Page 34 of Spin Control

Something feral and vicious claws at my insides, the way it always does when a man tries to undermine and dismiss me. But there’s an undercurrent of fear there, too. Despite all his flash and shine, he doesn’t sound like he’s posturing.

“Feel free to underestimate me,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even, refusing to let my hands shake. “It’s always more fun when men do.”

With that, I turn and walk away at an even, unhurried pace. I may not be powerful in his eyes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t deliver a blow.

“Very well done, Elizabeth,” Marcus says once I’m back at the Martine table.

“Thank you,” I say, pulling my thoughts away from how hard my heart is pounding. We have a plan for this. And I need to focus on it. “Is everything in hand?”

“The story should be up in the next quarter of an hour.”

Though I’m sure Elio Rocca won’t be all that upset about a widely read tabloid running a story about him crashing a royal event in Monaco, I don’t think he’ll love the headline labeling him a failed fraudster. “Is David on his way to the motorhome?”

Marcus nods. “I told him we’ll meet him there.”

“And Wes?”

“Between green-lighting a takedown piece and contacting my head of PR, I haven’t had the chance to reach out to him yet,” Marcus says drily.

“I’ll tell him.” Though I type quickly, it isn’t just Wes I have to message. By the time I finish filling David in on all the details, Marcus and Agnès are speaking with the Sovereign Prince and Princess of Monaco, no doubt thanking them for the invite and bidding them good night.

“I’m not exactly sure what I just witnessed,” Freddie’s date says. She’s a model I recognize from a perfume ad that was plastered all over Manhattan a few months ago. “But I’m fairly certain it was a masterclass.”

I grin. “If you ever need a crisis specialist, I’m your girl.”

“Absolutely,” she says. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

I don’t miss how she doesn’t say ‘we’. She’s already clocked how entirely useless Freddie is, with the exception of providing her free access to the Monaco Grand Prix paddock.

“The most helpful thing you can do right now is show up at whatever party you’re meant to be at next.”

“Thank, Christ,” Freddie says, grabbing her hand.

My smile disappears. “Not you. You’ll be coming with me.”

“Why?” he asks petulantly.

“Because tomorrow is media day,” I remind him. “It’s going to be a very long night.”

Over the next twenty-four hours, I get precisely two hours and twenty-seven minutes of sleep.

After David and I finalized the team’s official statement about the incident with Elio, we jumped into prep mode for the rest of the weekend since anyone wearing a Martine team shirt is going to be bombarded by people eager for insider info about Elio, Wes, and the scandal.

After conducting two staff workshops, an extensive media training session with Freddie and a much shorter one with Wes, and then helping Andrew tweak his social media plan, I found a dark conference room and passed out until my alarm went off. Then I freshened up in the motorhome bathroom and accompanied Freddie to his media engagements. His haughty tone and lifeless delivery of the answers I rehearsed with him were less than ideal, but I suppose blatant unenthusiasm is better than him going off-book.

As the weekend continues, the noise about Elio only gets louder—especially after he’s spotted in Malta on Saturday. I fully expected him to stick around Monaco to prove a point about my lack of power, so I can’t help but feel extremely satisfied that he left. But what I didn’t see coming was Wes’s on-track performance throwing fuel on this particular media fire. During the second round of qualifying, his tires lock up and he overcorrects into the barrier. Though it could happen to anyone, the pundits and fans immediately turn the accident into a discussion about Wes’s mental state and stress levels after coming face to face with Elio.

On Sunday, the weather is beautiful and the paddock is filled with the world’s most glamorous people—but the race itself is boring as hell. The drivers and teams all play it safe on the street circuit, so Wes starts and ends the race in 12th place, while Freddie comes in 8th, outperforming him once again. And because all of that somehow isn’t enough drama for the weekend, a reporter has the gall to ask Wes what he thinks Stas’s reaction to his race would be and ends up with the clip of his career when Wes leans into the microphone, looks directly into the camera, and says “Go fuck yourself.”

Hours after the race has ended and the paddock has emptied as people head to lavish dinners and raucous parties, I’m sitting in my preferred motorhome conference room, typing up a weekly report, when Wes darkens the doorway.

I consider employing my usual tactics: ignoring him or treating him like a nuisance. But I was right there when he saw Elio. I watched him freeze in place, felt his grip tighten on my waist. I know precisely what’s being said online, and how disappointed Albrecht, Baz, and Marcus are.

So I stop typing and close my laptop. “Hi, Wes.”

He’s wearing black athletic shorts and a team shirt that he’s cut the sleeves and most of the sides off of so that it does little to cover his outrageously toned torso. There’s still boxing wrap on his hands and sweat sliding down the sides of his face. “Wow,” he says, his tone darker than usual. “Is it really that serious?”

“It can wait until our crisis debrief tomorrow.”