Page 63 of Spin Control

So when I step into the Martine motorhome at the Silverstone Circuit on Saturday, there’s only one person I want to see.

But instead of a gorgeous brunette, I come face to face with Choi Hyunjoon and Min Sora.

A smile breaks out across Hyunjoon’s face and I wrap him in a huge, if careful, hug. Broken collar bones are a bitch.

“I had no idea you’d be here this weekend.”

Hyunjoon grins. “We asked David to keep Sora off the celebrity guest list. But I actually had a meeting with Baz and Albrecht this morning.”

I almost ask what about, but then it hits me. Hyunjoon must see it on my face, because he nods. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about my future.”

Sora tucks hair behind her ear. It’s impossible not to notice the glittering diamond ring on a very specific finger.

“You’re engaged?”

Sora beams, and I swear, Hyunjoon’s breath catches when he looks at her. They’re the epitome of blissfully happy and deeply in love.

“We were going to wait a couple more years,” Sora says.

“But then you realized there was no good reason to do that?” I ask, so that neither of them has to say that a near-death experience really reinforced the fragility of mortality out loud.

“Pretty much,” Hyunjoon says. “I’m also officially retiring. I love racing, but I have other dreams.” He looks at Sora again, his eyes soft. He doesn’t have to say the rest. Their life together matters more to him than being a racing driver—and he won’t ever risk cutting their time short ever again.

“That’s wonderful,” I say, meaning it. “I’m really happy for you.”

We continue chatting for a few more minutes, and after they promise I’m invited to the wedding, I wave goodbye and prepare to resume my hunt for Elizabeth.

But of course, she finds me. She’s standing in the lobby, wearing a black dress that skims her body and has me itching to trace her curves with my hands.

I thought I was going to die that night in D.C. when she forbade me from caressing her soft skin, from gripping her hips, from pressing my thumb to her clit. But I was also so turned on by how she controlled that situation and wielded authority, commanding me to do what she wanted, that I know if she ever gave me permission to touch her sexually, I’d probably get off right then and there.

“Wes,” she says, her voice cool as ever. “Come with me.”

As if I’d ever say no to that.

I hold back my smirk as I follow her to a conference room—where Marcus, Baz, Albrecht, and David are waiting, concerned looks etched on their faces. That’s never a good sign.

“Morning,” I say as I take a seat, tempering my usual good humor to fit the vibe. “Everything okay?”

“No,” Baz says, emotion coloring his tone. Elizabeth sighs. “There’s something you need to see.”

David hands me a tablet and I press play on a video. Stas and I are standing next to each other on the grid at the Chinese Grand Prix, speaking with a man wearing a business suit. Since I’m wearing a yellow Bosch racing suit and Stas is in the black Orion kit, this footage is at least two years old. The video goes on for maybe thirty more seconds before the man shakes Stas’s hand. After that, we walk away from him.

I furrow my brow, trying to understand what exactly I should be picking up here. It has to be about the man in the suit. Though I vaguely remember this moment, I couldn’t tell you his name or what we talked about. “I’m guessing this man is important?”

“Do you remember the story you told about the Bugatti?” David asks.

My eyes snap to Elizabeth’s and terror floods my veins. Her eyes widen a touch, imploring me to settle the fuck down. “An investigative journalist sent this video to me,” she explains. “The footage was forwarded from a burner account. The reason it’s important is because the man you and Stas spoke with is Liu Zhenghao. He runs a massive pharmaceutical company. And he has the Bugatti Stas gambled away.”

My stomach lurches.

“Does his name ring a bell?” David asks. “Is there anything you remember about this conversation?”

I take a deep breath and think back to that race. I was walking through the chaos of the grid, dodging microphones and cameras as I made my way to the starting line, where the drivers congregate for the host country’s national anthem. Stas silently fell into step beside me, and then he saw a man ahead of us and said something. I open the mental drawer that contains that memory.

“There’s Mr. Liu. I have to talk to him. Favor for my uncle.”

But I’m not sure this is information I should share. So I shake my head and shrug. “I vaguely recall being introduced. But only because I thought we were going to get fined for being late to the national anthem.”