15. Elizabeth
Every one of my crisis senses is on high alert.
Because I’m staring at Elio Rocca. He’s dressed in a beautifully tailored, double-breasted suit, has his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly coiffed, and there’s a wide, toothy smile on his face.
The man oozes charisma, but in a way that feels rehearsed—like the ringleader of a circus, commanding the room with spotlights and bombast.
My mind clears and the carefully crafted three-pronged plan I created in a conference room blinks like a neon sign:
The second Wes drops his arm from around my waist, I step right in Elio Rocca’s path.
“Mr. Rocca,” I say, plastering a pleasant smile on my face and injecting enthusiasm into my voice.
“What a surprise!” He frowns and tries to get around me, but I move with him, as if we’re in a choreographed dance.
“I understand that you’re eager to speak with Wes tonight, but unfortunately, that won’t be happening. ”
The man laughs. “This is a valiant effort, Miss Jacobs. I’m sure you’re worth more than Martine is paying you for this little charade. But you are not going to distract me.”
I’m not surprised he knows who I am. It’s not like the team has tried to keep me a secret.
“Oh, they’re paying well above my usual rate,” I say, keeping my voice light.
“What’s going to happen now is that you will stand here for the next minute and act like we’re having a riveting conversation.
Once that minute is up, you’ll turn around, find the lovely Sophia Catteneo—yes, I know the woman you walked in here with all but owes her opera career to you—and then you are going to leave.
And I don’t just mean this event. You are going to leave Monaco.
You are not going to be in the paddock, on a yacht, or in a penthouse this weekend. Understood?”
Elio’s slow smile nearly triggers my fight or flight response—something that hasn’t happened in a long time. “I understand that you think you’re a powerful woman. But I promise you, Miss Jacobs, you don’t know a thing about real power.”
Something feral and vicious claws at my insides, the way it always does when a man tries to undermine and dismiss me. But there’s an undercurrent of fear there, too. Despite all his flash and shine, he doesn’t sound like he’s posturing.
“Feel free to underestimate me,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even, refusing to let my hands shake. “It’s always more fun when men do.”
With that, I turn and walk away at an even, unhurried pace. I may not be powerful in his eyes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t deliver a blow.
“Very well done, Elizabeth,” Marcus says once I’m back at the Martine table.
“Thank you,” I say, pulling my thoughts away from how hard my heart is pounding. We have a plan for this. And I need to focus on it. “Is everything in hand?”
“The story should be up in the next quarter of an hour.”
Though I’m sure Elio Rocca won’t be all that upset about a widely read tabloid running a story about him crashing a royal event in Monaco, I don’t think he’ll love the headline labeling him a failed fraudster. “Is David on his way to the motorhome?”
Marcus nods. “I told him we’ll meet him there.”
“And Wes?”
“Between green-lighting a takedown piece and contacting my head of PR, I haven’t had the chance to reach out to him yet,” Marcus says drily.
“I’ll tell him.” Though I type quickly, it isn’t just Wes I have to message. By the time I finish filling David in on all the details, Marcus and Agnès are speaking with the Sovereign Prince and Princess of Monaco, no doubt thanking them for the invite and bidding them good night.
“I’m not exactly sure what I just witnessed,” Freddie’s date says. She’s a model I recognize from a perfume ad that was plastered all over Manhattan a few months ago. “But I’m fairly certain it was a masterclass.”
I grin. “If you ever need a crisis specialist, I’m your girl.”
“Absolutely,” she says. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
I don’t miss how she doesn’t say ‘we’. She’s already clocked how entirely useless Freddie is, with the exception of providing her free access to the Monaco Grand Prix paddock.
“The most helpful thing you can do right now is show up at whatever party you’re meant to be at next.”
“Thank, Christ,” Freddie says, grabbing her hand.
My smile disappears. “Not you. You’ll be coming with me.”
“Why?” he asks petulantly.
“Because tomorrow is media day,” I remind him. “It’s going to be a very long night.”
Over the next twenty-four hours, I get precisely two hours and twenty-seven minutes of sleep.
After David and I finalized the team’s official statement about the incident with Elio, we jumped into prep mode for the rest of the weekend since anyone wearing a Martine team shirt is going to be bombarded by people eager for insider info about Elio, Wes, and the scandal.
After conducting two staff workshops, an extensive media training session with Freddie and a much shorter one with Wes, and then helping Andrew tweak his social media plan, I found a dark conference room and passed out until my alarm went off.
Then I freshened up in the motorhome bathroom and accompanied Freddie to his media engagements.
His haughty tone and lifeless delivery of the answers I rehearsed with him were less than ideal, but I suppose blatant unenthusiasm is better than him going off-book.
As the weekend continues, the noise about Elio only gets louder—especially after he’s spotted in Malta on Saturday.
I fully expected him to stick around Monaco to prove a point about my lack of power, so I can’t help but feel extremely satisfied that he left.
But what I didn’t see coming was Wes’s on-track performance throwing fuel on this particular media fire.
During the second round of qualifying, his tires lock up and he overcorrects into the barrier.
Though it could happen to anyone, the pundits and fans immediately turn the accident into a discussion about Wes’s mental state and stress levels after coming face to face with Elio.
On Sunday, the weather is beautiful and the paddock is filled with the world’s most glamorous people—but the race itself is boring as hell.
The drivers and teams all play it safe on the street circuit, so Wes starts and ends the race in 12th place, while Freddie comes in 8th, outperforming him once again.
And because all of that somehow isn’t enough drama for the weekend, a reporter has the gall to ask Wes what he thinks Stas’s reaction to his race would be and ends up with the clip of his career when Wes leans into the microphone, looks directly into the camera, and says “Go fuck yourself.”
Hours after the race has ended and the paddock has emptied as people head to lavish dinners and raucous parties, I’m sitting in my preferred motorhome conference room, typing up a weekly report, when Wes darkens the doorway.
I consider employing my usual tactics: ignoring him or treating him like a nuisance. But I was right there when he saw Elio. I watched him freeze in place, felt his grip tighten on my waist. I know precisely what’s being said online, and how disappointed Albrecht, Baz, and Marcus are.
So I stop typing and close my laptop. “Hi, Wes.”
He’s wearing black athletic shorts and a team shirt that he’s cut the sleeves and most of the sides off of so that it does little to cover his outrageously toned torso.
There’s still boxing wrap on his hands and sweat sliding down the sides of his face.
“Wow,” he says, his tone darker than usual. “Is it really that serious?”
“It can wait until our crisis debrief tomorrow.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up into a sardonic grin. “You really stopped working to chat with me?”
Horrifyingly, that’s the truth. I thought he’d need to talk—to decompress, to get all this shit off his chest. But no. He’s still itching for a fight.
And I refuse to be his punching bag.
“Go home, Wes.”
“On Monaco Grand Prix night?” he asks. “Nah.”
Irritation pricks at the back of my neck. “Then go to a party.”
“Is that your official advice?” He scoffs. “It’s like you want us to get bad press.”
“Keeps me in a job,” I say coolly. If I’m going to shut him down effectively, I need to make it clear that he can’t unnerve me.
Wes laughs, but it’s an ugly sound. “You know you can be a real bitch, right?”
I smile sweetly.
“That turns you on, doesn’t it?” He interprets my stillness as confirmation. “I bet you’re squeezing your thighs together, forcing yourself not to squirm.”
I say nothing. I don’t move a muscle.
“You walk around like you’re this force to be reckoned with and act like you’re untouchable.
But I bet you fucking love it when someone calls you on your bullshit and puts you in your place.
I bet you want to be forced into submission.
I’m sure you’d fight it. But you probably can’t come without being spit on. ”
He’s walked further into the room, all nonchalance. The fact that he’s said all of this as if he were chatting about the weather or what he’s planning to have for dinner is actually fascinating. It’s not the way most men would go about it, that’s for sure.
But Wes Grant is not most men.
What he needs right now is not the thing most men would go looking for after a weekend as disastrous as the one he’s just had.
That’s why he’s here. That’s why he’s decided to say these things to me, despite knowing I could report him for sexual harassment or make one phone call and have him canceled in twenty minutes flat.
But I’m not most women.
My preferences are actually the opposite of what he’s suggested. I’m not sure if he’s fully aware of it yet, but that is why he wants to push me until I snap. He wants me to take control away from him so he can collapse into feeling like he’s an actual piece of shit.
But the thing he’s forgotten is that I know he isn’t.
He wants everyone to think he’s nothing more than some charming and reckless playboy driving a race car for kicks.
But I know he’s a loyal friend and a team player.
I know he cares deeply about his future—and that he understands how much damage he’s done this weekend, both to himself and the team.
I also know that he’s hurting, and that he feels angry and desperate.
It’s a dangerous combination when you need an outlet that could easily become a vice.
That’s why he’s here instead of at some party, snorting everything in sight until he’s numb.
“What do you want, Wes?” I wonder if that will disarm him. If he’ll actually tell me the truth. When he doesn’t answer, I give him a very pointed look. “Do you even know?”
The air between us becomes charged as our gazes remain locked. For one blazing moment, I wonder if he might decide to show me rather than tell me. But then he grins—and it’s the kind that lets you know that the fight isn’t actually over.
I grit my teeth, and don’t soften the command that colors my voice. “Go home.”
He walks out without another word.