Just a Kiss
Isabella lifted onto her toes and pressed her lips to Noah’s.
For a fraction of a second, nothing happened.
His lips were warm and soft, the faint taste of whiskey lingering there.
Then, just as abruptly as she had done it, reality crashed back in.
She started to pull away—
But Noah was faster.
His hand shot up, fingers threading into her damp hair, pulling her back in before she could escape.
His grip was firm, not forceful, but enough to send a clear message: you don’t get to run from this.
The kiss he gave her was entirely different from hers.
Hers had been impulsive, fleeting.
But his was deep, unyielding, filled with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine, as if he was fighting against something just as much as he was giving into it.
His other hand came up, bracing against the wall beside her head, caging her in.
Heat rolled off him, mixing with the faint scent of whiskey and chlorine still clinging to his skin.
Isabella’s breath hitched as her fingers instinctively gripped his arm, the muscle beneath her touch flexing slightly.
For a moment, there was nothing else—just the press of his mouth, the taste of whiskey and something entirely Noah, the dizzying pull of something they both couldn’t name.
Then, just as suddenly as he had kissed her, he pulled away.
Noah exhaled slowly, eyes darker than before, something almost stormy brewing beneath them. But when he spoke, his voice was calm again.
“Don’t overthink it.”
His gaze flickered over her, taking in her flushed skin, her parted lips.
Then, in a tone so neutral it almost made her laugh, he added, “Just a distraction.”
Isabella blinked, chest still rising and falling faster than she’d like to admit.
Then, despite everything—the tension, the heat still clinging to her skin—she smiled.
She let her tongue flick briefly over her lips, slow, intentional. “Good thing I don’t mind distractions.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the room.
Noah stood frozen for a beat, staring at the spot where she had just been.
His jaw clenched, fingers flexing at his sides as if trying to rid himself of whatever had just passed between them.
Then he let out a low curse, grabbed the discarded T-shirt from the floor, and yanked it over his head, scowling at the unwelcome heat still lingering beneath his skin.
***
Eight hours earlier.
The Dubai International Circuit’s press center was packed.
Cameras lined the front of the room, their lenses focused on the long table where several of the world’s top drivers sat.
The new season was just days away, and this was the first official IVC (International Velocity Council) press conference.
The air buzzed with anticipation.
Isabella Quinn sat among them, her NovaLux team jacket zipped up, her black hair pulled back into a neat ponytail.
Her pale gray eyes had a hazy, almost distant quality, like she was seeing something beyond them. Paired with her confident smile, it created an intriguing contrast—one that drew people in without them even realizing it.
At 22, she had just become the first female driver to secure an VRC seat, a fact that had set the motorsport world ablaze.
VRC (Velocity Racing Championship) was the pinnacle of international motorsport.
Twelve teams, each fielding two drivers, battled it out across twenty-seven races held in cities around the globe.
But only ten teams with twenty drivers could qualify for the final race at each event—the high-stakes final race where points were awarded.
That meant every race weekend, two teams were eliminated before the final lights even went out.
The competition was relentless. No one’s seat was safe. Drivers, engineers, GMs—everyone lived under the constant threat of elimination.
At each Final Circuit, the top ten finishers earned points that contributed to both the Driver and Team Championships.
When the season ended, the driver and team with the most points would be crowned World Champions.
These winners would walk away with more than just titles—they’d take home hundreds of millions of dollars in prize money.
The press conference had been routine so far—questions directed at Noah Ashford about his title defense, Lucien Hale about his perspective on Orion Apex’s new season car, Theo Archer about Aether Dynamics’s progress.
And then, the attention shifted.
“Next question,” the moderator said, nodding to a journalist in the front row.
The man adjusted his mic. “Isabella, stepping into Velocity Racing Championship at such a young age, and being the first woman to do so, do you feel an extra pressure to prove yourself?”
Isabella gave a small smile, tapping her fingers against the table. “Pressure? Of course. I feel pressure every day—at 190mph.”
Murmurs rippled through the room. Another journalist leaned in, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Velocity Junior Racing Circuit is one thing, but VRC is a completely different beast. Do you truly believe you can compete at this level, or is this just another PR stunt?”
The cameras zoomed in on her face, waiting for a crack in her composure.
Isabella didn’t give them one.
“I guess you’ll have to watch the race and find out,” she said lightly. “Unless you’d like to hop in a car and test me yourself?”
A chuckle came from her right. Jack Marlowe, her NovaLux teammate, sitting two seats down, grinned. “I like her already.”
The next question didn’t go to her.
A journalist turned toward Noah, leaning forward with a practiced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Noah,” he began, “when you were twenty-two, you’d already won your first world championship in VRC. Do you have any advice for Isabella, who’s just starting her VRC career at the same age?”
There was a beat of silence. All heads turned to him.
Noah blinked slowly, then reached for the mic.
His voice was calm.
“Sure,” he said. “Everyone’s been twenty-two once. Some of us just didn’t have an entire room trying to make a headline out of it.”
A stunned silence fell across the room.
Then a few stifled snorts.
Jack let out a low whistle. Theo buried a cough in his sleeve.
Noah set the mic down again, expression unreadable.
The reporter who’d asked the question stiffened.
He didn’t dare fire back.
Not at the man seated behind the mic—the cold-eyed, three-time world champion who’d redefined domination in the modern era.
Noah Ashford had entered VRC at eighteen. By twenty-two, he’d already clinched his first world title.
Now, at twenty-six, he was the three-times reigning champion.
His team, Solaris, had also ridden his consistency and precision to Team Velocity Titles.
His dominance was unquestioned.
Reporters knew better than to pick fights with Noah.
He didn’t play the media’s game—and when provoked, he didn’t miss.
So the room pivoted.
They couldn’t poke the king, but they could prod the rookie.
The next question came, sharper this time.
“So Isabella, no female driver has ever truly succeeded in VRC. What makes you think you’ll be different?”
Isabella tilted her head, thinking carefully for a moment, then answered seriously. “Well, for one, I’m left-handed. That’s pretty rare. But if you’re asking about racing—same reason as everyone else here. I earned it.”
A ripple of amusement flickered across the table.
Theo ducked his head slightly, hiding a grin. Lucien exhaled a quiet chuckle. Jack smirked, clearly enjoying the show.
But among the row of drivers, there was one who didn’t react at all.
Noah Ashford.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.
It was as if he’d completely zoomed out—eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the press room, somewhere no one else could follow.
The press conference continued, but the tone had been set.
Isabella wasn’t here to be a footnote in history—she was here to race.
And the world was watching.
***
The press conference wrapped up, and the moderators signaled for the drivers to move toward the photo session.
The change in tone was almost amusing.
Isabella had spent the past half hour being interrogated, but now, the same media who had questioned her credentials were suddenly eager to capture her at the perfect angle.
She turned toward the flashing cameras, her pale gray eyes catching the light in a way that made them almost ethereal.
Even in NovaLux’s structured blue-and-white team jacket, which left little room for femininity, her striking features and natural poise made her impossible to ignore.
The photographers called for more, their enthusiasm growing, eager to snap a few extra shots of the most talked-about driver on the grid.
“Isabella, look this way!”
“Over here, Isabella! Give us a smile!”
Then, a voice called out above the chatter.
“Hey, Isabella, how about unzipping that jacket a little for the photos?”
The room went still for a fraction of a second.
Not a long pause, but just enough to notice.
The other drivers heard it. No question about that.
But they stayed composed—Theo kept his easy grin, Lucien remained cool, and Jack didn’t so much as blink.
Their focus stayed on the cameras, letting the moment pass without feeding into it.
Only Noah shifted, just slightly. His head tilted in her direction, eyes flicking toward her.
Isabella didn’t miss a beat.
Her smile stayed in place as she raised her arms, fingers finding the zipper—not the one at her collar, but at her sleeves.
With an small tug, she unzipped them a little and pushed up her sleeves, baring her forearms with an easy, practiced motion.
“I agree,” she said lightly, flashing a charming smile. “I think I look much better with my sleeves up.”
A few chuckles ran through the press line, easing the tension that had hung in the air just moments before.
The cameras kept flashing, and the photographers quickly moved on, calling out more instructions, as if the awkward moment had never happened.
For the briefest second, Noah’s lips twitched—just the faintest hint of amusement before his expression smoothed back into its usual calm, unreadable as ever.
