Page 76 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)
PRESS ROOM REVELATIONS
~ L ACHLAN~
The conference room at Circuit Gilles Villeneuve feels like a morgue dressed up as a media center. Every face in the crowd of reporters wears the same expression—that particular blend of professional concern and barely concealed excitement that comes when tragedy makes for good headlines.
I sit at the long table, my face a mask of nothing, feeling everything and showing none of it.
My hands are folded on the table in front of me, and if you look closely, you can probably see the half-moon marks where my nails have dug into my palms. But the cameras won't pick that up.
They'll see what I want them to see—the four-time world champion maintaining his composure in the face of crisis.
The thing is, I'm not composed. I'm barely holding it together.
The image of Auren's car flipping—going airborne in that sickening way that defies physics and reason—plays on repeat in my mind. The explosion that followed, the fireball that could have been her funeral pyre if Dimitri hadn't...
I force the thought down, lock it away with all the other things I can't afford to feel right now.
Surprisingly, Dimitri Volkov sits three seats down from me, his left leg elevated and wrapped in enough bandages to mummify a small pharaoh.
His presence here is unexpected—rival teams don't usually do joint conferences, but apparently, when both drivers nearly die in suspicious circumstances, protocol goes out the window.
Terek sits to my right, fielding the initial barrage of questions with his usual efficiency. Harrison is on my left, tablet in hand, probably calculating impact forces and brake failure rates because that's how he processes trauma—through data.
The room is packed beyond capacity. Every major outlet has sent their top people, and the overflow is standing along the walls, cameras and microphones creating a forest of technology all aimed at us like weapons.
"Mr. Wolfe," a reporter from Sky Sports starts, his British accent crisp despite the chaos, "can you walk us through what you witnessed on track today?"
I lean toward the microphone, my voice coming out steady and emotionless, like I'm reading a grocery list instead of describing watching the woman I love nearly burn to death.
"I was focused on my own race. I became aware of an incident involving cars three and fourteen when the safety car was deployed. The team immediately informed me of the situation."
It's a non-answer, professionally delivered. The truth—that I was screaming her name into the radio, that I nearly crashed my own car trying to see what was happening in my mirrors, that I had to be physically restrained from leaving my car before the race was red-flagged—none of that belongs here.
"What's the current health situation of Miss Vale?" Another reporter, this one from L'équipe, leans forward eagerly.
Terek takes this one. "Auren Vale is currently in stable condition at the circuit medical center. She's conscious and responding well to treatment. We expect a full recovery, though the timeline for her return to racing is yet to be determined."
The sanitized version. Not the part where she was unconscious for fifteen minutes.
Not the broken ribs, the severe concussion, the smoke inhalation that had her coughing up black soot.
Not the way she looked at me when she finally woke up and whispered "I remembered something" before the sedatives pulled her under again.
"Was this incident premeditated?" The question comes from a German reporter, direct and unsubtle.
"We're investigating—" Terek starts, but another reporter cuts him off.
"Was it a setup? Both cars failing simultaneously seems suspicious."
The room erupts into overlapping questions, voices rising as each reporter tries to be heard over the others. It's chaos—the kind that makes for great television but shit for actually conveying information.
Terek raises his hand, his voice cutting through the noise with military authority. "Enough! One at a time, or this conference ends now."
The threat works. The room settles into something resembling order, though the tension remains thick enough to choke on.
That's when Dimitri leans forward, his movement awkward with the injured leg, and speaks for the first time.
"Both cars had brake failure," he says, his Russian accent thicker than usual, whether from pain or emotion I can't tell. "Mine jammed completely at lap twenty-five, immediately after pit stop. Vale's did same."
The room goes so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
"Our technical experts—both teams—have already determined components were compromised," he continues, each word careful and deliberate. "Someone infiltrated both facilities. Someone tampered with both cars. Why?" He shrugs, the gesture somehow more ominous than any accusation. "Is unknown."
The explosion of questions that follows is predictable. Every reporter shouting at once, demanding details, conspiracy theories already forming. But one voice cuts through—an American reporter who's been covering Formula One longer than I've been alive.
"Mr. Volkov, how will your team proceed given your injury?"
Dimitri's jaw tightens, and I see him grip his crutches harder. "My leg is... how you say... out of commission. Shattered tibia, fractured fibula, damaged ligaments. Minimum six months recovery, possibly permanent limitation. I will be replaced."
The uproar that follows is immediate and total. Dimitri Volkov has been Ferrari's lead driver for three years, their best shot at a championship since the Schumacher era. Him stepping down—being forced to step down—is massive news.
But one reporter, young and hungry for controversy, asks the question that makes my blood boil.
"Why did you help Vale, knowing it would not only ruin your good leg but take you out of the competition?"
Before anyone can respond, a female reporter from the BBC interjects, her voice sharp with disgust at her colleague's question. "Obviously, if Dimitri hadn't interfered, Vale would have perished in the explosion. Are you seriously questioning saving a life?"
The young reporter doubles down, too stupid or too ambitious to recognize he's crossing a line. "Well, this is a competition, and he just got lucky she survived. His sacrifice might have been for nothing."
The silence that follows is deafening. Every person in the room turns to stare at the reporter like he's grown a second head. Even his colleagues edge away from him, creating a buffer zone of professional disgust.
Dimitri's response starts in Russian—a string of curses that need no translation, the venom in them universal. Then he switches to English, his voice low and dangerous.
"You think life is gamble worth throwing out because of mere competition?
" He pushes himself to standing, swaying slightly on his crutches but radiating fury.
"Yes, we come up here, show face and pettiness, play games for cameras.
But you really believe I'm going to watch woman who has gotten this far into competition burn to death out of pride? "
No one says anything. No one even breathes.
Dimitri continues, his voice rising. "Vale may be Omega, but she has proven to you low lives that she rather push herself to limit again and again to prove she belongs in this competition.
The fact she didn't fight to get out of car also proves she'd rather die than try to save herself, knowing you lots would cause another dramatic storm online saying she's coward for wanting to live. "
He pauses, letting that sink in. Several reporters have the decency to look ashamed.
"This is what our competition has become," he says, disgust dripping from every word. "Sacrificing life to prove someone is worthy of this sport. Disgusting."
He takes a breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is steady, final. "If I had to help Vale out of that car again and became damn amputee, I'd do it. Because I have enough pride to know when to stop playing this game of competition and realize we're all people trying to enjoy thrill of racing."
He starts moving toward the door, his crutches clicking against the floor in the silence. At the threshold, he pauses, not looking back.
"Racing is about passion, about pushing limits, about becoming more than ordinary. But moment we value victory over life? That's moment we stop being racers and become monsters."
Then he's gone, leaving a room full of people who suddenly can't meet each other's eyes.
I don't wait for the questions to resume. I'm on my feet and moving before Terek can call me back, before anyone can ask another insensitive question or demand another sound bite for their evening broadcast.
In the hallway, I catch up to Dimitri. He's moving slowly, each step obviously painful despite the pain medication he's probably drowning in.
"Dimitri," I call out, and he stops but doesn't turn around immediately.
I close the distance between us, standing where he can see me without having to pivot on his injured leg. Up close, I can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the pain he's hiding, the weight of what he's given up.
"Thank you," I say simply. Then, because simple isn't enough, I add, "Thank you for saving the Omega I love."
He huffs, muttering something in Russian that sounds like "whatever," but then his expression shifts to something more serious.
"You won't like how this competition ends," he says, his voice quiet enough that only I can hear.
I frown, studying his face. "Why? Do you know who's behind this?"
Instead of answering directly, he nods toward the conference room. "Go back. You'll see why."
He starts moving again, each step careful and measured. "Some victories, Wolfe, cost more than losing ever could."
I watch him disappear around the corner, his cryptic warning sitting heavy in my chest. Part of me wants to follow, to demand answers, but the larger part knows I need to face whatever's waiting in that conference room.