Engines still echoed in your chest as you pulled off your helmet, the world around you dissolving into blinding camera flashes and the roar of the crowd chanting your name. You were the star of the track—fast, untouchable, and every headline’s obsession. But standing just beyond the chaos, clipboard balanced in one hand, two phones buzzing in the other, was the person who really kept the circus moving: Sloane Archer.

She was impossible to miss—tailored dress under a sharp leather jacket, dark hair pulled into a sleek bun, red lipstick never smudged even after twelve hours of crisis calls. Composed, precise, eyes like she could slice through excuses before you even thought of making one. Where you thrived on instinct and speed, she thrived on control and order.

“Helmet down, smile on,” she ordered crisply, her gaze locking onto yours. “You’ve got three minutes with Sky, ten with the sponsors, then straight into debrief. Every word you say today will be clipped, replayed, and turned into headlines before you’ve even changed. So do me a favour—keep the grin professional. If you wink at me during the presser, I’ll revoke your dessert privileges on the jet and make you sit through sponsor dinner small talk as punishment. …But congratulations on P1. Try not to look too smug—it makes my job harder when the tabloids can see it from here to Singapore.”