprimanded. Fined. His PR is circling the drain. Sponsors are shaken. Hawthorn are scrambling. Do you know how rare it is, Aleks, for your mistake to be the second most embarrassing moment of the day?”
He wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part.
“Your composure,” Ross went on, “your refusal to engage—that’s what’s saving our image right now. You walk away from a fist in the face? That’s heroic in the eyes of sponsors. Calm. Professional. The anti-Moretti.”
My jaw tightened. I didn’t feel calm. Or professional. Or heroic.
I felt like the inside of my skull was a grenade pin pulled halfway out. If control was a currency, I was flat broke.
Mac cleared his throat, finally speaking. “We just need to understand your head-space, lad. You’re better than this. You don’t make rookie errors.”
My voice came out rougher than intended. “It won’t happen again.”
Ross stared at me long and hard. Searching for cracks.
“Good,” he said finally. “Because Seoul is a reset. I want stability. I want focus. I want you back in championship-winning form. With Rivers taking the win yesterday, he’s leading the championship too.
We need to control that. It’s still early in the season, we can recover, but we need you on form.
And I swear to god, Aleks—” his voice dropped, low and lethal, “—if anything like yesterday happens again, I will sit you. I don’t care how many trophies you’ve brought through our doors. ”
The room froze.
“That understood?”
“Yes,” I said.
But the truth was, I wasn’t sure I understood anything any more.
The meeting disbanded with a scatter of chair-scrapes and hushed conversations. I stayed seated for a few seconds, elbows on the table, letting the noise wash past me like static.
Terri paused by my shoulder. “You okay?”
No.
Not even close.
“I’m fine,” I said.
She gave me a look that said she knew better, but left it alone.
Mac lingered too, watching me with that steady, paternal scrutiny of his. He put a hand on my shoulder—brief, grounding.
“Sort yourself out, lad,” he murmured. “Whatever’s eating at you… don’t let it win.”
He walked out.
I stayed behind, staring at the blank projector screen. My reflection stared back—jaw bruised, eyes tired, hair still damp from the shower.
A tight ache coiled in my chest.
I didn’t know what I wanted more—to see Elena again, or to pretend none of it ever happened.
Control.
I’d built my whole life on it.
Corner by corner.
Decision by decision.
Nothing left to chance.
But Elena Archer had blown a hole straight through the armour I’d spent years constructing, and now everything felt too sharp. Too exposed.
Terrifying.
I stood, and forced in a slow breath.
Seoul was coming up fast.
I needed to get my head back.
Before the wheels came off completely.
Elena Archer – Arrival, Seoul Grand Prix Week
The Seoul skyline shimmered like a promise as the car pulled up outside the hotel—glass and steel rising against a pale blue sky, banners for the Grand Prix flapping along the boulevard. The air was crisp, the kind that woke up your lungs whether you wanted it to or not.
Inside the hotel lobby, it was chaos. Cameras slung over shoulders, radio teams coordinating interviews on Bluetooth headsets, team personnel wheeling black-and-silver flight cases through the crowd.
It wasn’t uncommon for media and some of the teams to be booked into the same hotel, but it still made for awkward elevator rides and stilted breakfast buffets.
Graham’s voice rose beside me as we walked in. “Elena, tell me you brought a second pair of shoes. Those heels look like they’re about to surrender.”
“They’re broken in,” I muttered.
“So is my trust in humanity, but here we are.” He grinned, checking the contents of his bag.
He wove through the press scrum just ahead of me, trench coat flapping, messenger bag bouncing against his hip.
Mid-fifties, silver hair in need of a trim, and the kind of face that looked like it had seen every scandal, strike, and celebratory champagne spray the motorsport world had to offer.
His shirt was wrinkled and his shoes looked like they’d fought off a boarding gate delay—but his eyes were sharp, alive.
“Why did you fly all the way out here?” I asked with an exasperated sigh.
“There’s blood in the water,” he said, passing me a lanyard with our Seoul paddock credentials. “And I want to see the sharks circle in person.”
“Right.” I fought an eye-roll.
“Okay. You’ll be in the paddock first thing. I want colour, energy, snappy quotes. But whatever else you do—if you see Volkov, I want his mood in three adjectives or less.”
I arched a brow. “You planning to print emojis next?”
“Don’t tempt me. Your punch piece is still trending. Social media can’t shut up about it. We’re top of the aggregate feed for the week. I haven’t seen numbers like this since Jax Rivers was photographed in Monaco getting slapped by that supermodel.”
“I’m glad you’re thrilled,” I muttered. “I’m not sure Aleks would agree.”
“He’s a big boy,” Graham said. “He’ll live. Unless Moretti finds him first.”
That made my stomach twist.
We crossed the lobby toward the lifts, weaving through a sea of branded backpacks and hotel staff wheeling crates of camera gear. That was when I felt it—a prickling along my spine, the sense of being watched.
I glanced left.
Luca Moretti stood at the check-in desk, flanked by a pair of Hawthorn staff. He wasn’t talking. Just staring. Right at me.
His curls were damp, a hood hanging over the collar of his jacket, eyes hidden behind sleek black sunglasses—but the tension rolled off him like a storm front. The way his jaw clenched as he watched me, the way his hand flexed against the strap of his duffel bag…
Yeah. He’d read the article.
And he hadn’t liked what he saw.
Our eyes locked. Or at least, I was pretty sure they did. It was hard to tell through the shades, but I felt it in my bones. Recognition. Disbelief. Fury.
He didn’t say a word.
He didn’t have to.
I turned away first, pulse quickening as I hit the elevator button and stared too hard at the closed doors.
Behind me, Graham whistled low. “Well. That was chilly.”
“Yep.”
“He’s not going to punch you, is he?”
“No,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure. “He knows better.”
“Does he?” Graham said, stepping into the lift beside me. “Because I’m not sure anyone knows what the hell’s going on any more.”
Neither did I.
But something told me it was about to get worse.
Aleksandr Volkov – Seoul Hotel Bar
The bar was dimly lit, all amber glass and polished wood, tucked into a quiet corner of the hotel lobby. Low jazz hummed over the speakers. Most of the press had retired for the night or were still at team events, and I walked in, scanning the scattered faces around the room.
Elena was sitting at a round table at the far end of the bar with her laptop open on the table and a fruity-looking drink beside it. She glanced up, as if feeling my gaze on her. The corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.
I headed for the bar, ordered a vodka, neat, and made my way over to her table, making every effort to appear casual.
“I thought you’d want to keep avoiding me,” she said, as I sat beside her.
“I needed time,” I said. “To get my head straight.”
“And is it?”
“Not even close.”
She sipped whatever she’d ordered. Something citrusy. Fresh.
I took a deep breath. “I owe you an apology.”
That surprised her. Her brows lifted, faintly.
“For leaving,” I said. “After we—I shouldn't have walked out like that.”
Elena nodded slowly. “It wasn’t exactly the afterglow I was hoping for.”
I huffed a breath. “I was overwhelmed. Not by you,” I added quickly. “By… everything. I don’t usually lose control.”
“No kidding.”
She said it lightly, but I caught the edge underneath. I deserved it.
“I don’t regret what happened,” I said. “But we were reckless.”
That sobered her. She looked away for a second, then back. “I’m on the pill,” she said quietly. “I have been for years. But you’re right. We should’ve talked first.”
“We’re talking now.”
A pause.
Her eyes met mine again, steadier this time. “Do you regret it? Really?”
“No.” I swallowed. “But I need to do better. We both do. This thing… whatever it is… it’s not going away.
And if we’re going to keep doing this—” I hesitated.
Then I reached into my jacket and pulled out my phone.
I handed it to her, open to a blank contact.
“I don’t want to be a ghost any more,” I said, quietly.
“If this is going to keep happening—us—I should at least be reachable.”
She took the phone. Typed something in. A tiny smirk dancing on her lips.
When she handed it back, the contact read:
Danger
“Progress,” she said softly.
“It’s a start.”
I hit the call button and her phone buzzed with my incoming call. I cancelled it and watched her add my number to her contacts. I snorted when I saw how she’d saved it as a string of emojiis: a car, an explosion, and the sweating face.
We drank in silence for a moment, shoulders just brushing. Not quite touching.
Then, softly, she asked, “So… are you always this intense after a crash, Champion?”
“I’m always this intense,” I said. “The crash just stripped away the last of my self-control.”
She smiled. “I kind of like it.”
“Elena.”
She turned, and our faces were too close.
I didn’t kiss her.
Not here.
Not yet.
But I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
So I whispered instead. “This is bound to be trouble.”
Her breath hitched.
“Yep,” she said. “But don’t think I’ll go easy on you, professionally.”
“I wouldn’t respect you if you did.”
Another beat.
Then she clicked her laptop shut and got to her feet. “Text me when you’re not brooding. Or when you are. I might answer anyway.”
She walked away without looking back.
And I sat there with my drink, heart pounding. I added a note to her contact information: Journalist. Nuisance. Dangerously hot.
Yes, this was definitely going to get messy.