The golden hues of the Tuscan sunset bled slowly into the walls of Sukhman Singh's suite at the Tuscan Valley Grand Hotel. The room, elegantly understated, was a welcome sanctuary after the grueling elimination race earlier that afternoon. Now, sprawled across the plush couch in his Vaayu GP-issued t-shirt and joggers, Sukhman let the silence of the evening wash over him.
His body ached with fatigue—not just from the race, but from the emotional strain it had carried. He'd been eliminated in the third round, but it wasn't the loss that stung. It was the rush, the hunger, and the undeniable joy of being behind the wheel again. Racing isn't just a career anymore; it had transformed into an addiction. A passion. A way to prove he belonged.
The ceiling above him blurred as his thoughts wandered. Flashes of the race played out behind his closed eyes—Amelia's near spinout, Ayanda's brilliant overtake, Aiko's unexpected early exit. Each moment felt etched into his brain like tire marks on a track.
Then his phone buzzed on the nearby table.
He blinked, drawn out of his thoughts, and leaned over to pick it up.
Incoming Call: Nandini
He sat upright, slightly surprised. She rarely called unless it was important.
"Hey," he answered, his voice still heavy from the weight of his internal monologue.
"Hi," came her soft, professional voice. "Hope I'm not interrupting your recovery nap?"
"Just lying down, thinking about how I got kicked out halfway through a charity race," he joked dryly.
Nandini chuckled. "Well, about that... IRC and the charity foundations are holding a social gathering tonight. Nothing too fancy, but a good opportunity to meet, mingle, and maybe let people see the good side of you."
He frowned. "You mean the side that doesn't scream at engines and pushes cars to the edge?"
"Exactly," she replied, amused. "It's optional, of course. But given everything that's happened lately—the accident, Charlotte's controversy, today's race—attending might do wonders for your image. Even if just to show face and shake a few hands."
He hesitated. "You think I need image management that badly?"
There was a pause on her end.
"I think... the world is watching you closely, Sukhman. And sometimes, how you carry yourself off the track matters just as much as how you drive on it."
He exhaled, glancing at the evening light outside. "Fine. Send me the details."
---
The gathering was held in one of the hotel's opulent banquet halls, a room where old-world grandeur met modern charm. Velvet drapes in deep crimson cascaded from the arched windows, catching the glow of ornate chandeliers overhead. The lighting was soft and golden, casting a mellow warmth over the marble floors and silk-covered tables. Waiters weaved through the crowd with trays of fine Tuscan wine, miniature canapés, and artisanal cheeses, while a string quartet played in the corner, offering gentle background harmony.
Sukhman arrived fashionably late, slipping in through the side entrance dressed in a crisp charcoal shirt, tailored slacks and a turban on his head, something traditional, bound to his roots. No tie, no blazer—clean, confident, and effortlessly casual. He had dressed like a man who didn't want to appear like he was trying too hard, but he knew full well that in rooms like these, people judged every detail.
A few heads turned as he entered.
"That's him. From Vaayu GP."
"Didn't he get eliminated third?"
"Still, the kid's got presence."
Their voices buzzed like background static, blending with the clink of glasses and the soft hum of conversation. Sukhman nodded politely to the glances thrown his way and made his way toward the refreshments table. The scent of roasted garlic and Tuscan herbs pulled at him—some kind of wild mushroom risotto was being served in tiny golden bowls. He opted for a glass of sparkling water instead, savoring the fizz and crisp coolness.
He let out a quiet breath and leaned against one of the high-top tables, letting the calm music and ambient chatter pull him into a daze. His limbs were still heavy from the race. His head, somewhere between fatigue and restlessness.
That's when the voice came—low, refined, unmistakable.
"You made it."
He turned.
Callum Graves stood before him, commanding the space as if it were his stage. Clad in a tailored navy-blue suit with a pocket square to match, the British racing legend held a glass of wine with the casual elegance of someone who had nothing left to prove. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back just enough, and his expression held the kind of practiced charm that made headlines.
Sukhman straightened slightly. "Didn't think charity mingling would be your thing," he said, matching the veteran's cool tone.
Callum smirked. "Didn't think rookie eliminations would be yours either. Yet here we are."
The edge in the words wasn't quite sharp—but it wasn't dull either. Sukhman offered a half-shrug. "Got talked into it."
"By the PR angels, no doubt," Callum replied, lifting his glass in salute. "Still, good on you. Takes guts to show up after a tough elimination. And generosity to race for something bigger than yourself. Not many would."
Sukhman nodded, resisting the urge to overreact to the compliment. "We all raced for something tonight."
That's when Callum stepped in slightly closer. Just enough that the crowd around them faded for a moment.
"But guts and generosity won't be enough to hang with the elites, mate," Callum said, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Not yet."
It hit like a sucker punch wrapped in silk.
Sukhman's eyes flickered—just a blink of surprise, just enough to register—but his face remained composed.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, barely audible.
But Callum had already drawn back, his smile cool and unreadable. "You'll figure it out," he said simply.
And then the moment shattered—camera flashes burst around them like firecrackers.
"Sukhman! Over here!"
"Smile for us!"
"What do you think of Charlotte's statement yesterday?"
"Will Vaayu GP be pushing for full grid participation in the next Grand Prix?"
"Did you and Callum discuss the next round of qualifiers?"
Reporters closed in, pressing microphones and phones toward him like hounds scenting blood.
Callum stepped back smoothly, the grin never leaving his face. "Looks like the spotlight's on you, Singh. Enjoy it while it lasts."
He disappeared into the sea of glittering bodies and velvet gowns, leaving Sukhman blinking in the sudden storm of attention.
For a moment, he hesitated. A dozen questions swirled around him—none louder than the one Callum had planted in his head.
"Not enough to hang with the elites."
But then he caught sight of a camera lens focusing in on him. He took a breath, straightened his posture, and reset his smile. It isn't forced—it is practiced. Polite. Collected.
"I'll take questions," he said, his voice rising with new calm. "One at a time."
A female reporter near the front raised her voice quickly. "Sukhman, do you believe your performance today proved something, even if you didn't win?"
He paused. "I believe the race wasn't just about proving anything. It was about giving back. But yes—I think I showed I'm not afraid to stand with the best."
A flurry of typing followed.
Another question shot forward. "Charlotte Reid—should she be banned permanently or is the council right to give her a second chance?"
Sukhman's expression grew serious, but his answer came steady. "What happened was dangerous and wrong. But she owned up to it, she is brave, not many can accept their fault when their existence in world class level is at stake. And also the council is willing to let her race again, I will say that's a good call. As a racer, I believe in second chances. I have forgiven her already. I just hope she earns fans loyalty again the right way."
Cameras clicked. Murmurs of approval moved through the reporters.
"Sukhman!" another voice called, this time a bit younger, a blogger from a popular racing podcast. "What do you say to fans calling you the 'People's Racer' after today?"
That one surprised him.
He chuckled slightly. "Well, I hope the people have good taste, then."
Laughter broke out among the group. The mood shifted. Lightened.
But beneath it all, Sukhman still felt the weight of Callum's words. A compliment wrapped in warning. An olive branch with thorns.
He knew this world wasn't just about talent or even heart. It was about pressure. Legacy. Mastery. Mind games.
And if Callum's message had been anything, it was this: "You're good. But not good enough. Not yet."
Later that night, when the crowd thinned and the cameras turned elsewhere, Sukhman stood by the banquet hall's balcony, looking out over the quiet Tuscan night. The stars were beginning to pierce the sky, soft and distant.
He didn't drink. He didn't speak.
He just stared out, letting the weight of the evening settle into his bones.
Callum Graves had given him something more valuable than encouragement.
He had given him a challenge.
And Sukhman was already thinking of the road ahead.