The FIA technical hearing was held in a room designed to suffocate emotion. It was all brushed steel, gray sound-dampening panels, and the chilled, recycled air of absolute authority. V-Max had filed a formal protest, accusing Apex Dynamics of utilizing an illegally flexible floor—a classic, catch-all accusation for a team that was suddenly, inexplicably fast.
My father was there, his face a mask of patrician concern. Chloe sat beside him, clutching a tablet she didn't know how to read, playing the part of the wronged technical liaison. And at the head of their delegation was Julian. He looked exactly as he always did before a battle: immaculate in a dark, tailored suit, his expression radiating a calm, predatory confidence. He was here to put the upstarts back in their place.
I entered
