26. Wes
It’s Fourth of July weekend, and I’m racing in England.
While everyone at home is enjoying barbecues and fireworks, I’m watching my teammate—a teenager who can probably trace his lineage back to the men who passed the Intolerable Acts—enjoy his very first home race at the British Grand Prix.
I know it’s shitty of me to begrudge Freddie this, but I’m feeling extremely petty about the fact that this weekend, at his very first home race, he’s receiving the upgrade I created and a new power unit.
The combination had him topping the time table during both practice sessions on Friday, giving people hope that this year’s British Grand Prix might be won by a British driver and a British team.
In addition, the rumors about my seat persist.
During the small break between races, Baz called me in for a meeting.
Even though I’m currently fourth in the Drivers’ Championship, I was incredibly nervous as I walked into his sprawling corner office.
But Baz got straight to the point. “I don’t normally do this, but after what we’ve been through this season, I think you deserve to know that I have no idea where the rumors about your future with us came from.
We are actively in conversation with your agent.
So please don’t let the noise get to you. ”
Though it’s gratifying to know where the team stands, whoever is fueling these rumors is doing a hell of a job. I’ve considered asking Albrecht and David if they have any idea who might be behind this, but I’ve been burned so badly by team leaders in the past that I can’t bring myself to do it.
I joined Sterling because the team principal and aerodynamicist pursued me doggedly and promised me the world.
In addition to a substantial amount of money and a multi-year contract, they swore I would be the priority driver.
After hearing that I’d never be number one at Orion, I went into that season with Sterling truly believing I’d be the next world champion.
But when I struggled with the car, the team reneged on every single promise and made me believe I was a terrible driver.
It was actually a relief when they fired me.
Though I’ve worked very hard to rebuild my confidence, the biggest lesson I learned from that experience was that in this sport, no one can be trusted.
So even though I like the people at Martine and want to put my faith in them, I know better than to reveal anything that could be considered a weakness to exploit.
But there is one person here that I trust, despite everything. I just haven’t seen her in weeks.
When Elizabeth didn’t show up at the Austrian Grand Prix, it was as if I’d woken up in an alternate timeline.
I walked past the motorhome conference room expecting to see her there, scowling gorgeously at the screen while she attacked her keyboard, bending reporters and media outlets and online chatter to her will.
It felt wrong not to have her around—and especially not to be able to talk to her on race day.
But more than that, I worried about her.
On top of the stress of her job and this scandal, her whole world was rocked by her fight with her sister and then she went viral.
Considering the way she needs control, I can’t imagine that’s something she has enjoyed.
Rather than annoying her with questions about how she’s doing or video calling her out of the blue again, I’ve started sending her daily animal facts—just so she knows I’m thinking about her.
She never responds, but I did see her start to type once.
It was after I sent her the very amusing information that wombat poop is cube shaped.
I’m certain she would have laughed if I had told her that one in person.
So when I step into the Martine motorhome at the Silverstone Circuit on Saturday, there’s only one person I want to see.
But instead of a gorgeous brunette, I come face to face with Choi Hyunjoon and Min Sora.
A smile breaks out across Hyunjoon’s face and I wrap him in a huge, if careful, hug. Broken collar bones are a bitch.
“I had no idea you’d be here this weekend.”
Hyunjoon grins. “We asked David to keep Sora off the celebrity guest list. But I actually had a meeting with Baz and Albrecht this morning.”
I almost ask what about, but then it hits me. Hyunjoon must see it on my face, because he nods. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about my future.”
Sora tucks hair behind her ear. It’s impossible not to notice the glittering diamond ring on a very specific finger.
“You’re engaged?”
Sora beams, and I swear, Hyunjoon’s breath catches when he looks at her. They’re the epitome of blissfully happy and deeply in love.
“We were going to wait a couple more years,” Sora says.
“But then you realized there was no good reason to do that?” I ask, so that neither of them has to say that a near-death experience really reinforced the fragility of mortality out loud.
“Pretty much,” Hyunjoon says. “I’m also officially retiring.
I love racing, but I have other dreams.” He looks at Sora again, his eyes soft.
He doesn’t have to say the rest. Their life together matters more to him than being a racing driver—and he won’t ever risk cutting their time short ever again.
“That’s wonderful,” I say, meaning it. “I’m really happy for you.”
We continue chatting for a few more minutes, and after they promise I’m invited to the wedding, I wave goodbye and prepare to resume my hunt for Elizabeth.
But of course, she finds me. She’s standing in the lobby, wearing a black dress that skims her body and has me itching to trace her curves with my hands.
I thought I was going to die that night in D.C.
when she forbade me from caressing her soft skin, from gripping her hips, from pressing my thumb to her clit.
But I was also so turned on by how she controlled that situation and wielded authority, commanding me to do what she wanted, that I know if she ever gave me permission to touch her sexually, I’d probably get off right then and there.
“Wes,” she says, her voice cool as ever. “Come with me.”
As if I’d ever say no to that.
I hold back my smirk as I follow her to a conference room—where Marcus, Baz, Albrecht, and David are waiting, concerned looks etched on their faces. That’s never a good sign.
“Morning,” I say as I take a seat, tempering my usual good humor to fit the vibe. “Everything okay?”
“No,” Baz says, emotion coloring his tone. Elizabeth sighs. “There’s something you need to see.”
David hands me a tablet and I press play on a video.
Stas and I are standing next to each other on the grid at the Chinese Grand Prix, speaking with a man wearing a business suit.
Since I’m wearing a yellow Bosch racing suit and Stas is in the black Orion kit, this footage is at least two years old.
The video goes on for maybe thirty more seconds before the man shakes Stas’s hand. After that, we walk away from him.
I furrow my brow, trying to understand what exactly I should be picking up here. It has to be about the man in the suit. Though I vaguely remember this moment, I couldn’t tell you his name or what we talked about. “I’m guessing this man is important?”
“Do you remember the story you told about the Bugatti?” David asks.
My eyes snap to Elizabeth’s and terror floods my veins.
Her eyes widen a touch, imploring me to settle the fuck down.
“An investigative journalist sent this video to me,” she explains.
“The footage was forwarded from a burner account. The reason it’s important is because the man you and Stas spoke with is Liu Zhenghao.
He runs a massive pharmaceutical company.
And he has the Bugatti Stas gambled away. ”
My stomach lurches.
“Does his name ring a bell?” David asks. “Is there anything you remember about this conversation?”
I take a deep breath and think back to that race.
I was walking through the chaos of the grid, dodging microphones and cameras as I made my way to the starting line, where the drivers congregate for the host country’s national anthem.
Stas silently fell into step beside me, and then he saw a man ahead of us and said something.
I open the mental drawer that contains that memory.
“There’s Mr. Liu. I have to talk to him. Favor for my uncle.”
But I’m not sure this is information I should share. So I shake my head and shrug. “I vaguely recall being introduced. But only because I thought we were going to get fined for being late to the national anthem.”
Albrecht chuckles and Marcus huffs a laugh, but Elizabeth narrows her eyes.
I hold my breath, wondering if she’s going to call me on my bullshit.
But she says, “From what I can glean, this is the first break anyone has had in a while and only one journalist knows about it. But the fact that someone out there sent the video means they want the information to go wide.”
Silence descends on the room as everyone processes what this might mean. Who might have the video. And why they would want a journalist to implicate me.