Page 5

BAHRAIN

TWO WEEKS LATER

KLAUS

My preference has always been to watch races from the garage, but with Edward Morgan—Emerald team owner and my dearest friend—out on medical leave, and Phaedra and Cosmin practically at each other’s throats, my presence is needed on the pit wall to help keep things stable.

Facilitating rapport between team members is a big part of my job; at times I feel I’m half therapist.

Phaedra has been terse over the radio but grudgingly professional, and Cosmin is having a strong race.

The Bahrain circuit is engineered for excitement, with more opportunity for overtaking than is typical in newer tracks.

Sakhir is windy and dusty, which is always a challenge.

But the track is a favorite of many racers, with long straights, tight hairpins, thrilling twists, and challenging high-speed corners.

Having started in eighth place, Cosmin has fought his way up to third. Emerald’s other driver, Jakob, is holding steady in P6. A podium for Cosmin so early in the season would be quite a coup.

He roars down the straight after turn 13 with Akio Ono close behind, then brakes early into turn 14—a good strategy that will allow him to pick up speed before the quick but gentle turn 15, then pour on power for the main straight leading to the finish line.

Ono attempts an overtake at the apex of 14, but Cosmin brushes him off easily.

I glance at Phaedra, her face lit in an open smile, lips parted to deliver words of encouragement, which go undelivered as Cosmin’s car slows and Ono unexpectedly charges past. It happens so quickly that we are all in shock as a podium finish transforms before our eyes into a still respectable yet disappointing fourth.

“Ce pusca mea… la naiba!” Cosmin snarls over the radio. “No, no, no! What the shit?”

The broadcast version is surely one long bleep tone at his flurry of bilingual cursing. From the look on her face, I expect Phaedra to join in with a volley of her own blue language, but she retains a surprising equanimity.

“It was a solid drive, Cos,” she reassures him a bit crisply. Her keen eyes rake over the data on the monitors as she speaks, trying to determine the car’s sudden loss of power. “We’ll take the points.”

His anguished groan tears over the comms. “What fucking happened? That was mine .”

“ Looking into it ,” Phaedra snaps. “Let’s focus on the positive.”

There are smiles and backslapping all around on the pit wall, everyone celebrating the twenty points gained by our two drivers.

Glancing over at Jakob’s race engineer—jovial Alfie, known for his almost satiric British pleasantness—I wonder again whether I should have asked him to work with Cosmin this season and had Phaedra switch to Jakob.

Both drivers, I’m starting to suspect, need something other than what they’re getting.

Jakob has become cautious since his marriage and is driving so conservatively that a more energetic race engineer might be an asset.

And Cosmin is feisty enough that he could benefit from working with someone who might ignore his “noise” in favor of the signal.

The worry that I’ve made a poor call, along with concern for Edward’s health, is getting the better of me… but I cannot possibly show it.

Perception is all.

The face of Emerald must remain polished—it’s imperative not only to team morale but also to the confidence of investors and sponsors.

Knowing that, ultimately, every failure of the team—from the most overarching principle to the smallest detail—begins and ends with me…

it is a heavy weight. When Sofia was alive, it was a comfort to remove my armor in her presence.

It’s been five years since I’ve felt I could be myself entirely.

The closest I come is in the ease of Edward’s affable demeanor.

I’m committed to the team; it has become my family.

But a weariness is setting in. Losing Sofia, and enduring the added misery of my grief being public, has already made me question whether I’m happy as Emerald’s team principal.

This year in particular, the stress of the job combined with worry for Edward has me restless, dissatisfied, and feeling trapped.

If Edward dies , I think, it will render me an emotional island with no landing spot for visitors .

I recently saw a series of photos in an art gallery: trees that have “swallowed” inanimate objects by growing around them—signs, fences, chairs, bicycles.

I stared at them for a long time, unable to shake the sense that my life has “grown over” and absorbed essential parts of me, trapped in the grip of something organic, yet rigidly unforgiving.

The Monday meetings the next day feel longer than usual. Our newest sponsor, Basilisk Tech, is already proving challenging. When my car pulls up outside the hotel, it’s nearly eleven at night. I’m exhausted and haven’t eaten since noon.

I’m saying good night to the driver and climbing out when my phone rings. After running a tired hand down my face, I swipe the call open and stride into the hotel lobby.

“Clara,” I say grimly. “What now?”

Immediately I feel bad for my sharp tone. Emerald’s commercial officer is every bit as tired as I am and wouldn’t call so late if the issue weren’t critical.

I add an apologetic sigh. “Forgive me. I’d sell a kidney for a proper night’s sleep.”

When was the last time my nomadic life afforded me truly restful sleep? I live out of hotels—different cities, beds, women. Lately, I often find myself reminiscing privately about the simplicity of a time when the word “home” still meant something.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen what Basilisk just posted?” Clara asks.

“No.” I wander toward the lobby’s seating area and lean against the arm of an overstuffed chair, closing my eyes—half in concentration, half in exhaustion. “What happened?”

Spurred by the rumble of my empty stomach, I glance across the lobby at the archway leading into the lounge. I’m jolted alert as I spot Natalia Evans at a table with an auburn-haired man who has his back to me.

Clara’s words pull me away from the scene.

“They just posted they want to break up with Emerald,” she says, “because, quote, ‘We aren’t pleased with their potential or professionalism. Will explore sponsorship opportunities with more competitive team.’ Hashtag ‘DontMesswiththeDragon.’”

I set the phone down for a moment and scrub my face with both hands, at my wit’s end. “Sohn einer Hündin! Der mist…” Picking the phone back up and stifling my frustrated groan, I shift to sit in the chair, leaning my elbows on my knees. “What the hell does he think he means with this Schwachsinn?”

It’s a rhetorical outburst, but the very literal Clara answers, “It certainly isn’t a performance concern.

A ‘more competitive team’ means ‘one willing to overlook the watchdog report, take Basilisk’s thirty million, and roll out the livery with the dragon logo next month in Shanghai.

’ They’re preemptively slagging us off to cover their arses.

Which means they’re hiding dirt of their own. Should we call Mo?”

“Edward doesn’t need to deal with this.” I nearly make the mistake of including the words when he’s ill , but cut myself off just in time.

“Well, all right. You know what you’re doing…” Clara says uncertainly.

I slide one hand to the back of my neck and massage the tension there. “Tell me your concerns, Kl?rchen,” I invite in an easy tone.

“Bit of a triple-decker shit sandwich, isn’t it?

” she replies. “The biggest exporter in what may be a grand prix host country in two years’ time?

Basilisk would have been a feather in our cap—but obviously not if they’re compromised.

Still, losing them leaves a massive hole in the budget.

And we’ve a duty to inform the FIA of what we learned, but few will thank us for damning intel that affects a race location—we all know how much everyone loves a bearer of bad news. ”

She audibly swallows some liquid, and the musical sound of ice clinking is Pavlovian—suddenly I’m dying for a drink.

I push to my feet and head across the lobby into the lounge.

My gaze glides over Natalia as I pass, but she doesn’t see me.

Her expression is put-upon. I can’t help noticing there is an uneaten plate of food before her, but nothing in front of the man sitting in the other chair.

Not a date, then? Just someone disturbing her meal?

“Let’s focus on hard facts and not borrow trouble for now,” I say calmly to Clara. “Our budget will take a hit—not insignificant, but manageable. Next issue?” I briefly mute my phone to order a Courvoisier once I’ve stepped up to the bar.

“Next,” she continues, “is figuring out who tipped off Basilisk about our meeting tonight. It had to have been someone on our team for them to find out so fast and make this post.”

I hide my frown in the tulip glass the bartender sets before me. Breathing in the liquor’s warmth, I take a generous sip.

“Let’s meet tomorrow,” I instruct Clara. “It won’t benefit us to panic tonight. But we will figure this out and deal with the perpetrator accordingly.”

Swiveling discreetly to look back at Natalia, I note that she’s folded her arms, posture closed.

The man across from her, I can see from this angle, is Alexander Laskaris, a fellow journalist from her magazine.

He leans his elbows heavily on the table and Natalia grabs for her wineglass before it tips.

She scowls and says something, and Laskaris attempts to touch her under the chin as if she were a pouting child.

I turn back to the bar. “Emerald will get through this, Kl?rchen,” I tell Clara.

“The repercussions of Basilisk as a sponsor would be far worse than the hit to our budget if the watchdog report is accurate. And if investigation reveals that the human rights problem is not confined to one company in the host country?” I rub my eyes again. “It detonates into a scandal.”