13. Elizabeth
There’s not much that intimidates me these days.
I’ve been in rooms with some of the most powerful people in the world, have told CEOs they’re being ousted with a smile on my face, and no longer feel a little swoop in my stomach when I’m face to face with celebrities.
But the second I see the sun-drenched glory of Monaco with my own eyes, I feel like I’ve conned my way into a world I should never have access to.
Gazing out the plane window, I can’t resist snapping a photo of the glittering azure water, the buildings that hug the coastline, and the green mountains.
“Not too shabby, eh?” David asks, a knowing note in his voice.
I know there’s no reason for me to be embarrassed about feeling awed by Monaco, but I still try for an unaffected air. “If you’re into the whole Mediterranean wealth thing.”
David laughs. “I’m pretty sure everyone is into the whole Mediterranean wealth thing.” He turns back to his phone, and I do the same, sending the photo to my sister before opening my social listening app.
Since Miami, the tone of the news about Martine has shifted drastically.
Gone are the stories about embezzlement and financial investigations, crime families and corrupt organizations, replaced by business and leadership profiles, trend reporting based on whatever Wes and Freddie post online, and race updates.
But one thing that is starting to ramp up is speculation about Wes’s future with Martine.
His results at Miami and Imola were good, but not stellar.
Apparently when coupled with the discourse about Wes’s age and how well Freddie is doing as a rookie, that’s enough to make people think a driver who is currently in the top five is going to lose his seat.
I don’t know if people are bored or if this sport is truly so fickle.
I skim the posts about Freddie, noting the uptick in volume and surprisingly positive sentiment. I suppose a young white guy who sounds like he’s ripped out of a Regency romance and has the polish of generational wealth is always going to attract admirers, no matter how shitty his personality is.
But my eyes catch on posts about Stas. Though discussion of him has waned as he’s continued to lay low, the fascination is still there.
With a Russian father and Japanese mother, people have had a field day coming up with various ways for him to be connected to both the bratva and yakuza.
A pretty popular theory is that his meteoric rise to world champion is proof that he’s some sort of Russian plant who is using his cover as a driver to gather intel on various companies, politicians, celebrities, and governments.
Alice Abrams’s working theory, while less titillating than the idea of a Russian spy going undercover as the world’s foremost F1 driver, is still pretty juicy.
Her hunch is that Stas’s uncle—who famously bankrolled Stas’s early karting days—is the criminal mastermind and that he is working either in direct partnership with or on behalf of the oligarchy.
But she has yet to find tangible evidence of this, can’t say for certain that Liu Zhenghao is producing Reverie, and has no idea how Elio Rocca factors in.
She told me all of that right before I explained to her that she needed to back away from the Bugatti story.
After Alice called me a traitor, a bad feminist, cussed me out, and threatened to never work with me again, I swore on my life that I’d give her full access to Martine when the time was right.
Then I ordered her an outrageously expensive pen that I know she’s coveted for ages—mostly because I don’t want to lose my working relationship with Alice. But also because the bad feminist accusation stung.
The things I do for this job, I swear.
After I’ve checked into the glitzy hotel, I have a call with my boss to update him on the latest with Martine. Half an hour later, I cross out the last thing on my to-do list for the day—and this time, I’m all caught up on sleep.
I message Chalondra and approximately ten seconds after I’ve hit send, I get a video call. Her image fills the screen, along with the team of people doing her hair, makeup, and nails simultaneously. “I’m guessing this means you are not free to hang out.”
Chalondra laughs. “I take it you’re not coming to the Grand Prix Gala?”
Considering this is the first I’ve heard of it, I definitely will not be going. “Precisely how offended should I be that I didn’t even know it was happening?”
“Extremely. You should go find Marcus and insist he bring you.”
My eyebrows lift. “Marcus? This isn’t a David thing?”
“No,” Chalondra says. “This is hosted by the royal family—it’s more for VIP guests and celebrities than for the motorsports industry, but the team owners and drivers are always invited. Though the owners usually go, most of the drivers don’t show.”
“Gotcha,” I say. “And you’re a celebrity guest, I’m guessing?”
“Not yet,” Chalondra says, humor in her voice. “But your girl is hosting the red carpet!”
I whistle low and she gives her shoulders a little shimmy. “I’m pretty sure I saw a certain Martine Racing driver’s name on the confirmed red carpet list. And I don’t think he had a plus one.”
“I’m sure Marcus told both Wes and Freddie that their attendance is mandatory,” I say, calculating the media value of attending a gala hosted by Monaco’s royal family. “The brand needs high-profile press.”
“Elizabeth,” Chalondra says flatly. “How are you so brilliant, but also so dense?”
My brow furrows. “What am I missing?”
“I just told you that Wes Grant, one of the most eligible bachelors in the goddamn world, does not have a date to this hoity-toity shindig.”
It’s news that surprises me. Though his garage has remained devoid of personal guests, I figured that would change with this race. He’ll probably show up with some supermodel or A-list actor on his arm. And if he doesn’t….well. It’s not like that has anything to do with me.
So what if he winks and smolders and flirts.
Who cares if he barges in while I’m working and somehow cajoles me into opening up to him.
What does it matter that he told me all the rumors about him and Stas are true.
Who needs to know that I think about how his eyes widened and his shoulders relaxed the moment I called him a good boy every single night as I’m going to sleep.
“Okay, and?” I ask.
“Oh my God, I’ll do it myself,” Chalondra says. “Bye, Elizabeth. You’re welcome.”
She hangs up right as I’m grasping what exactly she plans to do.
Genuinely, how did I manipulate a world leader into attending a charity event a few weeks ago, but not pick up on the fact that Chalondra wants me to be Wes’s date tonight?
As I’m clicking on Chalondra’s name to call her back, another call comes in.
From Wes.
I have half a mind to ignore it. But knowing my luck, he’d show up here and drag me to meet the Monégasque royals wearing pajamas “Hi, Wes.”
“Well hello, Jacobs,” he says, sounding far too pleased. “I hear you are in the market for an invitation to a black-tie gala?”
“You heard wrong.”
Wes chuckles. “I don’t think so.” His voice is rougher than usual and there’s a hint of his Boston accent. I’m fairly certain he weaponizes it.
“Chalondra misunderstood me,” I say, aware that I’m suddenly very warm. “I didn’t know about the gala, and then she ran with this idea that I want to go, and—”
“She messaged me,” Wes says, victory in his voice. After a beat he adds, “Look, I’m not going to force you to go with me. But I do have a plus one that’s going to be wasted. If you want it, it’s yours.”
For one insane moment, I picture what it would be like to walk into a gala hosted by royalty. But then I remember two important things: there’s no time for me to get ready and, oh, I can’t go because it’s wildly unethical to show up on a red carpet as a client’s date.
“I appreciate that,” I say. “But I have to decline.”
“Why?” His question is a quick bullet.
“You’re a client.”
Wes laughs. “This wouldn’t be an actual date. You know that, right?”
“Of course I fucking know that,” I snap.
“There are no photographers inside,” he says, unfazed. “And there’s no need for you to walk the red carpet since there’s a separate entrance for guests who are skipping it. Problem solved.”
“Not really,” I counter. “I—”
“You what?” Wes asks, interrupting. “Do you need a dress?”
I grit my teeth. “I have a dress.”
“Is it red?” he asks. “You’d look good in red.”
I press my lips together. “It’s black.”
“Of course it is,” Wes says, amusement coloring his voice. “So what’s the issue?”
“It needs to be steamed and I would need to get ready, and—”
“The event isn’t for a couple of hours still,” Wes says. “I can swing by the hotel to pick you up. Let’s say 6pm?”
I take a deep breath. “And if I don’t want to?”
Wes is quiet for several breaths. “I’ll be at the hotel at 6pm. I’ll wait for five minutes. If you don’t show up, I won’t be offended.”
“Yes, you will.”
“I promise I won’t,” he says, his accent slipping out again. “But I’d prefer if you showed.”
With that, he hangs up.
“Insufferable asshole,” I say, staring at my phone screen. I resolve not to go, relishing the idea that I can waste five minutes of Wes Grant’s time.
My phone buzzes and I swear to God, if he’s already sent me some idiotic message—
CHALONDRA
I’m in room 522 and my hair and makeup team will finish up with me in about half an hour, but the gala paid for a half day of their services. They’ve already said they’re happy to do your hair and makeup.
Well, hell.
I take a deep breath, allowing myself to once again envision this night. The guests. The idea of becoming the go-to crisis manager for a royal family.
I exhale and then pick up the room phone. I’m going to need a steamer.