Chapter Twenty Two – Seoul Friday
Dawn painted Seoul in gold.
I blinked awake to a soft murmur of sound—nothing but the faint tick of a clock and the hum of traffic far below. Aleks’s suite was glowing, light spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His arm was slung across my waist, warm and heavy, anchoring me in place.
For a moment, I didn’t move.
He was still asleep—face relaxed, jaw shadowed, lashes dark against his cheek. The bruising on his face had deepened overnight, a mottled reminder of everything that had brought us here.
My phone on the nightstand buzzed with a calendar alert: Breakfast – Graham – 08:00.
Shit.
Carefully, I slid out from under his arm, wincing as the sheets whispered traitorously. He stirred but didn’t wake.
I sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to think too hard about what we’d done. Again.
My clothes were scattered like a breadcrumb trail—top near the minibar, jeans on the back of a chair, bra inexplicably halfway across the room.
I pulled them on quickly, smoothing my hair with my fingers and glancing toward the mirror.
I looked exactly how I felt—rumpled, flushed, guilty in a way that had nothing to do with shame and everything to do with reality.
This wasn’t just sex.
It hadn’t been, either time.
It might be easier if that was all it was, but we both knew it was vastly more complicated.
I reached the door before I heard him shift.
“Elena?”
I paused. Hand on the handle. I turned slowly.
He was sitting up now, bare chest half-covered by the white sheet, hair deliciously tousled, eyes still soft with sleep. But his voice was clearer than I expected. Measured.
“You’re leaving?”
I nodded. “Didn’t want to risk the walk of shame in front of half the paddock.”
His mouth twitched—just the ghost of a smile. “Probably smart.”
I hesitated. “I don’t regret it. Any of it.”
“I know.” He met my eyes. “Neither do I.”
Silence stretched, weighty.
“But we can’t pretend this is simple,” I said.
“No.” His expression flickered. “We really can’t.”
Another pause. Then, gently: “Be careful today.”
“I will.”
I opened the door.
“Text me later?” he added, quietly.
I nodded, slipping out before I could talk myself into staying.
The hallway was empty, thank God. I all but jogged to the lift with my shoes in my hand and hammered the button like it owed me money. My heart was still racing—not just from the illicit escape, but from the echo of that look on his face when I left.
This was getting dangerous.
And I couldn’t bring myself to stop.
By the time I reached my own floor, I’d mostly composed myself. A quick shower, clean clothes, and fresh lipstick would help sell the illusion that I hadn’t just snuck out of a very expensive bed with a very complicated man.
Graham was waiting.
And I had a story to chase.
The hotel dining room buzzed with low conversation and the soft clatter of cutlery.
Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the Seoul morning sun, warming the sleek marble floors and linen-draped tables.
Most of the paddock had descended already—drivers, engineers, comms people, all mingling awkwardly in team gear and lanyards.
I sat across from Graham at a table near the back, nursing a second coffee and doing my best not to look like I had secrets. I was sure he’d clocked the flush in my cheeks the second I walked in, but he hadn’t commented. Yet.
We were surrounded, so every word had to be careful. Measured.
I buttered a croissant and kept my voice low. “I need you to promise not to yell.”
Graham paused with a forkful of scrambled egg halfway to his mouth. “Why would I yell?”
“Because Luca gave me a solid tip.”
His brows jumped. “Before he hated you?”
“Before he hated me,” I confirmed, flicking a glance around the room. No one seemed to be listening—but a PR rep from Hawthorn was seated two tables away. I dropped my voice further. “And I’ve been following it up. I think the FIA is helping Obsidian cover it up.”
He set his fork down, wiping his hands on his napkin. “Why do you think that?”
I leaned in slightly. “Okay so here’s the thing.
The cars go back to their garages after qualifying and are there for about one, maybe one and a half hours.
Then they’re moved to the supervised area and stay there until a couple of hours before the race.
The software swap has to happen in one of those windows where the car is with the team in the garage. ”
“Right,” he said, nodding and moving his eggs around on his plate.
“The tech guy you put me onto in Melbourne thinks it’s being done with a hardline.”
“Why?” Graham asked, leaning forward now. “Why not do it remotely?”
“For one, the data packet would be massive. Upload speeds wouldn’t cut it, especially with the car only back in the garage for an hour or so. Second—it’s risky. Wireless signals can be intercepted. No, this has to be physical. They’re plugging in a high-speed cable.”
“Okay,” he said. “So where’s the FIA angle?”
“There’s only one port on the car they could use to do it.” I paused for effect. “And the FIA seals it during parc fermé. With tape. Official tape.”
Graham let out a low breath, stirring his tea to cover it. “So how the hell are they breaking the seal and not getting caught?”
“That,” I said, “is the big question.”
He watched me for a second, the cogs turning.
“Do you have any contacts inside the FIA?” I asked. “Someone shady? Or someone who knows who’s shady?”
“Maybe,” he said, tapping the table. “But we have to tread carefully. If we spook the wrong person—”
“Exactly. Obsidian obviously know I’m sniffing around. They’ve closed ranks. But no one knows I’m looking at the FIA.”
“What about Moretti?”
“He gave me the tip,” I said. “But I haven’t spoken to him since.”
“Apart from the press conference.”
“Right,” I allowed. “But not privately. He doesn’t know I’m following up. And it’s better if it stays that way.”
Graham dragged a hand through his silver hair. “So, we’ve got two options. Either the FIA is ignoring the missing tape…”
“Or,” I said, eyes glinting, “someone’s supplying Obsidian with spare FIA tape. To reseal the port.”
He sat back, grinning. “Oh, that’s good. You’re a smart cookie.”
“I know.” I sipped my coffee, eyes scanning the room again. A few mechanics passed us, but no one slowed. “But how the hell do we get the right person to talk?”
Graham raised his brows. “Kid, you get friendly.”
We didn’t clink glasses—we weren’t stupid—but the gleam in Graham’s eyes said it all. This was the story. And we were both in far too deep to back out now.
Then the atmosphere in the room shifted—just slightly, but enough to make my shoulders stiffen.
Graham noticed too. “What is it?”
I didn’t answer. Just angled my head a fraction, eyes on the dining room entrance.
Aleks had arrived.
He was flanked by a small swarm of Obsidian personnel.
His assistant walked beside him, tablet in hand, rattling off Aleks’s schedule with machine-gun precision.
Behind the Obsidian team, Jax Rivers ambled along, sunglasses indoors, lazily plucking a grape from the buffet table and tossing it into his mouth like the whole day was a joke.
One of the Nova PR officers trailed just behind, already eyeing which tables to steer him toward for maximum optics.
Aleks looked… annoyingly composed. Freshly pressed shirt, sharp jacket, not a single hair out of place. Only the faint shadows under his eyes betrayed the fact that he hadn’t slept much either.
He scanned the room—and saw me.
His eyes locked on mine for a second too long.
A second too aware.
I forced myself not to react. Not to smile. Not to fidget.
Graham followed my gaze and let out a low hum of recognition. “Speak of the devil.”
I picked up my fork as if omelette was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.
Aleks looked away, saying something low to his assistant, and continued toward the far end of the room. But I felt his presence like a live current, my skin prickling with it.
Graham smirked into his toast. “You’re blushing, kid.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
I stabbed a piece of tomato like it had insulted my family. “You’re imagining things.”
I tried not to watch Aleks get seated, his party spreading across three tables. Jax sat with him, chatting loudly about something inane that I didn’t take in.
“We done here?” Graham asked, mercifully dropping his comments on the colour of my cheeks.
“Yeah,” I said, clearing my throat. “Let’s get moving.”
He rose first, grabbing his notebook and the last of his toast. I followed a beat behind, smoothing my expression into something neutral, something that wouldn’t raise questions.
As we walked out, we passed Aleks’s table and I resolutely kept my gaze set ahead, avoiding his ice-blue eyes.
But I felt them on me all the same.
Aleksandr Volkov
Practice sessions didn’t start for a couple of hours, and the hotel dining room was buzzing—drivers, engineers, and enough PR handlers to stage a coup. Everyone caffeinated. Everyone watching everyone else.
I stirred my coffee in slow, methodical circles. I hadn’t touched the eggs on my plate.
“Buddy,” Jax said around a mouthful of croissant. “You know you’re allowed to eat, yeah? It’s not a staring contest.”
I didn’t answer. Just pushed the plate away and reached for my coffee.
Across from me, Jax lounged like the chair was a sunbed, one leg slung over the arm of the chair, sunglasses still on despite being indoors. The man had no concept of tension. Or shame.
Terri, seated to my right, was deep in her notes, tapping briskly on her tablet as she ran through my day.
“FP1 briefing at nine,” she said without looking up. “Media straight after — five minutes, no freelancing. Lunch is a working one with engineering, then simulator review before FP2.”
“Packed,” I murmured.
She finally glanced up at me, expression sharp. “Which means hydrate, eat properly, and do not disappear on me.”
Jax snorted. “Wow. She sounds fun.”
Terri didn’t even look at him.
“And you,” she added, eyes flicking up briefly to skewer me. “Are to keep your nose clean, answer media questions like a grown-up, and not hit anyone.”
Jax snorted. “You should get that printed on a t-shirt.”
“I’ll add it to the merch store,” I said, dry.
“You joke,” Jax said, pointing a pastry at me. “But the fans would lap it up. ‘Volkov: I Don’t Punch Back’. Just credit me for the slogan, yeah?”
I ignored him. Or tried to.
But then he leaned over, snatched a grape from my plate, and popped it into his mouth with the smug satisfaction of a man who knew I wouldn’t stab him in public.
Terri rolled her eyes. “You’re like a damn child.”
“Hey,” Jax said. “I’m just keeping him grounded. Can’t have our precious ice prince brooding his way into another scandal.”
I met his gaze flatly. “Focus on your own scandal.”
He grinned. “I plan to. Give it time. I’ve got the bones of something truly disastrous brewing.”
Terri sighed. “Why do I work with men?”
“You love us,” Jax said.
“I tolerate you. At best.”
I sat back, letting the chatter fade for a moment. Elena had already left—swept out with her editor a few minutes earlier. I tried not to look, but I couldn’t help myself. She was cool though, no tells, this time.
And that was worse.
She was under my skin. A heat I couldn’t shake. A risk I couldn’t stop wanting to take.
But for now, I had a car to drive. A team to lead. A weekend to survive.
Jax was still talking. Something about a sushi place with a robot waiter.
I picked up my coffee and took a slow sip, letting the heat settle in my chest like a reset.
Practice first.
Everything else could wait.