11. Elizabeth
One of the first lessons I learned about crisis communications is that when you cannot control the narrative, you change it.
It’s not an earth-shattering concept. Teenage girls do it all the time. But doing it well on a scale grander than what is required in high school hallways is the real challenge.
So when the president of the United States walks into Martine Racing’s charity gala dinner alongside the British ambassador, even I am surprised that we’ve pulled this off.
I look across the table from where I’m seated beside Arjun Chaudhry, a respected business journalist the team is hosting this weekend, and directly at David.
When an acquaintance who works for the White House press secretary let me know the president would be golfing in Florida this weekend, I swallowed down my personal hatred for the man and asked David to do one thing: convince Marcus Martine to personally invite the British ambassador to the race.
I had a feeling that if she were in Florida at the same time as the president and had an invitation to a ritzy event filled with a veritable who’s-who of business tycoons and billionaires, she would likely invite him along.
Because whether I like it or not, having the president walk into your event is a hell of a way to change the news cycle.
“I take it this is the product of your machinations,” Arjun says quietly, excitement in his eyes. I know better than to confirm that theory, so I paste a pleasant smile on my face. “Precisely how many stories are you about to work on simultaneously?”
Arjun laughs. “There’s no way I’ll be able to interview the president. Look at all that security.”
“When have you ever let something like that stop you?” I ask, and Arjun’s mouth slides up into a grin. “Three stories,” he admits, and I give him an impressed look. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“By all means.”
My eyes sweep over the crowd. There’s no shortage of people with their phones out, recording videos or taking selfies with the president in the background. They’re all also capturing Wes looking physically pained as he speaks with the head of state.
As I finish my glass of Champagne, a waiter immediately takes the empty flute and offers a replacement, but I decline—I’ll wake up with a truly horrific hangover if I have more than two glasses of the stuff.
I zero in on the CEO of a luxury conglomerate who is speaking with Martine’s head of partnerships.
After introducing myself and demurely navigating the question of whether I orchestrated tonight’s surprise guest, making it crystal-clear that my work is not only impressive but discreet, the CEO nods and repeats my name as he shakes my hand before moving on to his next conversation.
“That was expertly done, Jacobs.”
I pointedly ignore the shiver that dances up my spine in response to that particular voice.
“Hello, Wes,” I say, looking over my shoulder to find his whisky-colored eyes on mine. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Not particularly. Having to make nice and be photographed with a man I despise is never fun.”
“I figured you were used to Freddie by now.”
Wes lets out a genuine laugh, amplifying his already rampant charm. The fact that he’s attractive on top of it is almost cruel—especially when he’s wearing the hell out of a tuxedo that has been tailored to his body. “Touché, Jacobs. You look beautiful, by the way.”
The silver, halter-necked gown is one I bought during my shopping trip with Chalondra.
I kept picking up black and navy blue dresses in classic silhouettes, and she kept countering with pinks and oranges—colors I never wear.
But when the sales assistant pulled out this dress, even I couldn’t say no.
Once it was on my body, the silk caressing my skin and the color making my eyes look brighter than usual, I knew it would be coming home with me.
“Thank you,” I say simply, glad that the material covers my entire chest. I can feel heat gathering there, no doubt tingeing my fair skin bright red.
“Would you be interested in going outside to get some air?” Wes asks. Though his tone and posture are both casual, he looks worried. He didn’t even look worried when his teammate was trapped in a burning car. What the hell would be bothering him tonight?
I nod and follow him into a back alley—right next to a very full dumpster.
“Charming,” I say flatly, watching with confusion as Wes walks the space from end to end. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure we’re alone. Do you think the dumpster is wired?”
“Wired?” I ask incredulously. “What are you playing at, Wes?”
His voice is a harsh whisper. “I’m not playing.” He’s standing close, and his eyes bore into mine. This isn’t the lovable playboy or the focused competitor—it’s someone else entirely.
“Okay,” I say, evenly. “What’s this about, then?”
Wes takes a deep breath. “I need you to tell the journalist looking into the Bugatti to stop.”
Well. That was the last thing I expected him to say.
But rather than ask how he knows about it and if he is actually a member of the mob, I force myself to stay composed. “Why?”
Wes blinks. “Because.”
“You have to know that isn’t a good enough answer.”
“I don’t know why,” he says. But it turns out that Wes Grant is a truly terrible liar.
“Come on, Wes. I need an actual reason.”
“No, you don’t,” he counters. “You’re….you. Isn’t this your whole job? Don’t you shut down stories you don’t want to come out all the time?”
I take in this version of Wes—panicked, flustered, desperate—and try to parse it. Someone must have gotten to him. If he wasn’t involved in things before, he is now.
“Who contacted you?”
Wes shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I don’t believe him, but I move on. “Did they threaten you? Your family?” He shakes his head. Interesting. “So they asked this as a favor, then.”
Wes’s eyes meet mine and I know that I’ve hit the nail on the head. I also know precisely who this request came from. I give Wes a long look before my next question. “Why did Stas ask you to do this?”
Wes shrugs again, but I’m not going to back down. If I’m killing a story—a huge one—I need to know it’s for a good reason. Finally, Wes whispers, “All I know is that the story can’t come out.”
His eyes are pleading now. He trusts Stas.
But since I don’t know Stas, it’s hard for me to believe that he is trustworthy.
But if the damn car really is the linchpin in this investigation and that information goes public too soon, the criminals will likely never be caught and whatever horrible shit they’re up to will never get shut down.
It turns out I’m not just handling a crisis for an F1 team. I’m handling one for the entire goddamn world.
“Do you trust Stas?”
“With my life,” Wes says with a force that takes me by surprise.
“Are you in love with him?” I ask. The question has been in the back of mind since reading all those rumors online and hearing Chalondra’s assessment of Stas’s attitude toward Wes.
Wes’s eyebrows lift. “Would that change things?”
“Probably,” I admit, my heart pounding.
Wes takes a deep breath. “I’m not romantically in love with him. But I do love him. I know he wouldn’t have asked this of me if he had another option.”
I keep my eyes on Wes. Even though I still have many questions, I am certain about one thing: he is not lying right now. So I have to decide if I trust Wes. My gut is telling me that I can—but I also know better than to agree to anything when I’ve been drinking. “I’ll make some calls.”
“What does that mean?” Wes asks.
“It means I’ll make some calls,” I say. “You’ve done your part, Wes. Now go back inside and act like you don’t have a single care in the entire world other than the race on Sunday.”
Wes nods his thanks and takes a step back.
Then I watch as his entire mien shifts from a man deeply concerned about his best friend to that of a cocksure F1 driver.
He shoots me his sexiest smile and heads to the door.
But before he reaches for the handle, he turns back.
“That was some truly excellent fishing, Jacobs. But you don’t have to try so hard.
Any time you want to know about my sexual preferences, just ask. ”
“I’m sure that information would give me nightmares.”
Light flashes in Wes’s eyes. “Thinking about me in bed?”
I liked him better when he was vulnerable. At least, that’s what I tell myself as a bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t grin. “You are so full of yourself.”
“You’ve obviously heard the whispers about me and Stas,” he says coolly. “Most of them are true.”
Though I don’t want to give him any sort of reaction, my gaze snaps to his anyway.
Because I am surprised. Not so much that he slept with his best friend, but that he’s admitting it out loud.
Maybe he’s just trying to get a rise out of me.
“Let me guess: the two of you passed out in the same bed at some party in Monte Carlo, and now you joke about how you slept together.”
Wes laughs. “More like we’ve historically had a habit of wanting the same woman. You’d think ultra-competitive athletes wouldn’t be good at sharing, but…” he pauses and shoots me a wicked smile that has his dimples on full display. “We were very good at it.”
He has the audacity to wink before opening the door and disappearing inside.
As soon as the door closes, I let out an astonished laugh.
“I guess all the rumors are true,” I murmur.
And then I pointedly shove Wes Grant’s playboy predilections to the very back of my mind.