Chapter Twenty – Seoul Media Day
Elena Archer – Media Day Press Conference
The press room buzzed with anticipation long before the drivers arrived.
Aleksandr Volkov and Luca Moretti were both on the line-up.
Volkov entered first, flanked by an Obsidian press officer. His usual ice-mask was firmly in place, hair immaculate, posture military straight. He took the far left end of the crisp, white sofa, nodded once to the room, and folded his hands in his lap. Not a flicker of emotion.
Moretti arrived a minute later—black sunglasses, leather jacket over his racing green team polo, casual as ever except for the tension in his jaw.
He took the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a safe distance and two other drivers—Jax Rivers and Tempest rookie Riley Chen—sandwiched between them like sacrificial lambs.
Jax looked like he was just missing a bucket of popcorn.
Riley was too new to know better—he waved cheerily at the cameras.
I leaned forward in my seat, phone ready to record, notebook balanced on my thigh.
Richard Haversham was seated in the armchair to the right, mic in hand and a smile pulled so tight it looked painful. He cleared his throat into the mic.
“Let’s begin with the obvious. Mr Moretti, the FIA has issued a formal reprimand and fine for your conduct track-side in Shanghai. As part of your penalty, you're required to offer a public statement of apology.”
Moretti removed his sunglasses and lifted his mic.
Here it came.
He looked straight ahead, not at Volkov. His tone was flat. “I regret my reaction after the crash. Emotions were running high. I allowed frustration to take over and I acted in a way that doesn’t reflect the standards of the sport or my team. I apologise to my fans, my sponsors, and the FIA.”
A pause.
Then, like he’d just remembered the final item on a shopping list:
“And to Aleksandr Volkov.”
Aleks’s expression didn’t shift. Not one muscle.
There was an audible exhale from the Hawthorn handler in the corner who’d entered with Moretti.
I didn’t recognise her and wondered if she’d been brought in to fix this PR disaster.
She was tall, slender, olive-skinned and had immaculate, dark hair tied in a tight bun.
Glasses were perched on her nose but she looked more like she belonged on a fashion runway than in motorsport.
Richard nodded tightly. “Thank you, Luca. We’ll open the floor to questions now. Please keep your questions respectful, relevant, and limited to one per outlet.”
Hands flew up. The mic was passed around like a hot grenade.
Softball questions came first—Jax’s strategy, Riley’s rookie season, Aleks’s focus moving forward. He answered in clipped, professional tones. Controlled.
And then the mic reached me.
I didn’t stand. Just angled forward enough to let my voice carry.
“Elena Archer, International Motorsport Review. My question’s for both Mr Volkov and Mr Moretti. Given your very public altercation in Shanghai, what measures have you put in place—personally or with your teams—to ensure your rivalry doesn’t compromise driver safety on track again?”
The silence was deafening.
Moretti’s jaw ticked.
Volkov’s gaze finally lifted—to me.
Not cold. Not angry. Just… steady. Unflinching.
Moretti got there first.
He raised his mic, flashed a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We’re professionals. We know where the line is.”
I arched a brow. “Do you?”
A ripple of snickers moved through the press seats.
Moretti’s smile vanished. “Maybe you should ask the stewards, cara mia.”
I felt the temperature in the room drop three degrees.
Volkov’s fingers tapped once against his thigh. Then he spoke.
“There’s no room for personal grudges in a car moving at three hundred kilometres per hour,” he said, quiet but firm. “I made a mistake in Shanghai. I’ve reviewed the data. I’ve taken responsibility. That’s where it ends.”
And just like that, he put the fire out.
The next few questions felt like background noise. The real headline had already happened.
By the time the drivers were ushered offstage and the handlers swarmed in like bees to a shaken hive, my phone was already lighting up.
One message stood out:
Graham: You’re a menace. I adore you. That clip will be on every highlight reel by dinner.
He was right.
And I hadn’t even touched my backup question.
Yet.
Seoul Circuit Plaza, Thursday Evening
The Seoul paddock plaza had transformed.
Gone were the sterile concrete paddocks of the afternoon press conferences—now, it buzzed with twilight energy, strings of golden fairy lights strung between vendor stalls, the scent of sizzling dumplings and soy drifting through the air.
A local band played near the media centre steps, the music soft but rhythmic, drawing knots of people to linger longer than planned.
I was doing my best to appear chill.
Which was difficult, because Aleks Volkov was standing across the plaza under a canopy of lights, talking with Mac and a member of the Obsidian PR team.
And he looked unfairly good. Charcoal shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows. Hair artfully tousled. Drink in hand like he was modelling for some kind of F1 lifestyle spread. And of course—he was watching me.
I turned away, a little too fast.
“You’re twitchy,” Graham said, eyeing me as he chewed his skewer of fried tofu like it had wronged him. “Bad bao?”
“No, it’s good,” I muttered, stuffing the last bite into my mouth and pretending to study the band.
“You’re acting like someone who’s about to publish a correction. Or a retraction. Or a love letter.”
My phone buzzed.
Crash: That queue must’ve been hell. You looked like you were plotting someone’s murder.
I pressed my lips together to hide a smile and quickly typed a reply.
Danger: Only yours, Champion.
Crash: Fair.
I smirked, just a twitch, and Graham immediately squinted at me.
“You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I’m texting a man who’s ruined my life but also probably my bedsheets’ look.”
I coughed into my drink. “You’re impossible.”
He leaned closer, whispering, “Is it Moretti or Volkov?”
I pretended not to hear him.
Crash: Don’t look now, but my engineer has a beer moustache in his actual moustache.
I fought the urge to look over, keeping my gaze fixed on my phone.
Danger: Shush. I am with my editor.
Crash: Is that who that is? I thought maybe it was your husband.
A laugh—loud and involuntary—escaped me. I clapped a hand over my mouth, but it was too late.
Graham narrowed his eyes. “The hell was that?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “I just remembered something.”
“Right,” he muttered. “Something hilarious, apparently.”
I waved him off and returned to my text conversation, leaving Graham to tuck into another skewer.
Danger: You’re insufferable.
Crash: You like me anyway.
Danger: Unverified rumour.
Crash: Then verify it. Glance three times. I’ll count.
Danger: You’re such a child.
I waited a beat… then risked a side glance over my cup.
He was still looking. Still smiling. Just a little.
Crash: That’s 2.5, technically. You tilted your head. That’s your tell.
Danger: I don’t have a tell.
Crash: You do. And now I own it.
The typing dots bounced and I waited, chewing my lip.
Crash: Dangerous thing to give a man who’s already had you up against a hotel room wall.
I inhaled sharply, choking on my drink.
Graham thumped me on the back like I was eight years old. “What is wrong with you tonight?”
“Drink went down the wrong way,” I wheezed, cheeks burning. “I’m fine.”
He stared at me. Then, slowly: “You’re up to something. And I will find out.”
“Good luck with that.”
I wasn’t looking at Aleks again. I wasn’t.
Okay, maybe just one more.
He’d shifted slightly, his attention now back on Mac—but his phone was still in his hand, thumb hovering like he was waiting for my next move.
And despite myself, the smile curved again at the corner of my mouth.
Danger: You’re going to get us caught.
Crash: We’re already caught.
Crash: We just haven’t crashed yet.
A full-body shiver ran through me. The music faded. The lights blurred. Everything narrowed to the tiny screen in my hand and the pounding of my heart. But I met his sincerity with my primary defence mechanism. Humour.
Danger: You must have concussion. You literally crashed a few days ago, Champ.
Crash: Touché. What are you doing later?
I chewed the inside of my cheek. Graham was watching the band, evidently having given up on trying to hold a conversation with me. Which was fair enough.
Danger: Why?
Crash: Well, I was going to give you my room number, but if you’re busy…
Damn.
Danger: Tempting offer. I might be able to squeeze you in, but I’m a very important person now. Did you see? I’m trending.
Crash: Because I got punched in the face and you callously wrote about it while my bruise was forming. You owe me.
Danger: I paid in full against the hotel wall. Remember?
Crash: Oh, yes. I remember it vividly.
Danger: I don’t know, your memory seems to be shaky since the crash.
Crash: OK, that’s enough. I’m coming over there to give you a spanking.
I gasped, my cheeks heating rapidly. Graham glanced at me, then shook his head.
“Get a room with whoever that is.”
“Sorry,” I said. I tried to put my phone away, but I couldn’t help myself.
I looked across the plaza right at Aleks.
He was listening intently to Mac, but as if he could feel my gaze on him, he glanced my way.
Our eyes met, right through the group of people passing between us.
Neither of us were smiling now. There was palpable electricity crossing the distance between us.
I looked back at my phone and typed with shaking fingers.
Danger: Give me that room number, I’ll see what I can do. I mean… if there’s spanking involved, you can count me in.
I glanced over in time to see his smirk as he read my message.
Crash: 1004, top floor.
He looked back at me as I read it and gave me the tiniest nod before turning away and allowing his companions to lead him back towards the Obsidian suite.
It was like I was in his car, hurtling towards a hairpin turn at two hundred miles an hour. I could see the crash coming and knew it was inevitable. But I held on for dear life, the thrill coursing through my veins, lighting me up in a way that had been missing for far too long.