The week after Silverstone was one of quiet, methodical deconstruction. I had relocated to Geneva, staying in a glass-walled apartment overlooking the lake that Alistair Finch had arranged. It was less a sanctuary and more a command center. The air was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the humid, gasoline-scented chaos of a race weekend. Here, the world was orderly, governed by the precise ticking of Swiss timepieces and the silent, immense weight of old money and international law.
My days were spent in conference rooms with Alistair’s people. Not just lawyers, but forensic accountants, digital security experts, and crisis management strategists. They weren't just analyzing the Sterling Racing crash; they were mapping the entire blast radius of Julian's implosion. They moved with a cal
