25. Elizabeth
After Wes’s win in Canada, I thought I’d spend the two weeks before the next race pitching Albrecht for thought leadership articles, strong-arming someone at Interpol into telling me where the investigation now stands, and identifying precisely who is talking to sports reporters about next year’s driver line-up.
But when I wake up on Monday, I discover Martine has a new situation on its hands.
Me.
The audio clip of me telling Wes that he isn’t allowed to be nervous, but that he is allowed to win is everywhere. People are reacting to it, lip-synching to it, talking about it, remixing it—and if that were all, maybe that would be fine.
But very unfortunately, racing fans suddenly want to know every single thing about me.
Since my online footprint is shockingly small, the internet is positing that I’m some new brand of sports psychologist and breaking down my “technique.” It’s laughable how seriously people are taking it.
I almost want to create a burner account so I can tell the world that I’m not some groundbreaking psychologist, I’m just a dom giving a sub instructions.
Really, it was a stroke of genius for Wes to recognize that what he needed to succeed was for someone else to tell him what to do.
I wasn’t sure it would work. I’d never tried consensual power exchange outside of a bedroom, let alone somewhere as high-pressure as a professional sporting event.
But damn, did it work. And it was incredibly hot to watch a man win a race because I told him to.
I know I can’t take all the credit—but I quelled his nerves.
I focused his mind. I honed him into a champion.
Because he was mine to control.
But this thing between us can’t continue. Even if I were looking for exclusivity, Wes Grant would be nowhere near the top of the list, despite how charming he is and how feminist he leans and how great he smells and how hot he looks in both everything and nothing.
Rather than reveal our kinky truth, I decide to let the conversation flame out.
And right when it’s about to do just that, Zeke Bello—my former client and Chalondra’s ex—stokes the dying embers back to life by telling everyone I’m the person who saved him from getting canceled.
So for a full day, the entire world believes I’m nothing more than the person assholes call when they need someone to draft a Notes-app apology for them.
I was on the brink of reaching out to a podcast host I’ve worked with before so I could correct the record, but then a hugely popular gossip account beat me to the punch.
Though their article is salaciously worded, it’s accurate in detailing how what I do goes far beyond assisting toxic man-children.
As much as it’s a relief that people now better understand the full scope of crisis communications, the article is a double-edge sword because it’s kept the conversation going.
I don’t enjoy being in the public eye. I don’t want one minute of fame, let alone fifteen of them. So the day before I’m supposed to board a plane for the Austrian Grand Prix, I tell David I think it’s best that I sit this race out.
“Why?” he asks during our call, more confused than curious. It’s a reaction I wasn’t prepared for. I thought he’d immediately understand—it’s not like I’m the only one monitoring the discourse.
“Considering my job is to help my clients handle crisis situations, I don’t think it’d be a very good business decision to continue fueling the gossip.”
David is quiet for several breaths. “Bloody hell, Elizabeth. I hadn’t even considered that this might have gotten to you. Are you okay?”
“Yes.” It’s the truth. I am okay. Mostly. So long as I don’t think about my sister or Cape Cod or Wes Grant listening to me and comforting me and kissing my forehead. “But my presence at the grand prix won’t be helpful.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’d be a topic of conversation for long,” David says. “News moves very fast during race weekends.”
“Even so, I think I should lay low. Obviously, I will still be working.”
“Those hours will be terrible from New York.”
He’s not wrong. I’m already dreading the meetings I’ll have to join in the middle of the night. But that’s not enough to change my mind. I know in my gut it’s the right decision. “It’s really fine.”
“If you insist.”
“I do,” I tell him. “I’ll meet you all back at headquarters next week.”
Once that’s out of the way, I relax into my couch, relishing the relief of not having to fight off reporters looking to write about me this weekend.
And refusing to acknowledge the sinking feeling that is being an entire ocean away from Wes Grant.
I don’t leave my apartment until Saturday afternoon.
I was up at an ungodly hour for the comms team meeting and then watched qualifying, where Wes ended up in P3 and Freddie came in at P7. After putting together my daily media monitoring report, I had been up for hours but still had an entire day ahead of me.
So I switched gears. And now, I’m the owner of an evidence board dedicated to an international scandal.
After spending a solid hour staring at the giant “WHY” I wrote in red beside Elio Rocca’s photo and the bounty of question marks that surround the words “Druvia” and “Reverie,” I realize that I’m hyper-fixating—which is never a good thing.
So I book a yoga class and get off the couch.
Though the tiny, toned instructor kicks my ass, I feel infinitely better, both mentally and physically, when I leave the studio.
Not ready to head home yet, I swing by a juice bar where the cashier thoroughly heckles me for wearing a Red Sox cap in Yankees territory.
I hadn’t even realized I grabbed Wes’s hat as I walked out the door—but I did.
And I really don’t want to know what choosing it subconsciously says about me.
Once my juice is in hand, I head out into the glory of a late-June afternoon in New York City, making my way east until I hit the park. I mosey through, marveling at the weather and smiling at the many dogs out on walks with their owners.
My phone vibrates and I hope it’s Chalondra calling to fill me in on all the paddock gossip. But my vibe goes from carefree to red-alert when an unknown number is on my screen. My spine straightens. My pulse quickens. But my mind clears in a way it hasn’t in weeks.
“This is Elizabeth Jacobs.”
“Hello, Elizabeth.” The voice is raspy and the English is accented—Eastern European, I think. “I got your message.”
My blood freezes in my veins, but I don’t let my steps falter. “So you did.”
Stas Dubinsky lets out a low chuckle. “I heard you’re unflappable.”
Though I’m very aware of how hard my heart is beating, I manage to keep my voice even. “I’m glad I’m living up to my reputation.”
Despite the plethora of information available online about Stas and his racing history, the man is still an enigma.
He doesn’t open up about his personal life, rarely discusses his family, and refuses to speculate on anything in the world of motorsports.
Everyone has always assumed he’s just private and unafraid of being seen as an asshole.
But his arrest and association with organized crime puts his reticence to share anything personal in a very different light.
A couple gets up from a bench and I rush to it, sitting before anyone else can claim the coveted seat.
“Why are you in New York instead of Spielberg?” Stas asks without preamble.
I don’t even consider dodging the question. “I’d be a distraction the team doesn’t need this weekend.”
He hums thoughtfully. “The team? Or Wes?”
There is nothing unflappable about the way my body reacts. Every cell lights up in anticipation of an attack. “My job is to ensure Martine Racing is unscathed by whatever it is you and Elio are caught up in. Not to create more drama.”
“Ahh, but you’ve already done that, haven’t you?” Stas says. “I’m guessing you didn’t know people were listening in when you gave Wes that motivational speech?”
I inhale sharply. “No.”
“Would you have done it if you knew?”
The question catches me off guard. Somehow, I haven’t wondered whether knowing those comms are public would have changed what I said or how I said it.
I nearly tell him that it’s not worth dealing in hypotheticals.
But when Wes asked for me over the radio, I sprinted through the garage and over to the pit wall, where Paul sits, so that I could speak with him.
And there it is: the truth. “Yes.”
“Good,” Stas says, his tone warm now. “I’m glad he has you.”
I don’t know what to make of that. But just like Stas has confirmed a suspicion he had about me, I’ve also now confirmed something vital about him: he wants to protect Wes Grant.
I have so many questions for Stas. I’m desperate to know about Elio’s involvement.
I want to ask point blank if the Bugatti is the key to finding whoever is distributing Reverie.
I want to know whether Stas’s uncle is who Alice Abrams believes he is.
But it’s not like I can ask any of this as I sit on a bench in Central Park, where anyone could overhear this conversation.
So I grit my teeth and ask, “Is that why you called? Just to find out whether I care about Wes?”
“No. I need to give you a warning.”
My stomach drops. “Oh?”
“Elio is not happy that you bested him in Monaco,” he says. “He is well-connected. Be careful.”
This is far from the first time a well-connected man has been mad at me. But there’s something about the simplicity of Stas’s words and the way his voice is hushed now that has a chill spreading through my veins.
“Am I in immediate danger?”
“I do not think so,” Stas says. “But he sees you as a threat.”
Not a nuisance. Not a roadblock. A threat.
Chalondra’s words from months ago echo in my head: He seems to be very good at weaseling out of tight spots. On three specific occasions, he’s suddenly had the exact high-profile friend he needs when shit’s about to hit the fan.
I’d say getting arrested, having your shady financial dealings exposed, and being publicly rebuffed and run out of Monaco is more than a tight spot.
“Okay,” I breathe, my thoughts swimming. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“You’re welcome.”
I can feel the conversation wrapping up. But I still need answers. And the only way I’ll get them is if we have another conversation—preferably in person. “When can we meet?”
“We can’t,” Stas says.
“Don’t do that. I’ve already demonstrated that you can trust me. And you know damn well that I’ll come to you.”
Silence stretches, but I don’t rush to fill it. I don’t plead my case or give him some sales pitch. I’ve learned over the years that silence can be a strong ally.
“The week after the British Grand Prix,” Stas says and my heart lurches with victory. “I’ll contact you.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“Me, too,” Stas says, and I swear, there’s a smile in his voice. “Until then, good luck, Elizabeth Jacobs.”
With that, the line goes dead.
And though that call ended up being a win for me, I can’t ignore the warning Stas gave me.
I stay on that Central Park bench for a long time. When I finally stand to leave, I’ve thought of three different plans—but I have no idea what to do.