Chapter Thirty Three – Oxfordshire
Aleksandr Volkov – Obsidian HQ, Thursday Afternoon
Obsidian Performance Headquarters sat at the end of a winding drive like it had something to be proud of.
Glass and steel curved into a pristine dome beside a man-made lake, the whole place designed to soothe the nerves and impress the sponsors. On a normal day, the quiet grounds and flawless landscaping felt like a temple to order and control.
Today, it looked like a war zone.
The first sign was the traffic. Media vans everywhere—branded with every major outlet, some double-parked, some blocking the approach entirely. Cameramen loitered at the gate. Security guards looked overwhelmed, their walkie-talkies crackling like fireworks.
Then they saw me.
The shout went up.
“Volkov!”
The swarm descended, microphones like bayonets. Cameras, phones, shouts I couldn’t make out through the glass. They beat on the windows. I kept my eyes on the road and eased the car forward, creeping through the chaos.
Security waved me through, parting the crowd enough to squeeze the car into its usual space beside the main entrance. I killed the engine and sat for a beat, gathering my breath.
The moment I stepped out, the circus surrounded me.
Reporters shouted over each other, jostling for position, throwing questions like darts.
“Did you know about the mapping?”
“Is your championship tainted?”
“Will you leave Obsidian?”
I didn’t stop walking.
The gravel crunched under my shoes. Cameras flashed. One man practically shoved his mic into my chest.
“No comment.”
Another reporter stepped into my path. I dodged her without breaking stride.
“No comment.”
I didn’t look at any of them. Didn’t flinch. Just kept walking until the sliding doors opened and I stepped inside.
Silence hit like a wall.
The atrium was hollow—no laughter, no racing banter, no techies moving fast with coffee and tablets. I passed through it into the open office behind. Half the desks were empty. The other half were occupied by people pretending not to look up.
The place was spooked.
I moved deeper into the building, footsteps echoing on the polished floor. Through the glass walls, I saw engineers huddled around the cars, working with the obsessive care of men who knew the FIA might knock at any moment.
Callum stood off to the side, not doing much of anything. Hands on hips, brow furrowed, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged.
He looked up as I passed, then strode out through the glass door to meet me in the corridor.
“You all right?” he asked, voice low.
I paused. His concern wasn’t false. But it didn’t mean much now.
“You might want to brace,” I said instead. “If Ross starts swinging, you’ll be in the blast radius too.”
Callum blinked. “You think I knew?”
“I think Ross will say you did.”
I left him with that.
Ross’s voice carried from his office before I even reached it—sharp, furious, slicing through the walls. Someone was getting torn apart on the other end of a call. I didn’t slow. I wasn’t ready for that confrontation.
Not yet.
I turned instead, heading for the quieter wing. The one reserved for driver debriefs and long-haul simulation sessions. Fewer windows. Fewer people. That’s where I found Mac.
He was sitting in one of the side rooms, lights dimmed, door half-closed, elbows on the table, cap beside him. Just sitting. Like a man waiting for sentence to be passed.
He looked up when I entered, and something flickered across his face—relief, maybe. Guilt, definitely.
“Aleks,” he said, standing slowly.
“You wanted to see me?” I asked, folding my arms.
“I didn’t think you’d show.”
“You sent me a dozen messages. What do you want?”
He looked away for a second. Then back at me. “To tell you the truth.”
I held his gaze. Waited.
He swallowed. “I leaked it.”
The air left my lungs.
“You what?”
He didn’t flinch. “The mappin’ data. I started Archer down the path in Melbourne.”
I took a step forward, slow and deliberate. My mind raced over every conversation we’d had, everything about her sources. She never gave any hint that it started with my own engineer.
“Does she know it was you?”
“I didn’t give her my name. I used a burner address. She doesn't know who I am. I didn’t want it to happen this way. But it was already out of control. Ross wouldn’t stop. Hartmann wouldn’t stop. And I couldn’t live with it any more.”
Silence fell. Cold and sharp.
“You used her,” I said. “You knew what this would do.”
“I thought I could protect you.”
My jaw clenched. “By blowing up the team I drive for? The titles I fought for? Everything we built together?”
“By draggin’ it all into the light before someone else did and made you look complicit,” he snapped, then caught himself, reining it in. “I didn’t want it to come down on you, Aleks. That’s the truth.”
I stared at him, heart thudding in my chest.
“I trusted you,” I said. “Like family.”
“I know.”
“You taught me to win clean,” I said. “You drilled that into me from the start. No short cuts. No bullshit.”
“I failed you,” he said simply.
I held his gaze. “Yes. You did.”
It hurt him. I could see it.
I didn’t know what else to say. My skin felt tight. My pulse thrummed in my ears.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” I said at last.
“No,” he agreed. “But it’s a start.”
He looked up at me again, eyes raw.
“I’m going to the FIA. Today. I’ll tell them everything. Officially. You won’t be named.”
“You think that’ll matter?”
“I think it’s the right thing to do. And for once, I’m not going to hide behind anyone else’s decisions.”
I nodded once. Short. Sharp.
“I’m not ready to forgive you,” I said.
He gave a tired smile. “Didn’t expect you to.”
I turned for the door, then paused.
“Do it right,” I said. “Own every piece. No more games.”
“I will.”
I left him in that dim, quiet room—his cap in his hands, the weight of everything he’d built breaking across his shoulders.
The building still felt hollow.
But for the first time all week, it wasn’t just me holding the guilt.
Aleksandr Volkov – Obsidian HQ, Saturday Morning
I’d lost count of how many times I’d been followed this week.
Reporters outside my flat. Drones outside the gym. A photographer jumped out at me outside a bloody supermarket, and he nearly got a fist in the jaw for his trouble.
And ever since Elena had quoted me in her follow-up piece—‘I’m grateful to my fans, my friends, and especially my girlfriend…’—the internet had lost its god damn mind.
TikTok was ablaze.
Every woman I’d so much as stood next to in the last six months had become a suspect.
Was it the PR girl from Nova Dynamics? That blonde interviewer from Austria? Some wild thread tried to argue I was secretly dating Sofia Vega based on a single laugh we’d shared in the paddock.
No one had guessed the truth.
Elena’s name hadn’t come up once.
Which meant she was still safe. Hidden. And mine.
That was the only thing keeping me sane.
The rest of it—the endless attention, the headlines, the slow-motion implosion of the team—was dragging me under.
When I pulled up to HQ on Saturday morning, I half-expected another swarm. But the long, tree-lined driveway was blissfully clear.
Security had finally clamped down, it seemed. The press were now barricaded back at the main road, where a row of parked vans sat like vultures. A handful of unmarked vehicles were closer to the building, though. Blacked-out windows. Official plates.
FIA.
I pulled into my usual spot and sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel like it might stop me from unravelling.
Then I got out.
The atrium was quiet, but not in the hollow way it had been before. It was too still. Too clinical.
Inside, I saw them—FIA officials moving in pairs, scanning tablets, inspecting every inch of the place like it might hide a bomb.
The cars were up on stands. Software teams hovered like ghosts, nervous to even breathe wrong.
Ross was in the operations office, surrounded. He stood behind his desk, arms folded, jaw locked, glaring daggers at the two officials seated across from him. A third stood by the door, watching him like a prison guard.
He looked up, met my eye.
Didn’t say a word.
I didn’t go in.
Mac wasn’t here. I already knew that before I asked.
I wandered through the halls, saying nothing, until I was summoned with a sharp nod by one of the marshals. I followed her through to the conference wing, where they’d commandeered our main debriefing room.
Callum was already there. So were most of our engineers, race strategists, and support staff.
We all sat, silent, while three FIA officials stepped up to address us. One of them was the head of Scrutineering herself, Janine Beaumont. Her sleek grey suit the only flash of familiarity in the room.
She opened a folder and spoke.
“As of this morning, the FIA has concluded the first phase of its internal investigation into Obsidian Performance. Based on evidence provided and corroborated, several violations of the technical and sporting regulations have been identified.”
No one moved. You could have heard a fly cough.
“Further penalties and sanctions are still being determined. However, the team will be permitted to compete in the Bahrain Grand Prix next week, under the following conditions.”
She looked up. Her gaze found me for a second—cool, unreadable—then moved on.
“Firstly, Obsidian Performance is now under direct FIA observation. All telemetry, software modifications, and internal comms will be subject to real-time review.”
A few heads turned toward our lead systems engineer. His face had gone ghost-white.
“Secondly, Norton Ross has been relieved of his duties as Team Principal. He is under investigation for his role in the events leading up to and including the use of non-compliant systems during multiple race weekends.”
There was a small collective shift in posture—no surprise, no outrage. Just acceptance. We’d all seen it coming.
“In the interim, the Obsidian board has appointed Valerie Lin from Strategy to act as temporary Team Principal.”
A woman in a navy blouse stood near the side of the room and gave a curt nod. I’d seen her in meetings before, never heard her raise her voice. She looked pale but determined.
“Thirdly, all press and sponsor relations will be handled by Heidi Baxter.”
At that, Heidi stood. Calm. Polished. Her jaw tense, but her chin high.
“Your cooperation is not optional,” Janine continued. “Any obstruction of FIA oversight will result in immediate disqualification from the championship and potential license revocation. This is your chance to prove you can race clean.”
She closed the folder.
“Good luck.”
And just like that, the three of them left. No questions. No debate. Just cold execution.
We sat in silence for a few beats. Then Valerie stepped forward, flanked by Heidi.
Her voice was quiet, but firm. “I know this is a shock. But we’re not out. Not yet. We have a race to prep for. That’s what we’re going to do.”
Heidi took over, clutching a tablet.
“We’ve been fielding calls from every sponsor and media outlet in existence.
Some are pulling out, including Laurent échelon.
Some are waiting to see what happens next.
What happens next is you. We show up to Bahrain clean.
We do the job. We race the right way. If we’re going to rebuild trust, it starts now. ”
She let that hang in the air for a moment. I touched the watch around my wrist, a gift from the sponsor that I’d worn every day for six years.
“No drama. No bullshit.” Valerie continued. “We go out there and prove the team’s still worth believing in.”
She looked right at me when she said it. Not unkindly. Just… deliberately.
I nodded once.
I could do that.
For her.
For me.
For the fans still standing by me.
And above all, for Elena.
Because it wasn’t just my name on the line now.
It was hers too.