Page 28 of Spin Control

I swipe the message open and grin when a playlist titled “The Most Feminine of Rages” created by elizabethwjacobs opens.

I never thought Elizabeth would ever voluntarily send me anything, let alone a playlist that she put together for her own personal enjoyment. It may be a small victory, but it feels shockingly close to the thrill of standing on a podium.

13

There’s not much that intimidates me these days.

I’ve been in rooms with some of the most powerful people in the world, have told CEOs they’re being ousted with a smile on my face, and no longer feel a little swoop in my stomach when I’m face to face with celebrities. But the second I see the sun-drenched glory of Monaco with my own eyes, I feel like I’ve conned my way into a world I should never have access to.

Gazing out the plane window, I can’t resist snapping a photo of the glittering azure water, the buildings that hug the coastline, and the green mountains.

“Not too shabby, eh?” David asks, a knowing note in his voice.

I know there’s no reason for me to be embarrassed about feeling awed by Monaco, but I still try for an unaffected air. “If you’re into the whole Mediterranean wealth thing.”

David laughs. “I’m pretty sure everyone is into the whole Mediterranean wealth thing.” He turns back to his phone, and I do the same, sending the photo to my sister before opening my social listening app.

Since Miami, the tone of the news about Martine has shifted drastically. Gone are the stories about embezzlement and financial investigations, crime families and corrupt organizations, replaced by business and leadership profiles, trend reporting based on whatever Wes and Freddie post online, and race updates. But one thing that is starting to ramp up is speculation about Wes’s future with Martine. His results at Miami and Imola were good, but not stellar. Apparently when coupled with the discourse about Wes’s age and how well Freddie is doing as a rookie, that’s enough to make people think a driver who is currently in the top five is going to lose his seat. I don’t know if people are bored or if this sport is truly so fickle.

I skim the posts about Freddie, noting the uptick in volume and surprisingly positive sentiment. I suppose a young white guy who sounds like he’s ripped out of a Regency romance and has the polish of generational wealth is always going to attract admirers, no matter how shitty his personality is.

But my eyes catch on posts about Stas. Though discussion of him has waned as he’s continued to lay low, the fascination is still there. With a Russian father and Japanese mother, people have had a field day coming up with various ways for him to be connected to both the bratva and yakuza. A pretty popular theory is that his meteoric rise to world champion is proof that he’s some sort of Russian plant who is using his cover as a driver to gather intel on various companies, politicians, celebrities, and governments.

Alice Abrams’s working theory, while less titillating than the idea of a Russian spy going undercover as the world’s foremost F1 driver, is still pretty juicy. Her hunch is that Stas’s uncle—who famously bankrolled Stas’s early karting days—is the criminal mastermind and that he is working either in direct partnership with or on behalf of the oligarchy. But she has yet to find tangible evidence of this, can’t say for certain that Liu Zhenghao is producing Reverie, and has no idea how Elio Rocca factors in.

She told me all of that right before I explained to her that she needed to back away from the Bugatti story. After Alice called me a traitor, a bad feminist, cussed me out, and threatened to never work with me again, I swore on my life that I’d give her full access to Martine when the time was right.

Then I ordered her an outrageously expensive pen that I know she’s coveted for ages—mostly because I don’t want to lose my working relationship with Alice. But also because the bad feminist accusation stung.

The things I do for this job, I swear.

After I’ve checked into the glitzy hotel, I have a call with my boss to update him on the latest with Martine. Half an hour later, I cross out the last thing on my to-do list for the day—and this time, I’m all caught up on sleep.

I message Chalondra and approximately ten seconds after I’ve hit send, I get a video call. Her image fills the screen, along with the team of people doing her hair, makeup, and nails simultaneously. “I’m guessing this means you are not free to hang out.”

Chalondra laughs. “I take it you’re not coming to the Grand Prix Gala?”

Considering this is the first I’ve heard of it, I definitely will not be going. “Precisely how offended should I be that I didn’t even know it was happening?”

“Extremely. You should go find Marcus and insist he bring you.”

My eyebrows lift. “Marcus? This isn’t a David thing?”

“No,” Chalondra says. “This is hosted by the royal family—it’s more for VIP guests and celebrities than for the motorsports industry, but the team owners and drivers are always invited. Though the owners usually go, most of the drivers don’t show.”

“Gotcha,” I say. “And you’re a celebrity guest, I’m guessing?”

“Not yet,” Chalondra says, humor in her voice. “But your girl is hosting the red carpet!”

I whistle low and she gives her shoulders a little shimmy. “I’m pretty sure I saw a certain Martine Racing driver’s name on the confirmed red carpet list. And I don’t think he had a plus one.”

“I’m sure Marcus told both Wes and Freddie that their attendance is mandatory,” I say, calculating the media value of attending a gala hosted by Monaco’s royal family. “The brand needs high-profile press.”

“Elizabeth,” Chalondra says flatly. “How are you so brilliant, but also so dense?”

My brow furrows. “What am I missing?”

“I just told you that Wes Grant, one of the most eligible bachelors in the goddamn world, does not have a date to this hoity-toity shindig.”