Page 8

SHANGHAI, CHINA

TWO WEEKS LATER

NATALIA

When I first met Phaedra in college—I was twenty and she was eighteen—I didn’t like her. I thought she was mean. A poorly socialized, tutor-educated rich kid who didn’t understand how friendship worked. She was what might diplomatically be called “challenging.”

I spotted her diamond-in-the-rough charm and refused to give up, and once she let her guard down, we became inseparable. Fourteen years later, I’m still not only her best friend but also one of the few people who understand her.

Loving Phaedra Morgan is hard work, but a job I’m skilled at.

I have to admit, though… as jobs go, I’ve had to take a sabbatical at times.

That was easy when I lived in New York and wrote for a literary journal.

Phae travels most of the year, so we saw each other in person only in the F1 offseason.

But working at this new job—only three races in with ARJ —Phae and I are at a boiling point with each other.

I thought following the grands prix would be “an endless globe-trotting slumber party” for my best friend and me. But this week in Shanghai, our bridge of connection has collapsed.

When I got the ARJ job, Phae and I set ground rules about what we can discuss.

Her first loyalty is to her team, so certain topics are off-limits.

But Phae being her bossy self, she isn’t always affording me the same privacy and is currently up in my business about whether I’m “allowed” to be friends with Klaus.

Low-key bickering turned into the kind of gloves-off battle where everyone says things they can’t take back.

I feel so isolated. “Lonely in a crowd,” despite being in constant motion, spinning through a world of high-stakes action and high-octane personalities.

The thought intrudes from time to time: Is this really worth it? Do I love this job, or just the idea of it? What if the price I pay is more than I can afford to lose?

The fear of abandonment that’s dogged me since childhood tends to make every loss, even minor ones, feel destabilizing and permanent. In my own way, I’m as guarded as Phaedra.

Like most children with absent parents, I’ve spent my life trying to make myself lovable.

Worthy of not being abandoned. The rift with Phae is hitting me in my worst vulnerabilities.

Half of me wants to back down just to keep the peace, and the other half says, Maybe you’ve outgrown this friendship.

Why should you always be the one to fold?

It echoes in my head as I make my way, with a stubborn, unapologetic confidence, to Klaus’s suite this morning.

Since our impromptu chat in the lounge in Bahrain two weeks ago, and the Jump Start event, I’ve thawed toward him a little.

I’ve seen a new side to the man—a vulnerability I didn’t previously realize existed.

It’s advantageous to be friendly with such a powerful TP, so when he invited me for coffee in Shanghai, it felt like a smart move to jump at the chance.

Surely I’ll be able to wrangle it into a little interview. Just good business, right?

Good business, yes. But… I have to confess, the sexual tension is fun too.

There’s no denying the attraction, even if we can’t act on it.

The ground rules have to be the same with him as they’ve been with Phaedra.

So many details need to remain unshared that the path to a true friendship is littered with obstacles.

Klaus opens the door and, dammit, the guy is the embodiment of uncontrived hotness. His suit is a dark slate blue, subtly plaid.

Does he work at that perfect hair as hard as I do with mine? Gorgeous. Argh…

“Come in,” he says, sweeping an arm to invite me inside.

There’s a room service table near the windows with a three-tier dragon-pattern plate covered in tiny pastries. A thermal carafe—not the diner kind, but cloisonné that matches the dessert tower—stands near it, with china teacups so delicate they must weigh no more than feathers.

He holds out a chair for me. “You look lovely, kleine Hexe.”

“Thank you.”

I sit, then pour coffee for each of us, suddenly nervous and needing to busy my hands. Klaus settles across from me as I select a pink petit four and move it to my plate with a pair of silver tongs. “And how is the sphinxlike Klaus Franke this morning?”

He stirs cream into his coffee, surveying me with a playful twinkle. “ Sphinxlike ? I have nothing to hide, Miss Evans. I’m an open book.”

“Wow, no. There’s a lot you won’t talk about, I’ve noticed. You can be surprisingly cagey during Thursday press meetings.”

He chuckles. “Surely not. It’s just a new duty, and I’ve not yet settled into it.”

I consider using his statement as a jumping-off point to ask why Edward Morgan has been absent from press conferences lately—I tried gently inquiring with Phae, and she just about took my head off—but I don’t want to spook him by barreling straight into reporter mode.

“Are you sure that’s all? Let’s test it with a question or two.”

He pauses to sip his coffee. “Hmm, sticking to the professional? If you insist. Be my guest.”

His smile, I think, is meant to look amiable-condescending—as if he’s being indulgent.

I can’t deny I have a weakness for a guy who’s a little superior, at least when it’s backed up by actual power.

But I spot a hint of anxiety too. He’s bracing himself, and I feel clumsy for having herded us into interview territory with little preamble.

I fold my hands. “Word on the street says Emerald’s budget cratered when you lost Basilisk’s sponsorship. Everyone wonders why it happened. And the murmurs say the sudden retirement of your technical director has something to do with it.”

Klaus’s poker face is textbook. “‘Cratered’ is dramatic. I could cover the budget deficit with my own checkbook.”

“ Ooh, nice flex ,” I tease in a stage whisper.

“Basilisk wasn’t a major player. Sponsorship relationships come and go.” After moving a kiwi-mango tart onto a plate, Klaus sucks a bit of glaze off his thumb. I’m pretty sure it’s a deliberate distraction. “But enough about that.”

“Too rich for your blood?” I taunt. “Fine, I’ll go with a different question: Why’s Edward Morgan suddenly MIA?”

Klaus picks up a small spoon and stirs his coffee again, despite not having put anything more into it. Definitely nervous.

“You’ve not asked Phaedra?” he returns with studied lightness. “Your best friend?”

My stomach drops at the knowing tilt to his mouth. When he lifts his eyes to meet mine, he’s back in control, and I think we both feel it.

“I, uh…” Trailing off, I prod my petit four.

“Don’t think I’ve not noticed a coolness between you two this week.”

I remain silent, jabbing the pastry with a scowl. How do I both hate and love the fact that Klaus can see right through me?

“Do you prefer we not discuss it?” he prompts. Watching me with his inky eyes narrowed, he takes a sip of coffee. “Perhaps we both have off-limits topics.”

I give him a bland look and a conspicuous beat of silence. “Okay, tit for tat: You want to know about Phae and me. I want to know if there’s a link between Basilisk and your technical director.”

“Is this friendship a series of negotiations?”

“Don’t kid yourself—every relationship is.”

“Yet information is not typically the currency.” He cuts a bite of tart and chews thoughtfully.

“Maybe you just don’t trust me.”

“Should I? Come now, kleine Hexe… those lovely blue eyes are not a master key to gain you entrance to any room you fancy.”

It’s a reach, my asking—obviously he shouldn’t tell me anything that might hurt Emerald. Still, I feel sulky. And part of me does want to talk about Phae, preferably with someone who knows her as well as I do.

“Friends can outgrow each other,” I state simply.

“Phae is a bossy know-it-all. So belittling .” I don’t intend for the next part of my confession to slip out, but it leaps the fence.

“I’ve spent my life fighting to prove myself.

I can’t waste energy on it in a friendship.

Phae’s brilliant, but I won’t be an unequal partner in any relationship.

Whenever she starts to lose an argument, she makes it personal and defaults to name-calling. It’s immature. And I deserve better.”

Anger rises from some hidden and neglected place in me as I recall cruel taunts and nicknames I heard in childhood. The words tumble out.

“She makes me feel small ,” I rage on. “Like she thinks being friends with me is charity. It reminds me of all those years getting hand-me-downs from my aunt’s church—clothes, toys, donated school supplies.

And I’m not trying to play some ‘Boo-hoo, I grew up poor’ card here.

I’m incredibly proud of my aunt and the stable childhood she gave me. I’m just tired of not feeling worthy.”

Klaus’s face is serious. “Talia, no one could fail to see your worth. You’re a talented journalist. I saw your latest episode of ARJ Buzz on YouTube. You’re… making quite the impression.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Knowledgeable, erudite.” There’s a long pause. Something unreadable crosses his face. “Though I—” He seems to weigh his next words, then shakes his head.

“Though you what ?”

He gives his fork a careless wave. “Just one of the comments you closed with. It made Emerald look a bit foolish, wouldn’t you agree?”

I dab my lips primly with a napkin. “Huh. Well, I feel a little ambushed now. Is this why you invited me for coffee? To scold me?”

“Certainly not. I hadn’t planned to bring it up at all.”

“I don’t tell you how to run a racing team, so you shouldn’t tell me how to report racing news.”

“ Is the YouTube show news, or is it gossip?” His tone is deceptively mild.

I set my fork down with a clink. “One point, and then—if you want to be friends—we’re done talking about this. Gossip is part of sporting news. What people are talking about is relevant.”

“Thank you for that insight,” he replies. I’m not sure if it’s sarcastic.

“ ARJ Buzz isn’t just ‘gossip.’ In the last episode, I also did a comparative analysis on the beam wings on each team’s car, how they impact aerodynamic balance and cornering stability.

I’m hardly going”—I wave my arms around and adopt a Valley Girl accent—“‘ Like, ohmigawwwd… did Owen Byrne from Team Easton dump reality TV empire heiress Brooklyn Katz for Taylor Swift? ’”

The rumble of Klaus’s laughter is contagious, and my irritation cools slightly.

“You’re absolutely correct,” he tells me. “Your reporting thus far has been beautifully informative. My apologies for implying otherwise.”

I reach for the coffee to pour myself a bit more, and Klaus moves to do it for me.

“It’s fine. I guess I’m defensive too sometimes,” I admit.

“Everyone has their triggers. I’m perhaps overly sensitive about journalists. Rumor-mongering specifically.”

“That… exposé a couple years back?” Immediately I know I shouldn’t have said anything.

“A hundred thousand Swiss francs for defamation was a slap on the wrist,” he says tersely.

I read about the libel suit when I googled Klaus after Abu Dhabi. A few years ago, a European culture magazine made some shocking claims in an article detailing Klaus’s personal life and the loss of his wife.

He went to work at nineteen for Sofia’s father, who owned a successful tech company.

Klaus married Sofia and proceeded to work his way up the ladder at the business, SindeZmos, until he ended up in auto racing through a combination of contacts he had in the tech business and in the world of superbike racing, which he did competitively in his youth.

Sofia inherited her family’s business just after Klaus joined Emerald.

Only a few years later she died, leaving everything to Klaus.

A passage in the article mentioned that “sources close to the family” believed Klaus had only married the rather plain-looking and shy Sofia to get ahead in SindeZmos—a damned tacky line to take, saying a dead woman hadn’t been hot enough to have authentically earned the love of a dashing husband.

But far worse had been a mention—which ended up being pivotal in the lawsuit—of how “according to some,” Klaus may have had a hand in Sofia’s death, speeding her illness along due to a concern that she might change her will to leave SindeZmos to a nephew.

The nephew turned out to be the source, no surprise. Klaus donated the lawsuit’s award amount to a charity Sofia had loved, the International Rescue Committee.

His continued suspicion toward journalists certainly makes sense. We’re both coming to our cautious friendship with a lot of baggage.

Dammit, though I’m pretty sure I’ve historically never been given equivalent grace by the men in my life, in this moment I study Klaus’s face and see the vulnerable child in him. The young man who didn’t expect to end up where he is.

Recognizing that I’m doing it doesn’t stop me. In my mind, the decision takes root, even while I try to weed it out: From now on, I probably won’t touch on anything that reflects unflatteringly on him during ARJ Buzz episodes.

Maybe I’ve been primed for the thought by the pain of the rift with Phae, exacerbating my habitual fear of abandonment.

Maybe it’s the powerful, undeniable attraction.

Maybe it’s the lost little girl in me who’ll always be desperate to please.

But… I choose my corner, thinking:

I might need Klaus on my side as much as he needs me on his.