I exhale slowly, forcing air through lungs that feel too tight. "Fuck."
"Yeah."
We break free into the humid Jeddah air, headed toward the taxi stand. The crowd thins slightly, but several persistent journalists and fans continue following. James flags down a cab while I try to ignore the continued questions being shouted at my back.
"We need to coordinate with Colton PR," I say quietly.
"Already texted them," James confirms. "They're monitoring and preparing a statement."
He reaches for my backpack to load it into the cab, then pauses, his expression sharpening. He turns the bag in his hands, examining something.
"What?" Without a word, he peels something small and round from the side pocket. "What the hell is that?" I lean closer.
James holds it up—a small disk, innocuous-looking. "AirTag," he says, his voice tight. "Someone's tracking you."
Realization hits like ice water. "Are you fucking serious?"
"Dead serious." His eyes meet mine. "Probably a fan. Or the media."
The absolute violation of it—someone planning to follow my movements, to track me to my hotel, to wherever I go—sends a wave of fury through me so intense, my vision blurs for a second.
I snatch the device from his hand, drop it to the pavement, and bring my heel down hard. The satisfying crunch of plastic and circuitry beneath my Dr. Martens boots does little to calm the rage pulsing through me. I grind it once more for good measure before picking up the pieces and dumping them in a nearby trash bin.
"Thanks for catching that," I say to James, my voice shaking with adrenaline and anger. "This is getting completely out of hand."
We climb into the taxi, James giving the driver directions to the Belforte Resort. As we pull away from the curb, several people are still filming us from the airport entrance. My skin crawls yet again.
"They ruinedmyChristmas," I say quietly, watching the airport recede. "And now they're bringing that pain back. First, they tried to destabilize EJ with those contract rumors, then Dominic threatened Violet, and now this... The fucker leaked the photos when we’re on a good moment as a team?" I rake a hand through my hair. "It's fucking ridiculous. I'm a driver, not a celebrity. I don't want any of this shit. I just want to race and—"I stop, not finishing the thought:and be with her. "And now the fucking fans…"
James is quiet for a moment, watching the Jeddah skyline emerge ahead of us. "It's the parasocial thing," he says finally. "They think they know you, because they watch you race. They create this perfect image in their heads of what you are, and when reality doesn't match it, they feel betrayed."
"It's bullshit," I say flatly. "They care more about who I'm sleeping with than my driving. What the fuck is my work? Driving or being tabloid fodder? Last time I checked, I signed up to race cars, not have my personal life dissected by strangers."
"I know," James sighs. "But this comes with the territory now. The sport's bigger than ever. More eyes, more attention, more responsibility." He turns to look at me, his expression serious. "This isn't what you directly signed up for, but Will, it comes with the job, unfortunately. The best we can do is quiet things down, manage the narrative." A wry smile touches his lips. "And thank god you don't have social media. That's one less problem to deal with."
"Small mercies," I mutter.
We lapse into silence as the taxi navigates through Jeddah's busy streets. Outside, the city glitters in the late afternoon sun, all gleaming towers and pristine streets. Inside our cab, the atmosphere feels heavy with concern.
"The team..." I begin.
James glances over. "What about them?"
"You think they'll... I don't know. Treat me differently now?" It’s a vulnerable question, exposing a fear I hadn't fully acknowledged until now. "Or Violet?"
"The core team knows you both. They won't buy into this garbage."
"But the board might. Or sponsors." I stare out the window. "I can handle whatever shit they throw at me, even if it frustratesthe hell outta me. But Violet..." I shake my head. "She's already fighting an uphill battle. She doesn't deserve this."
James lands a hand on my shoulder, a solid weight. "She's tougher than you think."
"I know exactly how tough she is," I say softly. "That's not the point. We’re already doing our best to avoid attention by staying away from each other. She shouldn't have to be tough about this. About us."
The word hangs there—us. There's an "us" now, even if it's complicated, even if we're still figuring it out. And I'll be damned if I let these vultures destroy it before it has a chance to become what it’s meant to be.
"I need to talk to the team," I say, decision forming. "Blake, Violet, Silas... Figure out how to address this head-on."
The Belforte Resort comes into view—a gleaming structure of glass and steel that somehow manages to look both ultramodern and respectful of traditional architecture.
