We're not here for them.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, spotting Amir's name on the screen.
Contracts to be drafted soon.
My team is excited about the partnership.
P.S. Your driver's speech was quite moving. Loyalty is a rare commodity these days.
A smile tugs at my lips. William helping close that deal was so perfectly him—all heart, no calculation. I type a quick thank youto him, turn off notifications, then slip the phone into my blazer pocket.
"Good news?" Belforte asks, breaking our companionable silence.
"Very."
As we approach the Vortex motorhome, I take in the scene. Their territory is always a spectacle—sleek, sophisticated, designed to intimidate. Today, it's particularly crowded. Men in tailored suits with expensive watches exchange business cards. Women with perfect blowouts laugh at jokes that probably aren't funny. I recognize several high-profile investors hovering near the entrance like bees around honey.
Then my eyes catch on someone unexpected—Sebastian Kent, the former frontman of Ember's Edge turned Hollywood action star. He stands out even in this crowd with his height, short, dark hair, his tattooed arms visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves, and that famous smile directed at whoever he's talking to. I follow his gaze and spot James Farrant and Yuki Kikuchi engaged in what appears to be a chummy conversation with him.
Farrant notices us approaching. Something flickers across his face—not the hostility I'd expect, but something closer to... relief? He says something to Kent and Kikuchi before striding toward us with purpose.
"Not this now..." I mutter under my breath, steeling myself for whatever barbed comment he's about to deliver.
"Colton." Farrant nods, surprisingly civil. "Looking for Dom? He's upstairs."
I blink, thrown by his helpfulness. Why would Vortex's star driver direct us straight to his Team Principal? Especially when we haven't announced our intentions to anyone.
"I don't recall broadcasting our destination," I reply carefully.
Farrant's mouth quirks in what might almost be a smile. "You didn't have to. You've got that look about you." He glancesbetween Belforte and me. "I'm kind of sick of him, so... whatever you're gonna do, you're doing us a favor."
"I'm not doing your dirty work," I say with more sharpness than I wanted.
"I wasn't thinking you would. Let's just say you're the only person who gets under his skin, so…"
Belforte's expression darkens, his eyes narrowing at Farrant. The driver doesn't miss it.
"Good idea bringing some muscle," Farrant adds with a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Good luck. You'll need it."
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me thoroughly confused. The rumors about internal strife at Vortex have been circulating for weeks since Dominic tried to poach EJ—Farrant clashing with Dominic over strategy, Kikuchi unhappy with car development priorities and his role in the team, and engineers jumping ship to other teams. But I'd assumed it was just standard paddock gossip, maybe even deliberately planted misinformation.
Maybe there's more truth to it than I thought. Vortex Racing is having its worst season start in years. Farrant, despite being the reigning World Driver’s Champion, is trailing both William and EJ in the standings. That's got to sting.
"I don't like him," Belforte mutters as we watch Farrant rejoin Kent and Kikuchi.
"No one does."
"No, I mean I really don't like him. But"—Belforte frowns, clearly processing the same puzzle I am—"it's strange he'd tell us where to find his boss."
"There’s something else behind it." I refuse to dwell on that, because that's their internal problem.
We enter the motorhome, and the atmosphere shifts immediately. Conversations pause. Heads turn. Eyes assess. Irecognize several representatives from Vortex's major sponsors—the CEO of Quantum Tech Ventures, and a vice president from Global Energy stand by the coffee bar, their expressions curious as they track our entrance.
Perfect. Our audience is in place.
Movement on the staircase draws my attention. Dominic is descending, deep in conversation with a silver-haired man whose bespoke suit screams 'magnate ready to launder his money.' When Dominic spots me, his expression theatrically transforms—from serious business discussion to patronizing amusement.
"Excuse me, Charles," he says to his companion. "It seems I have unexpected visitors."
