Page 60 of Spin Control

When I cross the finish line, Paul whoops in my ear and Albrecht informs me that I’ve just set a new record at this track. But I don’t exhale fully until I hear “You’re the winner of the Canadian Grand Prix.”

I did it. I won.

My second race in a row.

My third of the season.

Holy shit.

When my car is parked, I jump on the nose and throw my arms in the air.

But it isn’t until I lock eyes with Elizabeth Jacobs and watch as she mouths “good boy” that I feel the full force of this win.

25

Something I did not know about F1 is that the drivers’ individual race radios are broadcast live.

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.”