Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

My hands glide over the topography of a champion’s back, mapping muscles that will tomorrow steer eight hundred kilograms of purple beast around Albert Park at three hundred kilometers per hour. And somehow, I’m the lucky bastard who gets to touch her.

“Lower,” Blair commands, her voice muffled against the massage table. “Right side needs more pressure.”

I adjust immediately, pressing my thumbs deeper into the knot beneath her right shoulder blade. The hotel room smells of lavender massage oil and the faint metallic scent of ambition. Outside our window, Melbourne’s skyline twinkles like the promise of tomorrow’s podium champagne.

“Yes, right there,” she purrs, and I feel that familiar flutter in my chest. Even after four years together, I still can’t believe Blair West lets me touch her like this.

The portable massage table the hotel staff wheeled in earlier creaks slightly as Blair shifts her weight, the sheet barely covering the curves I’ve memorized like my favorite racing line. Her electric blue hair, freshly touched up for the cameras, splays across the pillow, a stark contrast against her perfect skin.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she murmurs.

I laugh softly. “Just remembering when we met. You were this fierce little karting demon who made my sister cry.”

“Melissa didn’t cry,” Blair corrects, a hint of that competitive edge sharpening her voice. “She threw her helmet and called me a cheating bitch.”

“And then you winked at me in the paddock.”

“I winked at the cute boy whose sister I’d just demolished,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Strategy.”

I work my way down her spine, remembering those early days when I was just Melissa Woods’ annoying little brother, trailing after my sister and Mom through international karting circuits while Dad stayed home managing Mom’s accounting firm. Back then, Blair was just another girl racer, talented, sure, but not yet the force of nature who would eventually crush my sister’s F1 dreams in that brutal F2 championship battle last year.

“Remember when I asked you out in the Silverstone paddock?” I ask, pressing into a particularly tight muscle. “After you qualified on pole in F3?”

Blair laughs. “You were shaking. It was adorable.”

“I was seventeen and terrified!”

“And I said yes because you were the only boy in the paddock who knew the difference between understeer and oversteer.” She rolls her shoulders under my hands. “That, and you had the prettiest eyes.”

I lean down and nibble gently on her ear, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, something expensive. “You always know exactly how to make a boy feel special.”

She smiles, those silver eyes catching the lamplight when she turns her head slightly. “And you always know how to help me relax.”

I hesitate before asking the question, my fingers still working the tension from her lower back. “Are you nervous? For tomorrow?”

Blair is quiet for a moment. P5 in qualifying with Zyn Zenith had shocked everyone, everyone except her. The rookie who wasn’t supposed to be ready for the big leagues had just put herself ahead of most of the grid on her first race.

“Nervous?” she finally says, and there’s something in her voice I can’t quite place. Not the media-trained Blair who gave flawless interviews after qualifying, but something rawer. “Why would I be nervous? This is exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

I keep massaging, saying nothing. After years together, I’ve learned when she’s building walls.

“Nick,” she says after a moment, softer now. “Come here.”

I move around the table until I’m facing her. She props herself up on her elbows, not bothering with the sheet that slips further down her back.

“Tomorrow,” she says, reaching for my hand, “I’m going to show everyone what I showed your sister last year.” Her fingers tighten around mine, almost painfully. “That I belong here. That I’m going to own this grid.”

I look into her eyes, seeing that familiar fire that first drew me to her. It’s beautiful and terrifying all at once.

“I’ve always known you deserve to be here,” I say, meaning it. “You’ve worked harder than anyone.”

Her smile is victorious. Sometimes I forget how different this world is from where I came from. I was twelve when it happened, some cosmic hiccup that dropped me into this mirror universe where women are the aggressors, the champions, the ones who pursue. Nine years later and I still find myself jarring against the intensity of it all, especially with women like Blair.

“But next time you run into Melissa,” I add carefully, “maybe we could dial back the rivalry a bit? She’s actually doing really well in Formula E now. Second in the championship after just four races.”

Blair’s face darkens immediately. She scoffs, pulling her hand away from mine.

“Your sister got what she deserved,” she says, sitting up fully now, the sheet forgotten. “Formula E is where drivers go when they can’t cut it in F1.”

“Yes,” I sigh, rubbing my temples, “and she knows that. My mom tells her that constantly.” I sit on the edge of the massage table, trying to find the right words. “What I’m saying is... you beat her. Your rivalry with my sister is finished. You won. There’s no reason to carry it anymore.”

Blair studies me for a moment, her silver eyes calculating something I can’t quite read. Then she rolls her eyes dramatically and flops back onto the table.

“True,” she says, stretching her arms above her head like a satisfied cat. “It’s time for new rivalries anyway.”

I see my opening and take it. “Yeah, like that Ivy girl looks like a great rival, right? Same car, three-time world champion, pole position...” I count off on my fingers. “Melissa is old news. Let’s be nice to her and push all this old hate toward Ivy now, yeah?”

Blair’s eyebrow arches dangerously. “Ivy Hunt?”

“I mean, I haven’t met her yet,” I backpedal slightly.

Blair sits up abruptly, the sheet falling completely away as she swings her legs over the side of the table. Even naked, she somehow radiates authority.

“Ivy Hunt is exactly who I’m going to destroy tomorrow.”

“Oh?” I breathe, suddenly hyper-aware of her proximity.

“First lap, first corner,” she continues, reaching out to pull me closer by my shirt. “I’m going to show Miss Three-Time-Champion what real hunger looks like.”

I find myself drawn into her orbit, helpless against the gravitational pull of her confidence. My lips find the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, planting a soft kiss against her racing-warm skin.

“Tell me more,” I murmur against her neck, trailing kisses upward.

Blair tilts her head, giving me better access as her fingers tangle in my hair. “I’m going to fucking end her winning spree,” she says, her voice growing breathier as my lips work their way up to the sensitive spot below her ear. “The team principal said to be patient, to learn from Ivy, but I’m going to make her learn from me instead.”

I nip gently at her earlobe again, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my touch. There’s something intoxicating about Blair like this, naked, powerful, plotting domination on the world stage. When she talks about racing, about winning, she exudes a confidence that makes me weak.

Her lips crash against mine, hungry and demanding. She pulls away just long enough to stand up from the massage table, gloriously naked and completely unashamed.

“Enough talk,” Blair says, her silver eyes gleaming with that same predatory focus she brings to the track. She grabs my hand, her grip firm and decisive. “Come on.”

Before I can respond, she’s tugging me toward the bathroom, her blue hair catching the light as she moves with that same grace that makes her a demon behind the wheel.

“The massage oil…” I stammer, but she’s already pulling my shirt over my head.

“Will wash off,” she finishes, backing me against the cool tile wall of the shower stall. Her fingers make quick work of my belt, then my jeans. “That’s the point.”

The shower springs to life, steam rising around us as Blair strips away the last of my clothing. Water cascades down her perfect body, tracing paths I want to follow with my fingers, my lips. She pulls me under the spray with her, and I’m lost in the sensation of her wet skin against mine.

“You think too much,” she murmurs against my mouth before claiming my lips again. Her hands roam over my chest, my back. “Stop thinking.”

I obey, surrendering to the moment as hot water pounds against our entangled bodies. Blair presses me against the tile, her kisses growing more intense, more demanding. My hands find her waist, then slide lower to cup her perfect backside, pulling her closer.

She laughs against my mouth, a sound of pure satisfaction. “That’s more like it.”

We’re slick with water and desire, hands exploring familiar territory that somehow feels new each time. Blair nips at my bottom lip, then trails kisses down my neck, across my collarbone. I gasp when her teeth graze my shoulder, just hard enough to leave a mark.

Her hands slide from my chest as she turns away from me, placing her palms flat against the shower wall. The water runs in rivulets down her back, following the perfect curve of her spine before cascading over the swell of her ass. She looks back at me over her shoulder, silver eyes half-lidded with desire.

“You need to do all the work tonight, baby,” she purrs, arching her back further. “I need to conserve my energy for tomorrow.”

My breath catches in my throat at the sight of her, powerful yet vulnerable, offering herself to me. “Anything you need,” I whisper, moving closer until my chest is flush against her back.

I slide my hands along her sides, feeling the slight tremble beneath her skin as I trace the contours of her hips. The shower’s steam envelops us in our own private world as I position myself behind her. I tease her entrance with the tip of my erection, drawing small circles that make her breath hitch.

When I finally push forward, the sensation is overwhelming. A moan escapes me as I sink deeper, her body’s snug warmth drawing me in. Blair looks back at me, her blue hair plastered to her neck, a victorious smile playing on her lips.

“You just can’t get enough of how tight I am, can you?” she asks, her voice filled with satisfaction.

I can barely form words, managing only a ragged “Yeah” as I begin to establish a rhythm. My hands grip her hips, steadying her against the slick tile as I lose myself in her.

“That’s it,” she encourages, pushing back against me. “Show me how much you want me.”

I increase my pace, driving deeper with each thrust. The bathroom fills with the sounds of our pleasure, echoing off the tiles. Blair reaches back with one hand, fingers tangling in my wet hair, pulling me closer.

“Deeper,” she commands, voice ragged with need. “I want to feel you completely.”

Blair suddenly pushes back against me with unexpected force, her perfect ass pressing into my hips, driving me impossibly deep inside her. I grab her hips instinctively, holding on like they’re the only thing keeping me anchored to this reality. My fingers dig into her slick skin as she grinds against me.

“Oh god, Nick, yes…” Her words dissolve into a series of escalating moans, her body tensing around me. I can see her face in profile, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in ecstasy as she starts to cum. The rhythmic pulsing of her walls around me is too much to bear.

“I’m going to…” I barely manage to gasp out.

“Outside, outside!” she cries urgently between waves of pleasure.

It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to pull out when every instinct screams to push deeper. With a herculean effort, I withdraw just in time, my release painting hot streaks across the curve of her back as I groan through the most intense orgasm I’ve had in weeks. The shower water immediately begins washing away the evidence as I shudder against her.

We stand frozen in place, both panting heavily. My legs feel like they’ve been replaced with wobbly gelatin, barely supporting my weight as I lean slightly against her for support.

“Sorry, baby,” Blair says after catching her breath, turning to face me with a mixture of satisfaction and apology in her silver eyes. “You know how it is. I can’t have your cum stuck in me tomorrow, distracting me during the race.”

“Of course,” I nod, still trying to regulate my breathing. “Race day tomorrow. I get it.”

After our shower, I watch her go through her pre-race routine with military precision. Moisturizer applied in circular motions. Hair carefully dried but not styled, that’s for the team’s stylist tomorrow. Protein shake consumed while reviewing corner exit speeds on her tablet.

I’m still toweling off my hair when Blair’s phone suddenly blares the distinctive alarm tone she uses for race weekends. The digital display reads 9:50 PM in bold numbers.

She glances at it and sighs, setting down her tablet. “Alright baby, it’s time for you to go.”

I nod, trying not to let my disappointment show. We’ve been through this routine dozens of times, but it never gets easier.

Blair’s face softens just a fraction. She crosses the room and places a gentle kiss on my lips, her fingers trailing along my jawline. “You know I’d keep you here if I could.”

“I know.” I gather my things, stuffing them haphazardly into my overnight bag. My own hotel room is just down the hall, close enough for convenience but far enough to ensure Blair gets her mandatory eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

The nights before races always feel the loneliest. I’ll toss and turn in my empty bed while Blair sleeps the perfect sleep of a predator preparing to hunt. But she needs this, the silence, the darkness, the complete absence of distraction. Even my breathing would be too much noise for her finely-tuned pre-race senses.

“Tomorrow,” she says, walking me to the door, “you’ll be kissing a race winner.”

“I already am,” I reply, stealing one last kiss before stepping into the hallway.

Her silver eyes gleam with something between affection and possession. “Sweet dreams, Nick.”

“Dream of victory,” I tell her, our standard parting words on race weekends.

The door closes between us with a soft click. I stand there for a moment, my hand lingering where hers had just been. Then I trudge down the corridor toward my solitary room, already counting the hours until I can see her again.

“At least I have enough time to stream a little before I go to bed.”

Blair: 

Chapter Text

The keycard slides into my hotel room door with a soft click that might as well be a thunderclap in the empty hallway. Blair’s door, our door until a few minutes ago, remains firmly shut behind me, sealing away the woman who’ll be hurling herself around a racetrack tomorrow while I watch from the sidelines, heart in my throat.

My room is the sad cousin of Blair’s luxury suite, a single queen bed instead of king, a view of the parking garage instead of Melbourne’s glittering skyline, and a distinct lack of blue-haired racing prodigy. But it does have one thing her room doesn’t, my streaming setup.

I flick on the lights and survey my little traveling studio. The foldable racing wheel stand sits in the corner with my Fanatec wheel clamped to it, pedals positioned just right on the hotel carpet. My gaming laptop, a gift from Blair after her first Formula 2 win, glows with anticipation, its now purple backlit keyboard matching the Zenith team colors. The portable ring light and camera are already mounted on their collapsible tripod, ready to broadcast my mediocre gaming skills to whoever might be watching at this hour.

“Might as well make use of the racing adrenaline,” I mutter to myself, changing into a slightly nicer t-shirt, one of Blair’s team shirts, naturally, and running fingers through my disheveled brown hair.

I reach for my streaming gloves from the side pocket of my duffel bag, slipping them over my hands with practiced ease. The snug black fabric hugs my fingers and palms, leaving no skin exposed. Always feels a bit cringey wearing these things, like I’m cosplaying as a “serious gamer” or something, but when you stream regularly with a wheel, they’re practically mandatory.

I still remember finding Melissa’s old iRacing setup gathering dust in our garage when I turned 18. Mom had already upgraded her to a professional rig by then, anything for her racing star daughter. I’d plugged it all in, more out of curiosity than anything else, and somehow found myself with a modest following within months. Funny how life works out sometimes.

Tonight, though, I’m not in the mood for iRacing’s hardcore sim experience. I boot up F1 2025 instead, settling into my chair as the game’s familiar loading screen appears. The digital version of Blair’s car, that distinctive purple Zenith livery, flashes across my screen, and I feel a little pang in my chest. God, I’m smitten.

I adjust my camera, hit the “Go Live” button, and paste on my streamer smile. “Hey everyone, DNF_Nick here, coming at you live from Melbourne.”

The chat immediately starts filling with messages, and I glance over to see what my small but loyal audience is saying. My smile falters slightly as I read the comments rolling in.

“OMG, is that Blair West’s boyfriend??”

“how tf did this mid-looking dude bag an F1 driver lmaooo”

“Blud using his gf for clout, classic”

“No way she actually dates this guy.”

I sigh, rolling my eyes at the camera. “Come on, chat, cut me some slack. I’ve been with Blair for years, since before she even made it to F1.” I navigate through the game menus, selecting online multiplayer. “We met on the karting circuit when we were teenagers. I was just following my sister’s career back then.”

The chat doesn’t let up, of course. It never does. Half of them don’t believe I’m actually dating Blair, despite the single-digit appearances she’s made on my stream over the past few years. The other half can’t fathom why someone like her would be with someone like me. Sometimes I wonder the same thing.

“Anyway,” I continue, forcing brightness into my voice, “thought we’d do some online races tonight. Blair’s got the real thing tomorrow, but this is as close as I’ll ever get to an F1 car.”

I click “quick match” and wait for the lobby to fill up, sipping from a water bottle while I watch the usernames appear. There’s something oddly comforting about being absolute trash at this game. No expectations, no pressure, just the opposite of what Blair experiences every day.

“Alright, looks like we’ve got a full grid,” I announce as the track selection screen appears. “Monza? Thank god.”

The loading screen transitions to the starting grid, my car positioned near the back because, well, that’s where I belong. I’ve got traction control maxed out, anti-lock brakes on, racing line fully visible, basically every assist the game offers.

“For those just tuning in, fair warning, I am catastrophically bad at this,” I laugh, adjusting my wheel as the countdown begins. “But that’s kind of the point.”

The lights go out and I manage a decent start, only to immediately witness three cars ahead of me swerve into each other at the first chicane. I brake early, watching the chaos unfold as carbon fiber textures fly across the screen.

“And there it is!,” I narrate, carefully navigating around the digital wreckage. “This is why I love multiplayer. It’s not about racing, it’s about survival.”

Chat erupts with laughing emojis as I somehow emerge from the carnage in 12th place.

“See? I’m already exceeding expectations by not being in a wall,” I say, just before a Ferrari-liveried car divebombs me from seemingly nowhere, sending me spinning into the gravel.

“Spoke too soon! Thanks, Prostisgai44, very cool,” I groan, fighting to get back on track while three more cars zoom past. “And this is why I’d never make it in real racing. Blair deals with this kind of aggression at 300 kilometers per hour without breaking a sweat.”

I manage to rejoin in 16th place, only to have someone deliberately ram me on the next straight.

“Oh, come on!” I laugh despite myself. “What did I ever do to you, urdadsukzmyclit?”

“Classy username,” I mutter, trying to get back on track again. I’m now firmly in last place, a full twenty seconds behind the next car.

As I struggle through the next few corners, chat suddenly shifts tone.

“Yo Nick, you’re actually decent when you try,” says one message.

“I’ve seen you race better than this,” another chimes in.

“Stop sandbagging and actually RACE!” demands someone with too many numbers in their username.

I exhale, adjusting my position in the chair as I barely make a chicane. “Look, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I’m in Australia right now. It’s getting late, I’m tired, and I’m not exactly in a trying mood after being separated from my girlfriend right before her big race.”

The chat scrolls faster, and suddenly, my heart sinks as I glimpse the first slur. Then another. And another. N words, F slurs, C words. Mostly Slurs that don’t even apply to me.

“Real nice, guys,” I sigh, completely missing the braking point and sailing off into the gravel again. I don’t even bother trying to recover. Instead, I put down the wheel and reach for my laptop.

“Sorry to the actual decent people watching, but we’re taking a brief timeout while I clean up chat.” I click through to my moderation panel, methodically banning account after account. It’s sad how routine this has become. Being “Blair West’s boyfriend” puts a weird target on my back for every insecure woman-child with a gaming setup and an axe to grind.

“If you’re just joining, welcome to ‘Watch Nick Ban Trolls, The Stream,’” I narrate while working through the list. “Very exciting content, I know. Maybe I should make this my main channel focus.”

A familiar notification sound cuts through the toxic sludge of my chat. The little mod icon appears next to a username that instantly makes my shoulders relax.

“Oh, thank god,” I breathe, feeling a genuine smile replace my streamer mask. “Nickismyhusbando has entered the chat, ladies and gentlemen. The only mod brave enough to show up at this ungodly Australian hour.”

Her message pops up immediately: “GM Nick! ♥️ sorry I’m late.”

I abandon the race completely now, letting my digital car sit in the gravel while the rest of the lobby zooms around the track. “No worries! You’re actually right on time to witness the usual purge.”

She’s already at work, timeouts and bans flying faster than I can process them. Nickismyhusbando has been with me since... what, my third stream ever? When I had maybe fifteen viewers and was still figuring out OBS? It’s weird to think about how long she’s been watching me fail at video games.

“how’s Australia treating you? Bet it’s super warm there right now!” she types as she continues to moderate.

“It’s beautiful here,” I reply, reaching for my water bottle. “Warm but not too humid. Perfect racing weather, which is good for Blair. I’d show you the view from my window, but it’s literally just a parking garage.”

The chat starts to normalize as the worst offenders get removed. A few regular viewers return to the conversation, asking about Melbourne and tomorrow’s race.

“Blair’s feeling confident,” I tell them, settling back into my chair. “P5 in qualifying has her fired up. She’s convinced she’s going to show everyone what she’s made of.”

“Let’s start over,” I say, exiting the online lobby and navigating back to the main menu. “I’m thinking single player, just chill and chat with you guys instead of dealing with the online demolition derby.”

I select the Australian Grand Prix circuit—might as well virtually race where I am—and start setting up a casual practice session.

“Speaking of Blair,” Nickismyhusbando types, “how’s she handling the pressure? First F1 race and all...”

“She’s in her element,” I respond, selecting Blair’s car from the team lineup again. “Pressure just makes her sharper, you know? It’s actually incredible to watch.”

There’s a slight pause before Nickismyhusbando responds: “Must be hard dating someone so... intense. Does she even make time for you?”

I frown slightly, eyes flickering to the chat as I roll out of the virtual pit lane. “She makes as much time as she can. Racing comes first right now, which is totally fair.”

“You deserve someone who puts YOU first, Nick.”

The message catches me off guard, making me miss the apex of Turn 1 completely. I recover the car and laugh it off. “Come on, Husbando, don’t start with that. Blair’s incredible.”

“Just saying... Always in separate hotel rooms. Always watching HER races. Does she ever watch YOUR streams?”

Other chat messages fly by, but Nickismyhusbando’s stands out, highlighted in mod colors. I feel a sudden discomfort in my stomach.

“She’s busy,” I defend, taking Turn 3 too wide. “F1 is kind of demanding, you know? And she does watch my VODs sometimes when she has downtime.”

“I’ve been watching for 3 years, and she’s shown up like 5 times. You deserve better.”

I sigh, focusing on the virtual track ahead. “Look, I appreciate you looking out for me, but Blair and I are good. Really.”

“If you say so... 🙄”

I pretend not to notice the eye-roll emoji, instead forcing enthusiasm as I navigate through the fast sequence of corners. “So, chat, who do you think is going to win tomorrow? Blair’s got a real shot from P5, especially with her start reflexes.”

The chat shifts gears as I mention tomorrow’s race, thankfully moving away from my relationship status.

“Ivy’s gonna crush everyone,” someone types.

“Nah, Blair’s gonna surprise everyone,” another counters.

I smile, grateful for the change in topic. “That’s what I like to hear. Blair’s been studying the track all week. She knows exactly where she can make moves.”

I manage to string together a few decent corners, actually hitting the racing line for once. “Hey, look at that! Maybe I should be the F1 driver in this relationship.”

“lol sure nick, blair would lap you 3 times,” someone teases.

“Oh, absolutely,” I laugh. “I’d be happy just to finish the race without crashing.”

Nickismyhusbando’s icon appears again: “You sell yourself short too much. You’re actually not bad when you focus.”

“Thanks, but I know my limits,” I reply.

The next hour goes better. I manage to complete several clean laps, chat about tomorrow’s race predictions, and even share a few behind-the-scenes stories about life in the paddock. Nickismyhusbando mostly sticks to normal conversation, though occasionally she’ll drop comments like “must be lonely watching from the sidelines” or “hope she appreciates how supportive you are.”

I’ve gotten pretty good at deflecting these little jabs over the years.

Around a little midnight, I stifle a yawn. “Alright, folks, I think I’ve got about thirty more minutes in me before I need to crash. Any specific track requests?”

“Monaco!” several people type at once.

“I fucking hate Monaco.” I groan, but select the infamously tight street circuit anyway.

As I’m setting up the race, a new comment catches my eye.

“Did you see Charli Romano’s new boyfriend at the paddock today? Dude’s literally a model.”

I nod as I adjust the race settings. “Yeah, Lorenzo. Nice guy, actually. Met him briefly at the team reception.”

The chat immediately explodes.

“OMG LORENZO VALENTI?? The face of Armani’s summer campaign???”

“Charli upgraded HARD from her last bf”

“All these F1 girls dating literal models and then there’s Blair with... no offense Nick”

I press my lips together, trying not to let it bother me. “None taken,” I lie, focusing harder on the virtual track.

“Lorenzo has been on like 15 magazine covers this year,” someone adds.

“Yeah, and Charli’s been on the cover of Sports Illustrated twice,” I counter, trying to keep my tone light. “They make sense together.”

“That’s actually bullshit,” Nickismyhusbando’s message cuts through the chat, highlighted in mod green. “Nick doesn’t need to be a model to deserve Blair. He’s supportive, kind, and actually has a personality unlike most of these manufactured pretty boys.”

I can’t help but notice she doesn’t call me hot or attractive in her defense, just that I have a “personality.” The compliment lands like a participation trophy, but I appreciate her standing up for me anyway.

“Thanks, Husbando,” I say, navigating the hairpin at Monaco with surprising precision. “But it’s fine. I know what I bring to the table.”

“Nick is WAY more than just Blair’s cheerleader,” Nickismyhusbando continues, clearly on a mission now. “He’s smart and funny and actually LISTENS. Most of these F1 girls date guys who are just pretty accessories.”

The chat splits between people agreeing with her and others posting increasingly cruel comparisons between me and the model boyfriends scattered throughout the paddock.

“Lorenzo looks like he was carved from marble,” someone writes.

“And Nick looks like he was carved from mid,” comes the reply.

I force a laugh, though it comes out strained. “Let’s calm down.”

“BANNED,” Nickismyhusbando types, followed immediately by, “and that other jerk too. Anyone else want to join them?”

The chat quiets momentarily, and I use the reprieve to focus on not crashing.

“You don’t need to keep defending me,” I say after successfully navigating the corner. “I’m a big boy. I can handle some trolls.”

“Someone has to stand up for you since you won’t do it yourself,” she replies.

Her words hit a little too close to home, making my chest tighten. I glance at the clock already almost 12:30 AM. The race starts in less than twelve hours, and here I am, getting roasted by strangers while my girlfriend sleeps peacefully in her luxury suite.

“You know what?” I say, deliberately missing the next corner and sending my virtual car into the barriers. “I think that’s enough punishment for one night.”

I roll my shoulders and force a yawn that quickly becomes genuine. “Thanks for hanging out tonight, everyone. I should probably get some sleep before tomorrow’s big day.”

The chat fills with goodbyes and good luck messages for Blair. I navigate back to the main menu, stretching my arms overhead.

“Seriously though, Nickismyhusbando, thanks for having my back tonight. Don’t know what I’d do without you keeping the trolls at bay.”

“Always here for you, Nick ♥️” she responds immediately. “Get some rest! I hope you’re happy with the tomorrows results!”

“Will do. Goodnight everyone, catch you after the race.” I wave at the camera and end the stream, the sudden silence in the room both a relief and a reminder of how alone I am.

I sit there for a moment, staring at my dark screen. My reflection looks back at me, tired eyes and messy hair, wearing Blair’s team merchandise like a badge of belonging.

With a sigh, I pull out my phone and tap the alarm app, setting it for 7 AM. Blair will be up at 6:30 sharp, her race day routine is precision-engineered down to the minute, but I need the extra sleep after tonight’s stream. Just enough time to get myself together before she’s fully in the zone.

I toss my phone onto the nightstand and begin dismantling my streaming setup, carefully folding the wheel stand and unplugging the equipment. The conversation with chat replays in my mind, particularly Nickismyhusbando’s comments. Why does she always zero in on the fault lines in my relationship?

Once everything’s packed away, I jump onto the bed. It feels impossibly empty as I slide under the covers. Despite this, sleep comes fast since it’s been such a long day.

Chapter Text

I’ve never understood why hotel towels feel like they’re made of sandpaper dipped in disappointment. You’d think with what these places charge, they could spring for something that doesn’t exfoliate three layers of skin every time you dry off.

The mirror’s still fogged as I run a comb through my damp hair, trying to look presentable despite the bags under my eyes. My late-night streaming session hadn’t exactly been the pre-race relaxation I’d hoped for. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 7:36 AM, I’d snoozed my alarm twice before dragging myself into the shower.

I pull on a fresh Zyn Zenith team shirt, adjusting the purple fabric across my shoulders. Blair had given me the entire team wardrobe when she signed with them, jackets, shirts, hats, even socks, all emblazoned with that distinctive white logo. Sometimes, I feel like a walking billboard for chewing tobacco, but today, it matters. Today, I’m part of her armor.

I’m just fastening my watch when three sharp knocks hit my door. My heart does that stupid little flutter it always does when I know it’s her.

When I swing the door open, Blair West stands in my doorway like a vision from some alternate universe where gods walk among mortals. Her electric blue hair is still damp, slicked back from her face in a way that accentuates her cheekbones. She’s wearing team-issued workout gear – formfitting purple leggings and a matching compression top that hugs every curve of her athletic frame. A thin sheen of post-workout sweat gives her skin a glow that makes my mouth go dry.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she says, those silver eyes taking me in with amused assessment. “You look... rested.”

“That’s a polite way of saying I look like shit,” I reply, stepping back to let her in.

Blair steps into my room with that effortless grace, like gravity affects her differently than the rest of us. She glances around, taking in my hastily packed streaming setup in the corner.

“You look exhausted,” she says, crossing her arms. “Don’t tell me you stayed up watching movies or something.”

I perk up, oddly excited to share. “No, actually! I was streaming F1 last night, driving around Melbourne in your car! Had a few decent laps too.”

The change in her expression is subtle but immediate. Her silver eyes cool by several degrees, and the slight smile playing at her lips vanishes completely.

“You were what?” she asks, voice suddenly flat.

“Streaming. You know, my gaming channel? I thought it would be fun to race the virtual Melbourne circuit before watching you tackle the real thing today.” I gesture toward my folded racing wheel setup. “Had almost a thousand viewers. Some of them are pretty excited about your debut.”

Blair’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. She walks over to the window, looking out at the parking garage with her back to me.

I watch her, suddenly unsure what I’ve said wrong. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant sound of traffic outside. The rigid line of her shoulders tells me something’s off.

“That’s great, honey.” Her voice is carefully modulated when she finally turns back to me. There’s a smile on her face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “But maybe next time, try to go to bed a little earlier, okay? I want you looking your best for the cameras.”

The subtle criticism lands like a gentle slap. I blink, momentarily thrown off balance.

“Cameras?” I echo.

“Of course.” She crosses the room to me, reaches up to adjust my collar with practiced fingers. “The team’s PR department confirmed you’ll be in the garage today. They want the ‘supportive boyfriend angle’ for the broadcast.”

I nod, swallowing my confusion. “Right. Of course.”

“You know how these things work, Nick. First impressions matter.” Her fingers move from my collar to my face, thumb brushing beneath my eye where the dark circles are most prominent. “The cameras pick up everything.”

There’s something in her tone I can’t quite place, concern mixed with... something else. Annoyance? Disappointment?

“I’ll grab a coffee on the way,” I promise. “No one will even notice.”

She pats my cheek, a gesture that feels oddly patronizing. “Good boy. The car’s waiting downstairs. Let’s get out of here.”

Before I can respond, Blair’s demeanor suddenly shifts. She steps forward, closing the space between us, and captures my lips with hers. The kiss is hungry, passionate. Her hands sliding up to cradle my face as she presses her body against mine. I’m momentarily stunned by the intensity, but quickly respond in kind, my arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer.

When she finally pulls back, there’s a satisfied gleam in those silver eyes. “God, that’s one of the best things about you, Nick,” she says, her voice lower now, husky with approval. “You’re always so into me whenever we do anything. No hesitation, just... complete surrender.”

I feel heat rising to my cheeks as I reluctantly let her go, moving to grab my duffel bag from beside the bed. “How could I not be?” I manage, still a little breathless from her kiss.

“You’d be surprised,” she says, leaning against the wall as she watches me collect my things. “I was talking to Lancia Stroll yesterday at the track.”

“Oh?” I zip up my bag, trying to sound casual at the mention of one of her competitors. “How is she?”

“Frustrated,” Blair says with a smirk. “She was complaining about her latest boy toy. Said even with all her money, her boyfriends only ever put out a few times a week unless she gets them new gifts.” She pushes off from the wall, running her fingers along my arm. “And here you are, ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

I laugh nervously, my mind flashing back to that other reality, the one where I’d spent twelve years before somehow ending up here. Where men chased more often than not, and women chose. It’s funny how that world seems like a dream now, yet sometimes those old expectations still linger in my head.

Not that I could ever explain this to Blair. “Born in another dimension where gender roles were reversed” isn’t exactly first-date material. Or fourth-year-anniversary material, for that matter.

“I guess I’m just really into you,” I say instead, reaching out to tuck a strand of electric blue hair behind her ear. “Always have been.”

Blair’s lips curl into a grin as she traces a finger down my chest. “Like a human dildo, really. Just press a button, and you’re ready to go.”

She laughs at her own joke, the sound echoing slightly in the hotel room. Something inside me tightens at the comparison, a flicker of irritation warming my cheeks. Is that really how she sees me? Just a convenient toy?

I force a smile, swallowing the urge to say something. Today’s her first Formula 1 race. The culmination of everything she’s worked for since she was a kid. The last thing she needs is me getting sensitive over a stupid joke.

“Whatever works for you,” I say lightly, shouldering my bag. “As long as you’re happy.”

Blair tilts her head, those silver eyes studying me for a moment. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

“No, no,” I say quickly, moving toward the door. “I’m just... focused on today. Your big day.”

Blair’s expression softens as she steps closer, cupping my face in her hands. Her thumbs trace gentle circles on my cheeks.

She presses her lips against mine again, softer this time but no less possessive. When she pulls back, there’s a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, both tender and calculating in that uniquely Blair way.

“Good boy,” she whispers, patting my cheek lightly. “Eyes on the prize today. This is what I’ve been working toward.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“Let’s not keep the driver waiting,” I say, reaching for the door handle.

The hotel corridor is quiet as we make our way to the elevator, Blair walking slightly ahead with that confident stride that seems to part the air around her. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, I catch our reflection, her, vibrant and powerful in team purple, me trailing slightly behind like a supportive shadow.

The lobby bustles with activity, other team personnel and a few journalists milling about. Several heads turn as Blair passes, recognition flickering in their eyes. She acknowledges them with the practiced nod of someone who knows they’re being watched.

Outside, a sleek black SUV with the Zenith logo waits at the curb, engine idling. The driver, a woman in her forties with a Zenith-branded polo shirt, jumps out to open the door for Blair.

“Good morning, Ms. West,” she says, her Australian accent thick. “Beautiful day for racing.”

“Perfect day for winning,” Blair corrects with a smile, sliding into the backseat.

I climb in after her, settling into the plush leather as the driver returns to her position. The partition between front and back is already raised, giving us privacy as we pull away from the hotel.

The city slides by outside the tinted windows, Melbourne already alive with race day energy. Street vendors set up F1 merchandise stalls, fans in team colors stream toward the circuit, and the occasional purple Zenith flag flutters from apartment windows. Blair doesn’t seem to notice any of it. She’s staring at her phone, scrolling through what looks like telemetry data, her brow furrowed in concentration.

I watch her profile against the backdrop of the passing city, struck as always by how the morning light catches the electric blue of her hair. Even focused like this, intensity radiating from her like heat, she’s breathtaking.

After a few minutes of silence, she leans back against the headrest, eyes closing as she takes several measured breaths. It’s part of her pre-race ritual – this moment of centered calm before the storm. Her head tilts slightly to rest against the leather, those perfect features relaxed in rare tranquility.

“How are you feeling?” I ask softly, reaching across to place my hand over hers.

The change is immediate. Her eyes snap open, silver gaze hardening as she pulls her hand away from mine.

“Don’t talk to me right now.” Her voice is flat, cold in a way I’ve never heard directed at me before.

I blink, the words hitting me like a physical blow. During her F2 days, she’d always welcomed my support on race mornings, sometimes nervous, sometimes excited, but always including me in that sacred space between preparation and performance.

“Sorry, I…” I start, but the look she gives me cuts the words dead in my throat.

I nod instead, swallowing the hurt as I turn to look out my own window. The rejection stings more than it should. This is her first F1 race, I remind myself. The stakes are higher, the pressure more intense. She’s just focused, that’s all.

But as the kilometers tick by in silence, with Blair returned to her phone and me suddenly fascinated by the passing traffic, I can’t help the loneliness that settles over me like a thin, cold blanket. I’m physically beside her, but we might as well be in different cars, different cities, different worlds.

It’s okay. I tell myself. The only way to compete at her level is to put everything second. And I knew that when we started dating. I just wish it stung a little bit less.

Chapter Text

The sunglasses slide across the leather seat toward me like a peace offering wrapped in designer frames.

"Put these on," Blair says, not looking up from her phone. "So you don't look tired on camera."

I take the sleek black Balenciaga sunglasses, turning them over in my hands. They probably cost more than my entire streaming setup. The lenses are so dark they're almost opaque, perfect for hiding the bags under my eyes from last night's ill-advised stream.

"Thanks," I manage, slipping them on just as the SUV slows to a crawl. Outside the tinted windows, a sea of people parts around our vehicle like water around the bow of a ship. The Albert Park Grand Prix circuit entrance looms ahead, already swarming with fans in team colors, journalists with oversized cameras, and security personnel trying to maintain some semblance of order.

Blair finally pockets her phone and turns to me, her eyes scanning my face with clinical precision. She reaches out, adjusting the sunglasses slightly on the bridge of my nose.

"Better," she declares.

The driver pulls up to the VIP entrance, and I can already see the flash of cameras through the windows. Blair's hand suddenly finds mine, her fingers intertwining with a powerful grip that makes my pulse quicken despite everything.

"Ready?" she asks, a hint of her earlier warmth returning to her voice.

I nod, giving her hand a squeeze. "Born ready."

The door opens, and the world explodes into noise and color. Blair exits first, emerging into the chaos like she was born for it. I follow, momentarily blinded by camera flashes despite the sunglasses. Thank god she gave them to me.

The moment my feet hit the pavement, Blair's arm snakes around my waist, pulling me close against her side.

"Blair! Blair! How are you feeling about today's race?" A woman with a microphone thrusts herself forward, practically vibrating with excitement.

Blair's media smile appears, perfect and practiced. "Confident. The car feels good, the team's done amazing work, and I'm ready to show everyone what I can do."

More questions fly at us as we move through the crowd, Blair's arm never leaving my waist. She navigates the gauntlet with ease, answering some questions, strategically ignoring others, all while maintaining that camera-ready smile.

"Blair! Can I get your autograph?" A young woman with purple streaks in her hair pushes forward, waving a Zenith cap frantically in the air.

Blair releases my waist, her smile shifting from media-polished to fan-friendly as she takes the cap. "Of course. What's your name?"

"Ellie! I've followed your whole career from karting!" The girl is practically vibrating with excitement as Blair signs the cap with a flourish.

The floodgates open. Suddenly, we're surrounded by fans, predominantly women in their twenties, all clamoring for Blair's attention. She handles it with practiced ease, moving through the crowd like she's done this her entire life.

I drift slightly to the side, watching as she works the crowd. This is her element, the adoration, the attention. Security forms a loose perimeter around us, but they're letting the fans get close enough for autographs. Blair's PR training is evident in how she makes each interaction feel personal while keeping the line moving.

"You're going to crush it today!" A college-aged boy with perfectly styled hair and a crop top showing off his toned midriff slides forward with a poster. His eyeliner is impeccable, and he's somehow making the Zenith team colors look runway-ready.

"That's the plan," Blair says with a wink that makes him blush furiously.

"Maybe I could get a picture?" he asks, batting his eyelashes. "For my Instagram?"

"Of course," Blair hands me the marker she's been using. "Nick, would you mind?"

The boy hands me his phone without even looking at me, his eyes fixed on Blair as she slides an arm around his shoulders. He leans into her touch, practically preening.

"Make sure you get my good side," he says to me with a flirtatious glance at Blair. "Though with Blair, every angle is a good angle, right?"

"You know it," she responds with a laugh that sounds like it belongs in a different conversation than the one I'm part of.

I take several photos, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach. This is part of the job, the fans, the talking, the performance. I know this.

I hand the phone back to him with a tight smile. "Got a few good ones."

He barely glances at me before turning back to Blair. "You're going to beat Ivy Hunt today, right?"

Before Blair can answer, a commotion ripples through the crowd behind us. The sea of fans parts, creating a corridor of space as if Moses himself commanded it.

"Move! I said move your ass!"

The voice cuts through the noise like a knife, sharp and impatient. I turn to see Ivy Hunt striding through the crowd, her purple and white racing suit immaculate, those famous purple highlights in her black hair catching the morning sun. Unlike Blair, who's working the crowd, Ivy looks like she's wading through sewage.

"Jesus Christ, do you people understand English? Get the fuck out of my way!"

A security guard rushes to clear a path as Ivy shoves past a teenager who didn't move quickly enough. The girl stumbles backward but doesn't look upset, if anything, her eyes widen with excitement as she fumbles for her phone.

"Oh my god, Ivy just pushed me!" she squeals to her friend. "Did you get that on video?"

The crowd's reaction is bizarre. Instead of being offended, they seem energized by Ivy's hostility, phones raised higher, voices calling her name more urgently. It's like watching people getting excited about being insulted by a celebrity chef.

Blair's expression darkens as she watches her teammate cut through the adoring masses like they're nothing but obstacles. Her media smile slips for just a moment, revealing something harder underneath.

"Excuse me," she says to the crop-top fan, her voice suddenly tight. "I need to catch up with my teammate."

She grabs my hand again, pulling me after her as she moves toward Ivy. Blair holds onto me more firmly as she leads me through the throng of people., her stride purposeful and quick. I stumble slightly, trying to keep up while dodging enthusiastic fans who seem oblivious to the fact that they're blocking our path.

"Blair! Ivy! Can I get a photo of both of you together?" A teenage boy with braces lurches forward, phone extended hopefully.

Before Blair can respond, Ivy whirls around, her purple eyes flashing with barely contained fury.

"Don't fucking touch me!" she snarls, jerking away from the boy's outstretched hand that had barely brushed her arm. The kid recoils like he's been slapped, his expression crumpling.

"I-I'm sorry, I just wanted…"

"I don't care what you wanted," Ivy snaps, already turning away. "Keep your hands to yourself."

Blair's pace falters for just a second, and I catch a glimpse of something like calculation in her expression before she tugs me forward again, following in Ivy's wake as security finally manages to create a proper corridor for us.

We make our way through the VIP entrance and into the paddock, that exclusive inner sanctum where teams prepare for battle. The atmosphere shifts immediately, less chaotic, more purposeful. Engineers in team uniforms hurry past with tablets and equipment, people huddle in serious conversation, and PR handlers coordinate with media personnel.

Blair comes to a stop a few meters away from Ivy, who's conversing with what appears to be a senior engineer. The conversation looks intense, with Ivy gesturing emphatically at something on the woman's tablet.

Blair stands perfectly still, her silver eyes locked on Ivy's back. The tension radiating from her is almost palpable, like heat waves off hot asphalt. I shift uncomfortably beside her, not sure if I should say something or maintain the silence.

The engineer nods at whatever Ivy is saying, then hurries off toward the garage. Ivy remains where she is, scrolling through her phone, her back still to us. Despite the fact that we're standing barely ten feet away, she gives no indication that she's aware of our presence.

Blair's jaw tightens, and I can see her weighing her options. Approach her teammate? Wait to be acknowledged? The seconds stretch uncomfortably.

Just as Blair takes a half-step forward, Ivy suddenly turns, not toward us, but toward another team member who's approaching from the opposite direction. She engages in conversation, effectively cutting off any opportunity for Blair to insert herself.

The snub is so deliberate it's almost comical. Almost.

Blair's fingers flex against mine, her knuckles whitening. I give her hand a gentle squeeze, a silent show of support.

I'm about to whisper something encouraging to Blair when Ivy's purple gaze suddenly shifts, landing directly on me. It's like being caught in the tractor beam of a particularly hostile alien spacecraft. For a split second, I freeze, pinned by those unusual eyes that seem to assess and dismiss me in the same heartbeat.

"You. Boy." Ivy's voice cuts through the ambient paddock noise with laser precision. She points a manicured finger in my direction. "Can you fetch me coffee? Black, two sugars."

There's nothing particularly harsh in her tone, it's casual, almost conversational, but the expectation is unmistakable. She's not asking. She's telling. And the way she says "boy" makes me feel about twelve years old despite being firmly in my twenties.

Blair's hand tightens around mine to the point of pain. I can practically feel the fury radiating off her in waves, though her face remains eerily composed.

"He's not a coffee runner," Blair says, her voice carrying that dangerous calm that I've learned precedes her most spectacular blow-ups. "He's my boyfriend."

Ivy's expression shifts, her purple eyes flickering between Blair and me with something like amused contempt. Her lips curl into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"Oh," she says, dragging the syllable out. "This is Blair’s boyfriend? How... quaint."

She looks me up and down with the casual disinterest of someone appraising furniture they have no intention of buying. I fight the urge to fidget under her gaze, suddenly hyper-aware of how my team shirt hangs just a little loose around my shoulders.

"I'm Nick," I offer, extending my hand on reflex. "Nice to meet you."

Ivy glances at my outstretched hand like I'm offering her a dead fish. After an excruciating moment, she returns her attention to Blair without acknowledging my gesture.

"I'm happy the rookie thinks she has time for romance," Ivy says with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "While I'm over here with exactly one thing on my mind, West." Her purple eyes narrow. "Winning."

The words land like precision strikes, each one calculated to wound. Blair's fingers tighten around mine again, but this time I can feel a slight tremor in her grip.

"Funny," Blair replies, her voice steady despite the tension I can feel thrumming through her. "I've always found I perform better when I'm balanced. All work and no play, you know?"

Ivy's laugh is sharp and entirely without humor. "Is that what they're calling P5 these days? 'Balanced'?" She leans in slightly, dropping her voice. "I've won three championships by understanding what matters and what doesn't. But please, continue with your... distractions."

Her gaze flicks to me again, dismissive, before returning to Blair. "The team briefing starts in twenty minutes. Try not to be late because you're playing house."

With that, she turns and strides away, the purple highlights in her hair catching the sunlight as she moves through the paddock with the confidence of someone who owns every inch of ground beneath her feet.

I exhale slowly, only now realizing I'd been holding my breath. "Well, she seems... nice."

Blair's hand finally releases mine, leaving behind an ache where her fingers had dug in. Her silver eyes are still fixed on Ivy's retreating back.

Blair steps closer to me, her gaze intense. "You want to know how to support me right now?"

"Of course," I say without hesitation, meaning it completely despite the morning's earlier tension.

She reaches up and removes my sunglasses, folding them deliberately before slipping them into her pocket. Now there's nothing between her gaze and mine, nowhere to hide.

"Then hate her with me, Nick."

The request hangs between us, simple and devastating. I blink, caught off guard by the naked intensity in her voice.

"I... what?"

"Hate her," Blair repeats, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Don't make excuses for her. Don't try to see her side. Just hate her, completely, the way I do."

I stare at her, searching her face for any sign that she's joking, that this is some pre-race hyperbole. But all I find is deadly seriousness, a burning need for alignment that brooks no compromise.

"She's my enemy," Blair continues, eyes never leaving mine. "And anyone who supports me needs to understand that. No middle ground. No 'she's just competitive' bullshit."

The vehemence in her voice sends a chill down my spine.

"Okay," I hear myself say, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. "I hate her."

Blair studies my face for a moment longer, searching for any hint of reservation. Whatever she sees must satisfy her because her expression softens slightly.

"Good," she says, leaning in to press a quick kiss against my lips. "That's my boy."

Ivy: 

Chapter Text

The air tastes like money and fear, champagne and gasoline, with undertones of desperate prayer.

In all my years since Melissa got into open wheel racing, every single starting grid stresses me out. And Blair is far more aggressive than Melissa ever was. I've watched my sister risk her life over a hundred times, but somehow it's different with Blair. More terrifying.

The paddock club above the garage gives me a perfect view of the grid, the purple Zenith cars gleaming under the Australian sun like deadly jewels. Blair's car sits in P5. The contrast between their pre-race rituals couldn't be more stark, Ivy is stone-faced and motionless in her cockpit while Blair adjusts her gloves repeatedly, head turning to scan the competition.

My hands grip the railing so hard my knuckles turn white. The memory of Ivy's dismissive purple gaze from earlier flashes through my mind, and I feel that strange mixture of hatred and fear Blair demanded of me. Not that hating Ivy is difficult after how she treated me, but the fear, that's all mine.

The five red lights appear on the starting line one by one, each illumination sending my heart rate higher. All around me, the paddock club falls into that eerie pre-race hush, wealthy patrons and team guests pausing mid-champagne sip, conversations dying as twenty beasts wait to be unleashed.

Then darkness. The lights vanish all at once.

The circuit erupts with mechanical fury as twenty-two Formula 1 engines scream to life simultaneously. I physically recoil, wincing as the wall of sound hits me like a physical force. Even with earplugs, it's overwhelming, a primal roar that vibrates through my chest cavity and rattles my teeth.

The cars hurtle toward the first corner in a terrifying high-speed ballet. I spot Blair's car as she darts to the inside, threading her Zenith between the Mercedes and the track limit with millimeters to spare. My breath catches in my throat as she brakes impossibly late, somehow making the car stick while the Mercedes ahead runs wide.

"Holy shit," I whisper, watching as Blair emerges from Turn 1 in P4, having gained a position in the chaos. She's already hunting down the Red Bull in P3, her purple beast glued to its gearbox as they power down the straight.

I lean over the balcony railing, heart hammering against my ribs as the cars disappear around Turn 3.

"Jesus Christ, she's insane," the man next to me mutters, taking a nervous gulp of champagne as the cars reach the back straight. "Your girlfriend drives like she's got a death wish."

I can't even respond, my entire being focused on the massive screens showing Blair's onboard camera as she hunts down the Red Bull. The data display shows her hitting 280 km/h, closing the gap with each passing second.

A hand suddenly grips my arm, pulling me back from the railing with surprising strength.

"Nick, can I have a word?"

I turn to find Bridgette Lovely standing beside me, her blonde hair perfectly styled despite the heat. The high-ranking Zenith executive's blue eyes are unreadable behind designer sunglasses, but her grip on my arm conveys urgency.

"Right now?" I ask, gesturing toward the track where Blair has just executed a move on the Red Bull that makes my stomach lurch. "But Blair's…"

"This won't take long," Bridgette says, her tone making it clear this isn't a request. She releases my arm but stands expectantly, waiting for me to follow.

With a reluctant glance at the screens, I trail after her as she leads me away from the crowded viewing area toward a quieter corner of the paddock club. The race sounds become slightly muffled here, though the commentator's excited voice still carries through the speakers.

"...and West is showing absolutely no fear today! The rookie is already up to P3 now gunning for the McLaren..."

Bridgette removes her sunglasses, revealing eyes that are calculating and cold despite her polite smile. "I wanted to discuss your role with the team, Nick."

"My role?" I repeat, confused. "I don't have a role. I'm just Blair's boyfriend."

Her laugh is practiced and hollow. "Oh, we both know that's not entirely true." She takes a sip from her flute of champagne, studying me over the rim. "You're more than that. You're an... influence."

The way she says the word makes my skin crawl. I glance back toward the screens, trying to catch a glimpse of Blair's position.

"Look," Bridgette continues, setting her glass down on a nearby high-top table, "Blair is extraordinary, but she's also... impulsive. Emotional."

"That's part of what makes her great," I counter, feeling oddly defensive.

Bridgette's smile tightens. "In qualifying, perhaps. But over a full season? Against someone like Ivy?" She shakes her head. "Emotions are a liability."

"But Ivy's more emotional than the entire grid combined," I say before I can stop myself. "Have you seen how she treats fans? How she speaks to people?"

Bridgette's eyebrows rise slightly, the only crack in her corporate veneer. She leans closer, lowering her voice despite the race noise covering our conversation.

"Ivy is..." She pauses, searching for words. "Ivy isn't a normal person, Nick. She's like a natural disaster, powerful, destructive, and completely beyond control. But also beyond judgment by normal standards."

The comparison sends a chill through me despite the Australian heat.

"The difference," Bridgette continues, "is that Ivy channels everything, every slight, every rage, every obsession, into pure speed. Blair lets her emotions affect her decision-making."

Bridgette waves her hand dismissively, cutting herself off mid-sentence. "Look, I'm not here to talk about Ivy. I want to discuss how you look and your RBF."

I scrunch up my face in confusion. "RBF?"

Bridgette sighs, "I don't like mincing words. You have a bit of resting bitch face."

I stare at her, completely blindsided by this conversational whiplash. My mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air.

"What are you talking about?" I manage to sputter, my hand automatically rising to touch my face as if I might feel this alleged "bitchiness" beneath my fingertips.

"The cameras keep catching you looking... displeased." Bridgette's fingers make air quotes. "During Blair's qualifying yesterday, there were at least three shots of you grimacing or frowning. It doesn't project the right image."

I'm so stunned I almost laugh. "I was nervous! Do you have any idea what it's like watching your partner on the track?"

"Your feelings aren't the issue," she continues, her gaze dropping to my outfit with obvious disapproval. "And honestly, this whole..." she gestures vaguely at my attire, "casual look isn't doing you any favors either. The team shirt is fine, but those jeans? Those shoes? You're representing Zenith now, even if indirectly."

My face burns with embarrassment and growing anger. I glance down at my dark jeans and comfortable sneakers, perfectly normal clothes that suddenly feel inadequate under her scrutiny.

"I'm just trying to nip this in the bud before it's a problem," Bridgette says, her tone softening into something almost maternal, which somehow makes it worse. "The team has invested heavily in Blair's image. We need her boyfriend to match that investment."

"You're fucking joking," I blurt out, the words escaping before I can filter them.

Bridgette's eyes widen fractionally, the only indication that my response has surprised her.

"I assure you, I'm not," she replies, ice crystallizing around each syllable. "Perhaps this is difficult for you to understand, but in Formula 1, perception is reality. When the cameras cut to Blair's boyfriend looking miserable in shabby clothes, it affects her brand."

"Also, Netflix is here all season," Bridgette adds, tapping her nails against her champagne flute. "There's a good chance Blair will be a major focus on next season's Drive to Survive. They love rookie narratives, especially ones with... colorful teammates."

I let out an exasperated sigh, running my hands through my hair. "Fucking Drive to Survive," I mutter, the words dripping with disdain. The last thing I need is some manufactured drama splashed across the world's most popular racing documentary. "Fine. I'll talk with Blair about this later, alright?"

Bridgette's hand shoots out, gripping my forearm. "No, just... don't stress her out with that." Her voice softens, almost pleading. "She needs to focus on racing, not wardrobe consultations and camera angles."

Before I can respond, Bridgette's phone chimes. She glances down at the screen, her perfectly composed features suddenly tightening. "Shit, I have to go," she says, already turning away. "Just think about what I said. And for God's sake, try to look happy when the cameras find you."

She's gone in a flurry, leaving me standing alone with my apparently inadequate clothes and bitchy face.

I stand there for a moment, stunned by Bridgette's words, feeling like I've been slapped across the face with a designer handbag.

My thoughts swirl like angry bees as I slowly make my way back to the balcony. The roar of the engines grows louder with each step, calling me back to what actually matters. By the time I reach the railing, I've plastered on what I hope passes for an enthusiastic smile. If they want a pretty accessory boyfriend, I'll give them one.

The race has progressed while I was being scolded about my fashion choices. I scan the track, trying to locate Blair's purple helmet among the blur of cars. The massive screens show the running order. Blair's holding steady in P3, with Ivy still leading the pack in P1.

How frustrating that I can't even watch my girlfriend race without worrying about how my face looks.

The cars appear on the straight, a thundering pack of impossibly expensive machines. I spot Ivy's distinctive purple helmet at the front, the three-time world champion maintaining a comfortable lead. Behind her, Lana Norris's orange McLaren suddenly pulls out of the slipstream, the DRS flap on her rear wing opening to give her that crucial straight-line speed advantage.

What happens next unfolds in horrifying slow motion.

Norris moves alongside Ivy's car, edging closer as they approach Turn 2. They're wheel to wheel, neither woman yielding an inch. Norris drifts slightly right, her front tire clipping Ivy's rear wheel. In an instant, both cars destabilize, Ivy's purple beast spinning violently across the track while Norris's McLaren careens in the opposite direction.

The impact when they hit the wall is sickening, a cacophony of screeching metal and carbon fiber disintegrating on impact. Debris explodes across the track like deadly confetti.

"Holy shit!" someone beside me gasps.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I instinctively search for Blair's car, terrified she might be caught in the chaos. The screens cut to her onboard camera, showing her skillfully navigating through the wreckage, weaving precisely between scattered car parts. She emerges from the smoke and debris in P1.

All my frustration, all my anger about Bridgette's ridiculous critiques, evaporates in an instant. I'm screaming, actually screaming at the top of my lungs, hands punching the air as Blair seizes the lead.

"DRIVE, BLAIR! GO, GO, GO!" I'm practically hanging over the railing now, my voice joining the chorus of shocked screams from the paddock club as yellow flags begin waving frantically around the circuit.

The safety car deploys fully, its lights flashing as it leads the remaining cars in a procession around the circuit. My entire body vibrates with a cocktail of adrenaline and pure joy as I watch Blair's purple Zenith settling into position behind the safety car, leading the pack.

First place.

Blair West, my Blair, is leading her very first Formula 1 race.

I'm dimly aware that I'm still screaming, my voice already growing hoarse. Someone claps me on the shoulder and yells something congratulatory that gets lost in the chaos of the moment. The paddock club has erupted into a frenzy, champagne spilling as people rush to the railings for a better view.

"She's got this," I whisper to myself, a prayer and a promise all at once. "She's actually got this."

The screens cut to replays of the crash, showing different angles of the horrifying moment when Norris and Ivy collided. Each impact looks worse than the last, the cars disintegrating against the barriers in spectacular fashion.

"Medical team reporting both drivers conscious," the race commentator's voice crackles through the speakers, relief evident in his tone. "They're being extracted from the vehicles now."

I breathe a sigh of relief. No matter how much I've come to despise Ivy in the span of a single morning, I'd never wish injury on anyone.

The camera switches to the pit lane, where teams scramble to prepare for potential stops under the safety car. Then it cuts to the crash site, where medical staff surround both wrecked cars. I catch a glimpse of Lana Norris being helped from her destroyed McLaren, her blonde hair falling loose as she removes her helmet.

And then I see Ivy.

She's already out of her car, somehow looking completely unruffled despite having just survived a 250 km/h impact. While the medical team tries to guide her toward the ambulance for mandatory checks, she's shrugging them off, her body language radiating fury as she marches toward Norris with terrifying purpose.

"Oh shit," I mutter, watching as Ivy closes the distance between them, her purple-highlighted hair whipping around her face like angry snakes. Even without audio, I can tell she's shouting, her finger jabbing accusingly at the blonde driver.

Lana's face crumples as Ivy advances on her, tears streaming down her dirt-smudged cheeks. She's backing away, hands raised defensively, but Ivy's relentless, stalking forward like some apex predator that's caught the scent of weakness. Even from this distance, I can see Lana's shoulders shaking with sobs.

Ivy's rage is incandescent. Her mouth moves in rapid-fire bursts, each word clearly landing like a physical blow as Lana flinches with every syllable. The medical staff hover uncertainly nearby, clearly torn between protocol and self-preservation. One brave paramedic attempts to step between them, only to retreat when Ivy's purple glare turns on her with laser-like intensity.

"Jesus Christ," mutters someone beside me. "She's going to eat that poor girl alive."

Lana Norris: 

Chapter Text

Sometimes victory smells like expensive champagne and burnt rubber, and happiness looks like a blue-haired woman standing atop the world.

I watch from the sidelines as Blair pops the champagne bottle, the golden spray catching the Australian sunlight like liquid fireworks. The moment the yellow flag lifted after that horrific crash, she absolutely owned the circuit, her purple beast devouring every corner, every straight, every millisecond of doubt. Lap after perfect lap, she built her lead until crossing the finish line was just a formality.

My chest feels like it might actually burst. The pride swelling inside me is almost painful in its intensity, making it hard to breathe as I watch her celebrate on the podium. Her silver eyes are alight with a joy so pure and unfiltered that it transforms her entire being. Gone is the calculating competitor, the nervous rookie, the woman who demanded I hate her rival. This Blair, laughing as she drenches her fellow podium finishers with champagne, is radiant in a way I’ve never witnessed before.

I can’t stop clapping, my hands stinging from the force of my enthusiasm. She did it. She actually did it. First race, first win. The commentators are already calling it one of the most impressive rookie debuts in F1 history.

“Nick?”

The voice behind me cuts through the roar of the crowd. I turn, still riding the high of Blair’s victory, and find myself staring at a familiar face I haven’t seen in years.

“Oh shit, Tessa! Hey!” The words tumble out before I can think better of them.

Tessa Keller stands before me in a crisp McLaren team polo, her brown hair pulled back in a neat braid. Those wire-rimmed glasses still sit perched on her nose, just like they did all those years ago when she’d watch her younger sister race against Melissa. She’s grown into herself, the awkward teenager now a poised woman who somehow still fidgets with her glasses when our eyes meet.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say, genuinely surprised. “How are you?”

“I’m good!” Tessa adjusts her glasses nervously, a habit I remember from when we were younger. “I, um, I work for McLaren now. Junior Engineer.” She gestures vaguely at her polo shirt as if I might need the visual aid to understand which team employs her.

“That’s amazing,” I say, meaning it. Tessa was always brilliant, even as a teenager hanging around the karting circuit. “Though tough break today with Lana’s crash.”

Tessa winces slightly. “Yeah, not our finest moment. But your girlfriend...” She trails off, her eyes drifting to the podium where Blair is still celebrating. “That was incredible driving.”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling that ridiculous secondhand pride swell again. “I had nothing to do with it, but thanks.”

Tessa laughs a soft sound that somehow carries over the crowd noise. “You always did that, took no credit for supporting the people around you.”

Something about the observation catches me off guard. I’m not used to being seen quite so clearly.

“So,” she continues, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, “I heard Melissa’s doing well in Formula E? Second in the championship?”

“Yeah, she’s finally found her groove.” I smile, genuinely happy for my sister despite her complicated history with Blair. “The electric series suits her driving style better.”

Tessa nods, her eyes briefly meeting mine before darting away. “I always thought she’d do well there. More technical, less about raw aggression.”

“How about your sister?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Is Britney still racing?”

Tessa’s face lights up with pride. “Oh! Britney actually moved to IndyCar this season. She’s with Penske now.”

“That’s awesome!” I say with excitement.

“They’re treating her really well. The oval racing is a whole different monster, but she’s adapting fast.”

“That’s great.” There’s something comfortable about talking with Tessa, like slipping into a conversation we paused years ago rather than starting a new one.

Tessa adjusts her glasses again, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. “And you’re a streamer now. That’s great, too. I’ve been watching for a few years now.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “Wait, seriously? You watch my streams?”

“Yeah, I was watching last night, actually,” Tessa says, a hint of nervousness in her voice as she fidgets with the McLaren lanyard hanging around her neck. “You were racing Melbourne circuit.”

My mouth drops open slightly. “You actually saw that?”

“I try to catch most of your streams when I can,” she admits, the blush on her cheeks deepening. “Some of those commenters, though...” She winces, pushing her glasses up her nose. “They can be pretty brutal. But your mod seems really nice, the one who kept banning people?”

“Nickismyhusbando?” I ask, suddenly feeling oddly exposed like Tessa has been peering through a window into my private life without me knowing. “Yeah, she’s... wait. How long have you been watching my streams?”

Tessa looks down at her shoes. “Um, maybe since you started? Not every single one, of course. The time difference makes it hard sometimes, but I catch the VODs when I miss them live.”

My brain struggles to process this information. Brilliant Tessa Keller has been quietly watching me fail at video games for years? The thought makes my stomach do a strange little flip.

“She seems really protective of you,” Tessa continues. “Your mod, I mean. Almost like she knows you personally.”

“That’s the weird thing,” I confess, lowering my voice slightly even though we’re surrounded by the roar of the crowd. “She’s actually my only consistent moderator, but I’ve never met her. Don’t even know her real name.”

Tessa’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? But she acts like she knows you so well.”

“I know, right? Sometimes, she says things that make me wonder if we’ve met somewhere, but...” I shrug, feeling strangely self-conscious. “I guess that’s the internet for you. People think they know you from watching you online.”

The crowd around us suddenly erupts into louder cheers as Blair raises her trophy higher, her electric blue hair catching the sunlight as she beams with victory. I turn instinctively toward the podium, my heart swelling again at the sight of her triumph.

“She’s amazing,” Tessa says quietly beside me, following my gaze to Blair. “You must be really proud.”

“Beyond proud,” I agree, unable to keep the emotion from my voice. “This is everything she’s worked for.”

Tessa hesitates, her fingers fidgeting with her lanyard again. “I hope she treats you well,” she says softly, her eyes meeting mine with unexpected intensity.

The comment catches me off guard, like a sudden shift in the track that sends you sliding. Something in Tessa’s tone, concern wrapped in careful neutrality, makes my chest tighten.

“She does,” I answer automatically, the practiced response rolling off my tongue.

Tessa studies my face for a moment too long, like she’s reading telemetry data that doesn’t quite match the driver’s report.

“That’s good,” she says, though her voice lacks conviction. “It’s just... I remember how you were with Melissa, always in her corner even when she didn’t appreciate it. Always making yourself smaller to fit into her world.”

I shift my weight uncomfortably. “Blair’s different,” I say, though part of me wonders who I’m trying to convince. “Our relationship is... it works for us.”

The crowd roars again as the podium ceremony concludes. Blair is making her way down the steps now, immediately swarmed by team personnel and media. Her silver eyes scan the crowd, and for a moment, I think she’s looking for me.

“I should probably…” I gesture vaguely toward the celebration.

“Of course,” Tessa says quickly, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to overstep. It’s just...” She takes a breath, adjusting her glasses one more time. “You were always kind to me back when we were kids. When most people only saw Britney’s awkward sister, you actually talked to me. Remembered my name.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest at her words. “I always liked talking with you. You were more like an older sister to me than Melissa was.”

Tessa’s eyes soften at my words, and for a brief moment, I see that teenage girl from the karting days peeking through her professional exterior. Before she can respond, I catch a flash of electric blue in my peripheral vision.

“I should go congratulate her,” I say, reluctantly stepping back. “But it was really good seeing you, Tessa. We should catch up properly some time.”

“I’d like that,” she says with a smile that reaches her eyes. She pulls a business card from her pocket and presses it into my palm. “My number’s on there. Maybe we could grab coffee during one of the race weekends?”

“Definitely,” I promise, tucking the card into my pocket as I turn toward where I last spotted Blair.

“Later, Nick,” Tessa calls after me.

I wave goodbye to Tessa as I spot Blair surrounded by team personnel and media, her electric blue hair like a beacon in the sea of purple uniforms. She’s radiant, animated, gesturing excitedly as she recounts some details of the race. Even from this distance, I can see the pure joy emanating from her.

Blair’s gaze suddenly locks with mine across the crowd. Her silver eyes light up with recognition, and without missing a beat, she excuses herself from the interview and strides purposefully toward me.

Before I can even congratulate her, Blair grabs my face between her hands and pulls me into a kiss so fierce it takes my breath away. Her lips taste like victory champagne, sweet and intoxicating. The world around us dissolves into background noise as she claims my lips.

“You did it!” I gasp when she finally releases me, my head spinning from both the intensity of the kiss and the champagne lingering on her lips.

Blair’s silver eyes gleam with triumph. “I fucking did it,” she agrees, her voice husky with emotion. “First race, first win. Just like I promised you.”

“I’m so unbelievably proud of you,” I say, my voice cracking with emotion as I clutch her shoulders. “The way you handled that car, how you stayed calm after the crash, it was masterful. I knew you could do it, but seeing it happen...” I shake my head, unable to find words big enough to contain what I’m feeling.

Blair’s smile widens, but her eyes flick past me, scanning the crowd behind us. “Thanks, baby. Did you see how I took that last corner? The team said nobody’s carried that much speed through there all weekend.” She adjusts my collar absently, smoothing the purple fabric against my chest.

“I saw everything. I didn’t take my eyes off you for a second.” I reach for her hand, but she’s already waving at someone over my shoulder.

“Victoria! There you are!” Blair calls out, her attention shifting completely as she spots the team owner. She gives my cheek a quick pat before stepping away from me.

I turn to follow her, but a wall of photographers immediately closes the gap, shutting me out of the conversation. Through gaps in the crowd, I catch glimpses of Blair animatedly discussing the race with Victoria Zenith, their heads bent together in technical communion.

I stand there, frozen in place, as Blair disappears deeper into her world of triumph and technical talk. Something cold and sharp twists in my gut as I watch her shine brighter than ever, surrounded by people who speak her language of downforce and brake balance.

A sudden, terrifying thought crashes over me. What if this is just the beginning of her leaving me behind? She’s ascending to heights I can’t follow into a stratosphere where boyfriends like me don’t belong. The distance between us could widen with each championship point, each victory, each new powerful person who wants a piece of her brilliance.

There’s no way she would leave me behind, is there?

Tessa: 

Unrelated and irrelevent to the story, An image of Mclaren's team Principal. Morgan Stella:

Chapter Text

Time zones are like emotional jet lag, my body’s still in Australia while my heart’s trying to keep up with Blair’s schedule.

It’s Friday morning in Shanghai, five days since Blair’s victory sent shockwaves through the Formula 1 world. Monday morning, we’d left Melbourne behind, the taste of champagne barely faded from our lips as we boarded the team’s private jet. Now we’re in China, where the air feels different, heavier with humidity and expectation.

Blair’s alarm pierces the pre-dawn quiet of our hotel room, the harsh electronic tone dragging me from dreams where she’s still celebrating on that podium, blue hair wild in the Australian sunshine. 6:30 AM glows accusingly from her phone screen.

I’m wrapped around her like a human blanket, my chest pressed against her back, one arm draped over her waist, our legs tangled together in a complicated knot of intimacy. Since it’s not the night before race day, we’ve indulged in sleeping together, one of those small mercies I’ve learned to appreciate in our relationship.

Blair shifts in my arms, reaching to silence the alarm before twisting to face me. Those silver eyes find mine in the dim morning light, already alert while I’m still half-submerged in sleep.

“Come on,” she says, her voice carrying that edge of impatience that’s become more pronounced since her victory. “Wake up.”

“I’m up,” I mumble, though my heavy eyelids suggest otherwise. I tighten my hold on her for just a moment, savoring the warmth of her body against mine before the day claims her.

Her fingers find my hair, stroking through the messy brown strands with surprising gentleness. For a brief, perfect moment, we exist in a bubble where Australia’s triumph and China’s pressures can’t reach us. Then she’s untangling herself from my embrace, already focused on the day ahead.

“Big day today,” she says, stretching her arms overhead, revealing a strip of toned stomach as her sleep shirt rides up. “First practice after a win hits different.”

I prop myself up on one elbow, watching as she moves through the hotel room with practiced efficiency. “Different good or different terrifying?”

Blair pauses at the bathroom door, that familiar competitive spark lighting her eyes. “Different amazing. Now everyone’s watching to see if Australia was a fluke.” Her smile turns predatory. “I can’t wait to show them it wasn’t.”

“I like when you’re confident,” I say, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “It’s sexy.”

She disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the shower start. I rub my eyes, fighting the jet lag that’s still dragging at my limbs. Five days isn’t enough to adjust to a new time zone, especially when we’re already preparing to jump to another one next week.

“Join me,” Blair calls from the bathroom, her voice almost lost beneath the rush of water.

I don’t need to be asked twice. I shuffle toward the bathroom, shedding my t-shirt and boxers along the way. Steam billows around me as I step into the spacious shower, where Blair stands with her back to me, blue hair darkening under the spray.

“Hand me the shampoo?” she asks without turning.

I reach for the bottle, some expensive brand the team provides at every hotel, and pour a dollop into my palm. Instead of handing it to her, I step closer and begin working it into her hair, my fingers massaging her scalp in slow, deliberate circles.

Blair stiffens momentarily, then relaxes into my touch. “Hmm,” she hums, a sound between approval and surprise.

“Let me take care of you,” I murmur, working the shampoo into a lather. “You’ve been going non-stop since Australia.”

She tilts her head back, allowing me better access. “The press won’t leave me alone. Everyone wants a piece of the rookie who beat Ivy Hunt.”

My hands move down to her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots of tension I find there. “You’re not just ‘the rookie’ anymore. You’re Blair West, race winner.”

She makes a sound that might be satisfaction, but there’s something off about it. I guide her under the spray to rinse her hair, then reach for the conditioner. As I work it through her blue strands, I notice how she’s holding herself, slightly distant, like there’s an invisible barrier between us that wasn’t there in Australia.

“Something on your mind?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual.

Blair turns to face me, water streaming down her perfect features. For a moment, vulnerability flashes across her face, so quickly I almost miss it.

“Victoria says I need to be more careful about my image now,” she says, her silver eyes studying my reaction. “Winners are scrutinized differently than rookies.”

I reach for the body wash, squeezing some onto a loofah. “What does that mean exactly?”

Blair turns again, presenting her back to me as I begin washing her shoulders. “It means everything I do matters more. Who I’m seen with, how I present myself.”

I work the loofah in gentle circles across her back, careful not to press too hard against her race-tuned muscles. “So what Victoria’s really saying is that dating some random streamer might not be the best look for F1’s newest star?”

The question hangs between us, dissolving into steam. Blair doesn’t answer immediately, which is an answer in itself.

“That’s not what she said,” Blair finally replies, but there’s no conviction in her voice. She takes the loofah from my hand, quickly finishing her own washing without looking at me. “I need to get ready. Team breakfast is in twenty minutes.”

I stand there, hot water cascading over me, as she rinses herself one final time. There’s an efficiency to her movements now, clinical almost like she’s completing a task rather than sharing a moment.

“I’ll be quick,” I promise, reaching for her arm, but she’s already stepping out of the shower.

“Take your time,” she says, grabbing a towel. “I need to call Bridgette about some sponsorship thing anyway.”

The bathroom door closes behind her with a soft click that somehow feels louder than a slam. I’m left alone in the steamy cocoon of the shower, water pelting my skin as I try to process what just happened.

I wash myself mechanically, my mind replaying our conversation. The way she avoided my eyes. The sudden urgency to leave. The distance that’s been growing between us since that podium in Australia.

By the time I shut off the water, my skin is pruned and my chest feels hollow. I grab a towel and dry off, staring at my reflection in the foggy mirror. Same brown hair, same green eyes, same me. But something has shifted in my world, tilted sideways when I wasn’t looking.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Blair is fully dressed in her team gear, hair perfectly styled, sitting on the edge of the bed with her phone pressed to her ear. She glances up as I enter, offering a quick, distracted smile before returning to her conversation.

“Yes, absolutely,” she’s saying, voice pitched in that media-ready tone she’s perfected. “I’d be honored to be considered for the cover.”

I move around the room quietly, gathering my clothes, trying not to disturb her important call. As I pull on my jeans, I catch her watching me in the mirror, her expression unreadable. When our eyes meet, she quickly looks away.

“Sorry about that,” she says after hanging up, but she doesn’t specify what she’s apologizing for, the abrupt shower exit or something deeper.

“Big opportunity?” I ask, nodding toward the phone.

“Sports Illustrated wants me for an issue,” she replies, a hint of genuine excitement breaking through her cool exterior.

“That’s amazing, Blair!” I say, meaning it despite the unease settling in my stomach. “You deserve it.”

She stands, smoothing her team shirt with practiced precision. “Come on, get dressed properly. Unless...” Her silver eyes flick to the clock, then back to me with a hint of calculation. “You’d rather stay here today? I know how mind-numbing practice sessions can be for you.”

“No way,” I reply, pulling a Zenith team polo over my head with sudden determination. “It’s a sprint weekend, Blair. I’m not missing a single moment.” I grab my credentials from the nightstand, looping the lanyard around my neck. “I want to see everything.”

Something shifts in her expression. For a moment, she looks like the Blair I fell for years ago, before podiums and press conferences.

“Well, alrighty then.”

*****

The team garage is a symphony of mechanical chaos, engineers hunched over screens like fortune tellers reading digital entrails while mechanics dance around the second car, their purple uniforms blurring as they make minute adjustments. I stand just outside, leaning against the barrier where I can see the pit straight, my hands gripping the metal railing.

Through my headset, I can hear snippets of Blair’s communications with her race engineer. Her voice is clipped, professional, focused in a way that makes my chest tighten with pride despite the morning’s tension.

“Copy that. I’ll push harder in sector two,” she says, her voice crackling through the radio as her purple beast screams past the pit lane, a blur of motion and purpose.

The timing screens show her sitting in P3, two-tenths behind Lana Norris and nearly half a second behind Ivy. After her Melbourne victory, the pressure to perform is crushing. Every journalist in the paddock is watching to see if Australia was a miracle or a mission statement.

“She’s overdriving,” mutters one of the engineers behind me, not realizing I can hear her through my headset. “Trying too hard to match Hunt’s pace.”

I wince at the assessment but can’t argue with it. Even to my untrained eye, Blair’s attacks on the corners look desperate, aggressive in a way that’s bleeding time rather than saving it. The data confirms it, red sectors flashing across the timing screens where Ivy’s are consistently purple.

A collective gasp ripples through the garage as Blair locks up into turn 14, the car sliding wide before she wrestles it back onto the racing line. Precious milliseconds evaporate.

“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my face.

The bench beside me creaks as someone sits down. I don’t need to look to know who it is. Ivy Hunt, three-time world champion and the current occupant of P1, has decided to grace me with her presence.

I keep my eyes fixed on the track, pretending I haven’t noticed her. My heart hammers against my ribs as I remember Blair’s command in Australia. “Hate her with me, Nick.”

Ivy crosses her legs, the material of her racing suit rustling with the movement. She’s still in full gear minus her helmet, her black hair with those distinctive purple highlights falling loose around her shoulders. For several excruciating seconds, she says nothing, seemingly content to watch the practice session beside me as if we sit together all the time.

“Your girlfriend’s trying too hard,” she finally says, her voice casual, almost bored. “She’s fighting the car instead of working with it.”

I swallow hard, refusing to look at her. “Look, I’m just here to support Blair. That’s it.”

“Support.” Ivy rolls the word around her mouth like she’s tasting something unfamiliar. “How adorable. So tell me, Boyfriend, what exactly is Blair’s driving style like? You’ve watched her for years, right? Through all those junior categories?”

The question catches me off guard. Why would Ivy Hunt, three-time world champion, want my amateur analysis?

“She’s aggressive but precise,” I answer cautiously based on the interview she did. “Likes to brake late.”

Ivy makes a sound between a laugh and a scoff. “That’s what the press release says. I’m asking what she’s really like. When she’s angry, does she does she get worse? When she’s happy, does she get sloppy?”

I turn to face her fully now, unnerved by the intensity in those purple eyes. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Because you’re the expert on all things Blair West, aren’t you?” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “The dutiful boyfriend who follows her around the world, wearing her team’s colors like a good accessory should.”

My jaw tightens. “I don’t think this conversation is appropriate.”

“When she’s under pressure,” Ivy continues as if I hadn’t spoken, “does she hit the apex early or late? I noticed in F2 she had a tendency to compromise the exit some times. Perhaps that’s when she was frustrated?”

“She doesn’t…” I start to object, but Ivy leans closer, invading my personal space with the casual entitlement of someone used to people moving out of her way.

“Tell me,” she presses, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Does she blame the car when she’s slow? Or does she blame herself? These are things teammates should know about each other.”

I shift uncomfortably, trying to put distance between us without being obvious. “I’m not going to dissect Blair’s driving psychology with you.”

Ivy’s purple eyes narrow, studying me like I’m a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope. “You really are loyal, aren’t you? Like a well-trained puppy. Does she give you treats when you behave?”

The mockery in her tone makes my cheeks burn. I open my mouth to tell her to fuck off when a familiar engine note cuts through the air, higher pitched, more aggressive than the others. Blair’s car.

My eyes snap to the track just as her purple beast screams into the pit lane, slowing dramatically as it approaches our position. Through the halo protecting her cockpit, I catch Blair’s gaze behind her visor. Even with her face partially obscured by her helmet, I can see it, that cold, silver stare drilling into me with unmistakable fury.

She’s seen us together. Worse, she’s seen me talking to Ivy.

My stomach drops as her car rolls past, her eyes never leaving mine until she’s forced to look ahead. The message couldn’t be clearer if she’d screamed it through the radio.

I fucked up.

“Oops,” Ivy says beside me, not sounding sorry at all. “Seems like I’ve gotten you in trouble with the girlfriend.” She stands, brushing imaginary dust from her racing suit. “Such a shame. I was just starting to find you... interesting.”

She walks away without another word, leaving me sitting there with my heart hammering in my chest and the certainty that I’ve just made a terrible mistake.

A/N: A sprint weekend in F1 means theres two races. A short race on Saturday and the main event on Sunday.

Chapter Text

I’ve learned that silence has texture. Blair’s has the weight of carbon fiber, impossibly light yet strong enough to crush you.

A day after my catastrophic conversation with Ivy, I’m back at the Shanghai International Circuit, feeling like a ghost haunting my own life. The grandstands roar with post-sprint race energy while I navigate the paddock with my credentials bouncing against my chest, a purple badge of belonging that suddenly feels counterfeit.

Fifth place. Blair finished fifth in today’s sprint race while Ivy took first with a commanding lead that made the rest of the grid look like they were racing in a different category. Now we’re back to qualifying for tomorrow’s main event, and Blair has barely acknowledged my existence since catching me with her teammate yesterday.

Last night was a masterclass in emotional whiplash. She’d allowed me to give her a pre-race massage, my hands working the tension from muscles coiled tight as suspension springs. I’d poured everything into those touches, apology, devotion, desperation, while she lay silent beneath my fingers, receiving the physical comfort while maintaining the emotional barricade.

Then, like clockwork, she’d kicked me out of the bedroom again. “Race day tomorrow,” she’d said, as if that explained everything. Perhaps it did.

I push through the crowd toward the Zenith hospitality suite, where I’m supposed to watch qualifying. Each step feels heavier than the last, weighed down by the knowledge that Blair thinks I betrayed the one cardinal rule she established. Hate Ivy Hunt completely.

“Nick! Hold up!”

I turn to find Tessa jogging toward me, her McLaren polo slightly rumpled and her glasses slipping down her nose. Something about her disheveled appearance makes me smile despite everything.

“Hey, Tessa,” I say, glad to see her. “How’s it going?”

She adjusts her glasses, a gesture so familiar it’s almost comforting. “Good! Well, mostly good. The car’s still giving us some trouble in sector three.” She studies my face, her expression shifting to concern. “You look terrible.”

I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. “Thanks. That’s exactly what a guy wants to hear.”

“Sorry,” she winces. “I just meant... is everything okay?”

The question hangs between us like smoke. I glance around, making sure no one from the team is within earshot before responding.

“Blair saw me talking to Ivy yesterday,” I admit, my voice dropping to just above a whisper. “She’s been freezing me out ever since.”

Tessa’s eyes widen behind her glasses, her brow furrowing with immediate concern. “That’s... not good. Especially with someone as competitive as Blair.” She chews her bottom lip for a moment, then blurts out, “Listen, if things get really bad and you need somewhere to go, I mean, my hotel room has plenty of space. There’s a decent couch I could take, and you could have the bed.”

Her words come out in a rush, cheeks flushing slightly as she realizes what she’s offering. I can see the genuine worry in her eyes, which only makes me feel worse about the whole situation.

I shake my head quickly, waving my hands in front of me. “No, no, I appreciate that, really, but I’ll be fine. I actually have my own room already.” My voice drops slightly as I add, “Blair prefers to sleep alone before races anyway. For focus.”

Tessa’s expression shifts, a flicker of concern crossing her features before she nods. “Right. Of course. I just wanted to offer...” She trails off, adjusting her glasses again.

“It means a lot,” I say, meaning it. “Honestly, just having someone to talk to who isn’t completely wrapped up in team would be nice.”

She smiles, a genuine warmth reaching her eyes. “Well, I’m always around if you need an escape. We engineering types keep odd hours.” She glances at her watch and grimaces. “Speaking of which, I should get back. Lana’s having issues with her seat position, and I need to run some calculations before qualifying.”

“Go, go,” I urge, feeling lighter somehow despite everything. “Thanks, Tessa.”

I watch Tessa disappear into the paddock crowd, her brown braid bouncing against her back as she weaves between team personnel. Just as I turn to continue toward the hospitality suite, a firm grip closes around my shoulder, yanking me backward with surprising strength.

“Nick, a word?” Bridgette’s voice cuts through the ambient noise of the paddock like a scalpel. Her perfectly nails dig slightly into my shoulder as she steers me toward a quieter corner between hospitality units.

When we’re relatively secluded, she releases me and crosses her arms, her expression a mixture of concern and irritation. “What the hell is going on with Blair? She’s completely off her game.”

I blink, caught off guard by her directness. “What do you mean?”

Bridgette narrows her eyes. “Don’t play dumb. She’s been a disaster in briefings, snapping at engineers, missing apexes she could hit blindfolded last weekend.” She leans closer, lowering her voice. “Her telemetry looks like it’s being driven by two different people compared to Australia. So I’ll ask again did something happen?”

My stomach twists. I consider lying, but Bridgette’s penetrating stare makes it clear she’d see right through any attempt.

“She saw me talking to Ivy yesterday,” I admit, the words tasting bitter. “During practice.”

Bridgette’s perfectly plucked eyebrows shoot up, her eyes widening with sudden understanding. “So that’s it. You had a friendly chat with her newly sworn enemy, and now she’s driving like she’s got concrete in her racing boots.” She leans against the hospitality unit wall, studying me with a mixture of exasperation and calculation. “You managed to upset Formula 1’s newest star right before qualifying?”

The bluntness of her assessment hits me like a physical blow. I wince, running a hand through my hair. “It wasn’t like that. Ivy approached me, started asking questions about Blair’s driving style. I didn’t tell her anything, but Blair saw us together and assumed the worst.”

“Of course she did,” Bridgette sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Blair’s had a target on Ivy’s back since before she even signed with us. The woman could offer Blair a winning lottery ticket and she’d tear it up out of spite.”

“I didn’t know what to do,” I confess, the words tumbling out faster now. “Ivy just sat down next to me and started talking. What was I supposed to do, run away?”

Bridgette fixes me with a look that suggests that’s exactly what I should have done.

“Look,” she says, her voice softening marginally, “I don’t care about your relationship drama. I care about lap times. And right now, Blair’s lap times are suffering because she’s too busy imagining you and Ivy plotting against her.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I protest, though a small voice in my head wonders if that’s exactly what Blair thinks.

“Is it?” Bridgette challenges. “You’re dating a professional athlete whose entire life revolves around competition. Being betrayed by her boyfriend…”

“I didn’t betray her!”

“…talking to her nemesis,” Bridgette continues as if I hadn’t interrupted, “is basically emotional sabotage in her mind.”

Bridgette’s eyes narrow, her professional veneer cracking to reveal genuine frustration underneath. “You’re really becoming a liability for me, you know that, right?” She jabs a finger into my chest. “You have to fix this.”

Before I can defend myself, a collective gasp rises from the nearby screens. We both turn to see Lancia Stroll’s green car spinning wildly across the track, pieces of it shattering in all directions as she slams into the barrier on the main straight.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, watching the wreckage scatter across the asphalt.

Bridgette’s attention snaps to another monitor showing Ivy’s onboard camera. The screen flashes with yellow flag warnings, but Ivy’s purple Zenith continues hurtling forward at full speed.

“Fuck!” Bridgette hisses, her face paling. “Did her engineer not say anything?”

Without another word to me, she scurries away, already pulling her phone from her pocket as she races toward the pit wall. The paddock erupts into controlled chaos, team personnel rushing to monitors while marshals wave frantically on track.

I’m left alone in the suddenly empty space between hospitality units, the distant sound of engines and emergency vehicles creating a surreal soundtrack to my spiraling thoughts. How am I supposed to fix things with Blair when she won’t even look at me? When every attempt at conversation is met with that impenetrable silence?

The irony isn’t lost on me, I’m supposed to be her emotional support, her rock in this high-pressure world, yet I’ve become just another source of stress.

A commotion near the garages draws my attention. I push through the crowd just in time to see Blair’s purple Zenith roaring into the pit lane, her frustration evident even through the mechanical movements of the car.

I hover at the back of the garage as she pulls to a stop, the team swarming around her like worker bees attending their queen. Blair yanks off her helmet in one fluid motion, her electric blue hair sticking to her forehead with sweat, silver eyes flashing with barely contained fury.

“Ivy didn’t slow for the yellow flag until sector two,” she snaps to one of the engineers, who’s already downloading data from her car. Her voice carries that dangerous edge I’ve learned to recognize, the one that appears when she’s spotted an advantage.

The engineer glances nervously over his shoulder before leaning closer. “Yeah, we lucked out. Looks like the stewards didn’t catch it.”

Blair’s expression shifts, calculation replacing anger as she steps out of the cockpit and moves toward the bank of monitors. She taps one screen, bringing up Ivy’s onboard footage, her eyes narrowed as she studies the telemetry scrolling alongside the video.

“Hmm.”

Something about her tone makes my skin prickle. I’ve heard that “hmm” before, it’s the sound Blair makes when she’s spotted a weakness, a crack in someone’s armor she can exploit.

Blair’s eyes flick up suddenly, catching mine across the crowded garage. For a split second, something unreadable flashes across her face, recognition, determination, maybe even a hint of relief. She straightens, silver gaze never leaving mine as she snaps her fingers at a nearby crew member.

“Get me out of this,” she commands, already unzipping her racing suit with practiced efficiency. The team member rushes to help her, peeling away the sweat-soaked purple fabric while another hands her a team shirt.

I remain frozen at the garage entrance, unsure if I should approach or keep my distance. Before I can decide, Blair strides directly toward me, purpose in every step. Her face is set in hard lines, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.

“Come on,” she says when she reaches me, not stopping as she grabs my wrist and pulls me along in her wake.

“Where are we going?” I stumble slightly, caught off-guard by her sudden acknowledgment of my existence after nearly twenty-four hours of glacial silence.

“Stewards’ office,” she replies, her voice clipped. “Then back to the hotel.”

Each word comes out like it’s being rationed, no excess syllables, no warmth. Just information, delivered with military precision. The grip on my wrist isn’t affectionate, it’s functional, ensuring I follow where she leads.

People part before us like water around the bow of a ship, Blair’s determination creating an invisible force field that no one dares penetrate. I follow in her slipstream, trying to read the tension in her shoulders, the rigid line of her spine. Is this the end of her freeze-out or just a tactical pause?

“Are you going to report Ivy?” I ask, keeping my voice low as we navigate through the paddock.

Blair doesn’t look back, doesn’t slow her pace. “Yes.”

One word. That’s all I get.

Chapter Text

I’ve been staring at Blair’s hotel room door for fifteen minutes, feeling like the world’s most useless boyfriend. Race day. The hallway’s too-bright lights make my eyes ache, but that’s nothing compared to the knot in my stomach.

I woke up at 5:30 AM, a full hour before Blair’s usual pre-race routine begins. After she told me she “needed space” last night, I spent most of it staring at the ceiling of my room.

I check my watch again. 6:15 AM. I’m dressed in my Team Zenith supporter gear, hair neatly combed, new pants, new shoes, even a bit of make up which i really, really fucking hate to wear. I’m ready to be the perfect paddock boyfriend. My thumb hovers over her contact on my phone, but I pocket it instead. This needs to be face-to-face.

P6. Sixth position. For most drivers, that would be respectable. For Blair West, rising star of Zyn Zenith GP with her electric blue hair and silver eyes that flash like knife blades when she’s angry, it’s practically an insult.

And I can’t shake the feeling that I’m partly to blame. Since our F3 days, I’ve given her a pre-race massage every single night before she competes. It’s our ritual, our superstition. My hands working the tension from her shoulders while she visualizes the track, turn by turn. But last night, for the first time since we became a couple, she went to bed without it.

I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate. What if she’s still sleeping? What if she’s meditating or going through her mental preparation? What if she really doesn’t want to see me?

Before I can decide, the door swings open. Blair’s face is lit with a predatory grin, like a kid who just pulled off the perfect prank. Then her silver eyes land on me, and the smile vanishes.

“Nick?” Her voice carries none of the warmth I’m used to. She’s already in her pre-race outfit, hair perfectly styled, looking past me rather than at me. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to be ready early,” I say, trying to sound casual despite the sinking feeling in my chest.

She adjusts the strap of her bag, creating distance without moving. “I thought maybe today we could go separately.”

The hallway suddenly feels colder. I swallow hard.

“Blair, I really want to talk about Friday. About you seeing me talking to Ivy.”

Her eyes roll so dramatically that I’m surprised they don’t fall out of her head. The sigh she releases makes me feel smaller than the dust on her racing boots.

“Come on, Nick. I just got some good news, and I’m not in the mood to be annoyed right now.”

Annoyed. That’s what I am to her now. An annoyance.

“What’s the good news?”

Her smile returns, sharp-edged and triumphant. “The stewards are giving Ivy a five-place grid penalty for missing that yellow flag yesterday.” She checks her watch, the limited edition one the team gave her after her first podium. “I’m starting P5 now.”

“That’s... great,” I manage. “Congratulations.”

She nods, already looking toward the elevator. There was a time when news like this would have meant a celebration, her lifting me off my feet in excitement, stealing kisses between whispered strategies. Now she’s treating me like a random fan who stopped her for an autograph.

Blair glances down at her watch again, her mouth tightening into a thin line. “If you’re coming with me, we should leave now.” She adjusts her bag on her shoulder. “But I need some quiet time to focus, so... just don’t talk to me for a bit, okay?”

The way she says it makes it clear it’s not really a request. I nod, trying to ignore how my heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise.

The elevator ride down to the parking garage might as well be a descent into the arctic. Blair stands as far from me as possible in the small space, eyes fixed on her phone.

The team car waits for us outside, sleek and emblazoned with Zenith’s iconic purple. Blair slides in first, immediately putting her earbuds in, a clear “do not disturb” sign if I’ve ever seen one. I settle into the seat beside her, leaving as much space as possible between us. The driver, a woman with close-cropped hair and a Team Zenith jacket, catches my eye in the rearview mirror with a sympathetic glance.

The twenty-minute drive to the circuit stretches into what feels like hours. The only sounds are the hum of the engine and the occasional notification from Blair’s phone. She stares out the window, lips moving slightly as she mentally rehearses the race, corner by corner. I fidget with my paddock pass, wishing I could dissolve into the leather upholstery.

Once, this silence between us would have been comfortable. Now it’s like trying to breathe underwater.

When we arrive at the circuit, Blair removes her earbuds but still doesn’t speak. She walks ahead of me through security, barely waiting as I fumble with my credentials. The paddock is already buzzing with activity, mechanics rushing around, journalists hunting for quotes, and fans pressing against barriers hoping for a glimpse of their favorite drivers.

Blair’s pace quickens as we approach the Zenith hospitality area. Her hand occasionally brushes against mine, but she never takes it. Instead, she plasters on her media smile whenever we pass anyone important, nodding toward me as if to say, “Yes, I brought my boyfriend, as expected.” A few photographers snap pictures of us, and she shifts closer for them, her arm stiffly around my waist. The moment they lower their cameras, she steps away.

Just as we’re about to enter the main hospitality suite, Blair suddenly grabs my wrist. Her grip is firm, those silver eyes darting around like she’s checking for snipers.

“Come with me,” she says, the first direct sentence she’s spoken to me all morning.

I follow her because, of course, I do. We weave through the paddock, past the garages, where mechanics are making final adjustments to the cars. She leads me toward a smaller structure at the far end, one of the private trailers reserved for the Zenith drivers to escape the chaos before races.

Blair punches in a code on the keypad, and the door slides open with a pneumatic hiss. She gestures for me to enter first, which I do, stepping into the cool, dimly lit space. It smells faintly of energy drinks.

She follows me in, immediately moving through the small kitchenette and lounge area, checking the bathroom and small meditation room. Satisfied that we’re alone, she turns to face me, leaning against the counter.

The sigh that escapes her is so heavy it seems to deflate her entire body. Her shoulders slump slightly, and for a moment, I see the Blair I fell in love with, vulnerable, real. But then her spine straightens, and her chin lifts.

“Look, Nick,” she says, her voice steady but quieter than usual. “I think we should break up.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Even though I’ve been expecting this, dreading it. The reality of it knocks the air from my lungs.

“Is this because of Ivy?” I manage to ask, my voice embarrassingly small in the quiet room.

“No,” Blair says, her voice sharp with irritation. “But you were talking to her after I specifically told you not to.”

“She talked at me,” I fire back, my hands balling into fists at my sides. “I didn’t say shit to her! What was I supposed to do, run away?”

Blair shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose like I’m some kind of frustrating math problem she can’t solve. The gesture makes my blood boil.

“Look, Nick,” she says with that patronizing tone she’s perfected lately. “I think we’ve outgrown each other. We want different things now.”

“Why didn’t you just do this at the hotel!” I bark at her.

“I just decided.”

Something inside me snaps. The hurt and confusion I’ve been swallowing for weeks rises up like bile, and I can feel hot tears threatening to spill over. I blink them back furiously, refusing to give her the satisfaction.

“Fuck you!” The words explode out of me, bouncing off the walls of the small trailer. “We’re happy together. We’ve always been happy! You’re just... you’re just forgetting that!”

Blair’s eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting this reaction from her usually agreeable boyfriend. For a split second, I see uncertainty flicker across her face.

“Nick…” she starts, but I’m not done.

“What, you get one win, and suddenly you’re too good for me?” I ask, my voice cracking. The words taste bitter but honest. “You used to say you needed me, Blair. Remember? That I helped you relax? That I kept you sane when everything on the track got to be too much?”

I’m shaking now, every bottled-up emotion spilling out. My hands gesture wildly, trying to grasp at something solid in this conversation that keeps slipping away from me.

Blair’s expression hardens, her silver eyes turning to steel. “Yeah, well, I don’t need you anymore, Nick.” Her voice is clinical, like she’s discussing a part that’s been upgraded on her car. “You’re in the way.”

The words hit me like a physical blow.

“In the way?” I repeat, the anger rising in me like a tide. “In the way of what? Your precious career? The career I’ve supported since day one?”

She doesn’t even flinch. Just checks her watch again.

“Look, stay here for a while and cool off,” she says, already turning toward the door. “Or don’t. I don’t care. I have a race I need to go win.”

And just like that, she’s gone, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft mechanical click that somehow hurts more than if she’d slammed it.

The moment she’s gone, my knees give out. I collapse to the floor of the trailer, a pathetic heap of Team Zenith purple merchandise and broken dreams. The tears come hot and fast, burning trails down my cheeks as I slam my fist against the cold tile.

“Fuck you, Blair!” I scream at the empty room, my voice cracking. “FUCK YOU!”

I’m shaking, rage pulsing through me in waves. I want to break something, preferably something expensive that she loves. I want her to hurt like I’m hurting. I want...

But the anger starts dissolving, melting into something worse, something that feels like my chest is being hollowed out with a rusty spoon. Four years. Four fucking years of my life devoted to her. I’ve turned my life upside down to follow her across continents. I’ve learned to cook the specific pre-race meals she likes. I’ve massaged her shoulders until my hands cramped. I’ve held her while she cried after bad qualifying sessions and cheered myself hoarse during her victories.

“I loved you,” I whisper, the words dissolving into a sob that wracks my entire body. “I loved you so much.”

The memory of her smile, her real smile, not the media-ready one, flashes through my mind. The way she used to look at me like I was her sanctuary in a world of chaos. The nights spent planning our future together, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on my chest.

All gone. All fucking gone because she thinks she’s outgrown me?

I curl forward, forehead touching the cool floor, arms wrapped around my middle like I’m physically trying to hold myself together. The paddock pass around my neck feels like it’s choking me now. I should rip it off. I should leave.

‘I guess I can go live with Dad? Or Maybe follow Melissa?’

The electronic door hisses open with such force it bounces against its stopper. I jerk upright, heart leaping stupidly with hope that Blair’s returned, that she’s realized her mistake.

But it’s not Blair.

It’s Ivy Hunt, her purple-highlighted black hair wild around her face, eyes blazing with a fury that makes my blood run cold. She stalks into the trailer like a panther, not even registering my presence on the floor.

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN HERE, BLAIR, YOU FUCKING PUSSY!” she screams, her voice echoing off the walls. “COME OUT AND FACE ME, YOU BACKSTABBING CUNT!”

Chapter Text

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN HERE, BLAIR, YOU FUCKING PUSSY! COME OUT AND FACE ME, YOU BACKSTABBING CUNT!”

“She’s not here,” I manage to croak from my pathetic position on the floor, hastily wiping tears from my face with the back of my hand.

Ivy’s head snaps toward me like a predator, noticing prey for the first time. Her purple eyes widen, then narrow dangerously as she takes in my crumpled form. For a moment, she seems genuinely surprised to find me there instead of Blair.

“Nick?” she says, her voice suddenly dropping several decibels from her previous screaming. She glances around the trailer again as if Blair might be hiding behind the mini-fridge. “Where is she?”

“Gone,” I say, trying to stand up with whatever dignity I can salvage. My legs feel like overcooked pasta. “She left. To prep for the race.”

Ivy’s breathing is heavy, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath her Zenith team shirt. There’s something wild in her eyes that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I’ve seen Ivy angry before, everyone in the paddock has, but this is different. This is unhinged.

“To prep for the race,” Ivy repeats, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. She takes a step toward me, and I instinctively back up until I hit the counter behind me.

The rage emanating from her is almost visible, like heat waves distorting the air. Her fingers clench and unclench at her sides, and a vein pulses in her neck. Then, something shifts in her expression, a terrifying transformation that turns my blood to ice. Her lips curl upward into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You know what?” she says, her voice suddenly eerily calm. “This is better. Much better.”

Before I can process what’s happening, she slams her palm against the door panel. The electronic lock engages with a decisive click, the small light turning red. She doesn’t take her eyes off me for a second, that unnerving smile still playing on her lips.

“Look, Ivy…” I start, raising my hands placatingly.

She moves with shocking speed. One moment she’s by the door, the next she’s tackling me to the floor. My back hits the cold tile with a painful thud, knocking the wind out of me. Before I can catch my breath, she’s straddling my chest, her strong hands pinning my wrists above my head.

I buck and twist, trying to throw her off, but it’s like trying to move a boulder. The disparity in our strength is humiliating, a stark reminder of the natural order in our world. Her grip tightens painfully around my wrists, and I can feel her thighs clamping around my ribs like a vise.

“Ivy, what the fuck?!” I gasp, still struggling futilely beneath her.

“Get off me!” I shout, but Ivy’s weight remains immovable.

Her eyes dart around the trailer wildly until they lock onto something behind me. Without releasing her hold, she stretches one arm out, fingers grasping at what looks like a yoga strap hanging from a hook near the meditation area. The purple cord dangles just within her reach.

“Hold still,” she growls, somehow managing to grab the strap while keeping me pinned.

“Ivy, what are you doing?” My voice cracks as she maneuvers my wrists together, binding them with frightening efficiency. She drags me across the floor like I weigh nothing, securing the other end of the strap to the leg of a bolted-down table.

“Shut the fuck up,” she snarls, her face inches from mine, breath hot against my cheek. “You think I don’t know what’s happening? Blair thinks she can fuck with me? Get me penalized? Take my position away?” A harsh laugh escapes her. “I’ll just take my anger out on you instead.”

Panic surges through me. I fill my lungs and scream, “HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

Ivy sits back on her heels, watching me with something between amusement and contempt. “Don’t bother. This room is soundproofed for meditation. No one can hear you.”

My heart hammers against my ribs as I realize she’s right.

Without warning, Ivy grabs the front of my Team Zenith shirt and tears it open with a single violent motion. The cool air hits my exposed chest, raising goosebumps across my skin.

“Ivy, please,” I plead, trying to reason with her. “Blair broke up with me. Just now. We’re not together anymore.”

Her fingers pause where they’ve been tracing threatening circles around my nipples. For a moment, I think I’ve gotten through to her. Then she scoffs, pinching one nipple hard enough to make me yelp.

“I’m sure you’d say anything to stop me from making you betray your owner right now.” Her eyes narrow. “That’s what she is, isn’t it? Your owner? Your precious Blair, who keeps you like a pet?”

“No! It’s not like that…” The words die in my throat as she slaps me across the face, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to shock me into silence.

Ivy’s hands move to my waistband, her fingers working methodically at the button and zipper. There’s something almost tender in the way she slides them down my legs, a jarring contrast to the violence of moments before. She yanks both my pants and underwear off in one fluid motion, flinging them carelessly across the room.

“Ivy, I swear to God,” my voice comes out shakier than I intended, “Blair really did just break up with me. We’re done. Over.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ivy snarls, her eyes flashing with dangerous intensity. “You expect me to believe that? That she just happened to dump you right before I got here?”

I swallow hard, watching helplessly as Ivy’s hands move to the front of her purple racing suit. She grabs the zipper at her collar and slowly drags it downward, the metallic sound cutting through the silence like a knife. The suit parts down the center, revealing inch after inch of her perfect skin.

My breath catches in my throat as she shrugs the suit off her shoulders, letting it pool around her waist. She pulls her sports bra over her head and tosses it aside, then pushes the suit down her hips until she steps out of it completely.

Holy shit. Ivy Hunt is standing before me, completely naked, and I can’t tear my eyes away.

She’s magnificent, all lean muscle and dangerous curves, her body a testament to athletic perfection. The purple highlights in her hair catch the dim light as she stalks toward me, moving with the predatory grace of someone who knows exactly how powerful she is.

“Like what you see?” she purrs, a cruel smile playing on her lips.

I know I should be terrified. This is objectively rape. This is wrong. But as she straddles me again, her bare skin against mine, something shifts inside me. The hurt and rage toward Blair that’s been building all morning crystallizes into something dark and reckless.

Blair left me. Blair threw me away like I was nothing.

And here’s Ivy, dangerous, unhinged, but undeniably wanting me, even if it’s just to hurt Blair.

“You’re not saying anything now,” Ivy observes, running her fingernails lightly down my chest. “Changed your mind about how loyal you are to your girlfriend?”

I don’t correct her. I don’t tell her again that Blair isn’t my girlfriend anymore. I don’t say anything at all. Something about the absurdity of this situation, me, tied up in Blair’s meditation trailer while her arch-rival prepares to have her way with me, makes me want to laugh and cry simultaneously.

I’m not from this world, not really. I don’t belong in this reverse reality where women like Blair and Ivy dominate everything and everyone around them. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel afraid of being assaulted by this goddess.

I feel a jolt of electricity as Ivy positions herself over me, her thighs bracketing my hips. Without warning, she drops down, impaling herself on my embarrassingly hard cock. The sensation is overwhelming, she’s impossibly tight and already slick with arousal.

“Fuck,” I gasp, the word punched out of me by the intensity.

Ivy freezes above me, her expression morphing from predatory to genuinely perplexed. She stares down at where our bodies connect, then back at my face.

“You’re rock hard already?” Her voice carries an edge of disbelief. “Nick, I’m literally trying to ruin you right now. I’m raping you. And you’re... enjoying it?”

Something reckless and self-destructive rises in me. Blair’s rejection, the years of feeling inadequate, it all crystallizes into a moment of pure defiance.

“Go on then, Ivy,” I challenge, meeting her gaze. “Ruin me.”

Her eyebrows shoot up, and for a split second, I glimpse something unexpected in her expression, not anger, but something closer to competitive irritation, like I’ve somehow stolen her thunder.

“You’re not supposed to...” she begins, but instead of finishing her sentence, she starts moving her hips, slamming down on me with punishing force.

I’m supposed to be terrified in her eyes. I’m supposed to be fighting. Instead, I find myself bucking upward to meet her thrusts, matching her rhythm as embarrassing moans escape my throat.

Ivy’s face contorts with confusion as she rides me, her eyes narrowing like I’m a puzzle she can’t quite solve. The purple highlights in her hair catch the light as she tosses her head back, her own pleasure clearly building despite her intentions.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she pants, not slowing her pace.

“Just shut the fuck up and bounce on it, bitch,” I snap, the words tearing from my throat with a venom that surprises even me.

Ivy’s rhythm falters, her eyes widening in genuine shock. Her expression hardens into something terrifying. Her hands shoot forward, wrapping around my throat with frightening precision. Her thumbs press against my windpipe, cutting off my air supply.

“What did you just say to me?” she hisses, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

As the pressure increases and my vision begins to blur at the edges, I feel a perverse thrill shooting through me. My hips buck upward involuntarily, driving deeper into her.

‘Joke’s on you, I’m into this.’

The corners of my vision darken as oxygen deprivation sets in. My eyes roll back slightly, and a strangled moan escapes my constricted throat. Somehow, being at her complete mercy, feeling her literal grip on my life, is intoxicating.

Ivy’s hips work harder now, her pace becoming frantic, almost desperate. She’s trying to tame me, to break me, but the harder she chokes, the more intensely I respond. Our eyes lock, and something shifts in her gaze, a flicker of understanding, of recognition.

There’s hunger there, raw and honest. Not just the desire to hurt Blair through me, but something more primal. Something we both suddenly acknowledge we want.

The pressure on my throat releases abruptly. I gasp, sweet air flooding my lungs as my vision clears. But before I can fully recover, Ivy’s hands are on my face, cupping my cheeks with surprising gentleness.

“You’re crazy,” she breathes, a hint of admiration in her voice.

Then her mouth crashes against mine, her kiss nothing like Blair’s calculated affection. It’s chaotic, almost violent, teeth clashing and tongues battling for dominance. She tastes like adrenaline and expensive coffee, with an underlying sweetness I never would have expected from someone so outwardly bitter.

I strain against my restraints, suddenly desperate to touch her, to tangle my fingers in that purple-streaked hair. The yoga strap cuts into my wrists as I pull, the pain only adding to the intoxicating cocktail of sensations overwhelming my system.

Her mouth is an addiction I didn’t know I needed, better than anything Blair ever offered.

“Untie me,” I gasp against her lips, my voice a desperate plea rather than a command. “Please, Ivy. I want to touch you.”

Without breaking our kiss, her fingers work at the knot binding my wrists. I feel the tension release as the purple strap loosens, falling away from my raw skin. The second my hands are free, they find her perfect ass, gripping the firm muscle as I thrust upward with newfound leverage.

She moans into my mouth, her hips grinding down to meet my every thrust. Our tongues dance together in a frantic rhythm that matches our bodies, tasting, exploring, claiming. There’s nothing gentle about this, it’s instinctual, desperate, a collision of need and anger.

My fingers dig into her flesh, guiding her movements as she rides me with increasing urgency. Her inner walls clench around me, impossibly tight and getting tighter. Suddenly, she breaks our kiss with a gasp, her back arching dramatically. Her entire body starts to tremble, powerful muscles contracting around me as she convulses in pleasure.

“Oh my god,” she cries out, collapsing against my chest, her arms wrapping around me with surprising strength. Her face buries in my neck as aftershocks ripple through her. “Holy fuck, Nick,” she whispers, her voice stripped of its usual hardness, replaced by something raw and genuine.

Her climax triggers something primal in me. I grip her hips and drive upward with renewed intensity, my body taking control as rational thought evaporates. Each thrust sends electric shocks of pleasure racing up my spine as her still-pulsing walls grip me like a vice.

“Fuck, Ivy…I can’t hold back…” The pressure builds at the base of my spine, a dam about to burst.

She captures my mouth again, swallowing my groans as I explode inside her. Wave after wave of intense pleasure crashes through me as I pour everything into her trembling body. My hips keep pumping instinctively, prolonging the sensation as her tongue tangles with mine.

The kiss deepens as we ride out our shared ecstasy together, her fingers threading through my hair while my hands slide up her sweat-slicked back. There’s something strangely intimate about this moment, this afterglow with a woman who minutes ago was my enemy.

When our lips finally part, we’re both gasping for air. Ivy rests her forehead against mine, her purple eyes searching my face with something that looks almost like wonder.

“That was...” she breathes, trailing off as if words have failed her.

“Yeah,” I agree, equally eloquent in my post-orgasmic haze.

She shifts slightly, and I slip out of her. The loss of connection feels jarring somehow. Ivy rolls off me onto the cool tile floor, lying beside me with one arm thrown across her eyes. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as she catches her breath.

For a moment, we lie there in silence, the reality of what just happened slowly seeping back into my consciousness. The trailer’s dim lighting casts strange shadows across Ivy’s naked form, highlighting the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing steadies.

Suddenly, Ivy’s eyes snap open. She glances at the digital clock on the wall, and her expression transforms instantly. The vulnerability that had briefly surfaced vanishes behind her usual mask of cold calculation.

“Shit,” she mutters, sitting up abruptly.

Without another word, she rises to her feet and begins collecting her scattered clothing. I watch, still dazed, as she pulls on her sports bra and steps into her racing suit. As she puts her legs in, I see a little bit of me trailing down her leg. Her movements are precise, almost mechanical, as she zips up the purple uniform.

She glances around the trailer, spots my pants in the corner, and snatches them up. With a flick of her wrist, she tosses them at my face. They land with a soft thud across my chest.

“Here,” she says, grabbing a Zenith team jacket from a hook near the door and throwing that at me too. “Cover yourself up.”

I sit up slowly, wincing at the soreness in my wrists from the restraints. As I reach for my pants, Ivy pauses at the door, her hand hovering over the electronic lock.

“Sorry I tried to rape you,” she says, her voice oddly flat, almost casual. Then, without waiting for a response, she’s gone. The door clicking behind her.

“What the fuck even was that?”

Chapter Text

[Ivy’s POV]

I walk out of the trailer with my spine electrified, like someone’s replaced my blood with liquid mercury.

The paddock swirls around me in vivid technicolor, crew members scurrying, journalists hovering, fans pressing against barriers, but they might as well be underwater. I’m floating above it all, detached from the chaos yet seeing it with unprecedented clarity. Every sound, every movement, every molecule of air against my skin registers with crystalline precision.

I’ve never felt this way before a race.

My body moves on autopilot toward the garage, each step lighter than the last. The usual pre-race anger that claws at my throat is conspicuously absent. In its place, a strange serenity pulses through me, as if I’ve tapped into some hidden frequency of existence.

“Fifteen minutes, Ivy!” my race engineer calls out, her clipboard clutched against her chest like a shield. Smart woman. On any other day, I’d have snapped at her for stating the obvious.

Today, I merely nod, a benevolent goddess acknowledging a faithful servant.

The garage buzzes with intense activity, mechanics making final adjustments to my car while data analysts huddle around screens. I glide past them all, their movements seeming comically slow compared to the heightened tempo of my perception.

Blair stands by her car, already suited up except for her helmet. When our eyes meet, her silver gaze narrows with that familiar competitive hatred. Then something shifts in her expression, confusion, perhaps suspicion, as she registers something different about me. She forces a smile, probably for the benefit of the Netflix cameras hovering nearby.

I smile back, genuinely amused by her pathetic attempt at gamesmanship. Poor Blair, thinking she understands power, thinking she knows what it means to truly dominate. She has no idea what just happened in that trailer, how I’ve claimed something that was hers and transformed it into something better.

As I slip into my cockpit, the carbon fiber seat embraces feels like an old friend. My team swarms around, connecting cables, checking systems, murmuring technical specifications I normally obsess over. Today, those details seem trivial. I know, with bone-deep certainty, that the car will perform perfectly.

The race suit clings to my body as I settle deeper into the seat. That’s when I feel it, the warm, viscous reminder of what transpired minutes ago. Nick’s essence shifts inside me as I adjust my position, a delicious secret weight low in my abdomen. It trickles slightly, a teasing sensation that sends an unexpected shiver up my spine.

I should be disgusted. I should be concerned about the extra grams of weight, in a sport where some shave their eyebrows to save milliseconds, carrying someone else’s bodily fluids is practically sacrilege.

Instead, I feel... completed. Like I’ve been running on premium fuel my entire career but just discovered what it means to be truly high-octane.

My race engineer leans in, attaching the steering wheel. “You good, Ivy? You seem different.”

I secure my helmet, the world narrowing to the confined view through my visor. “I’ve never been better,” I reply, my voice echoing strangely in my ears.

As I tighten the final strap of my six-point harness, Nick’s seed moves again, a pleasant warmth spreading through my lower body. The sensation isn’t sexual exactly, it’s more primal, more fundamental. Like I’ve absorbed some essential male energy that balances and enhances my own power rather than diluting it.

The garage crew steps back. Engines roar to life around me. I engage my own power unit, feeling the vibrations travel through the chassis and into my body, mingling with that other, more intimate pulsing sensation.

“All set,” my engineer reports through the radio.

I smile behind my visor. She has no idea how ready I truly am.

The car rolls forward toward the grid, and with each movement, that forbidden fluid inside me creates a rhythmic, almost musical counterpoint to the mechanical symphony surrounding me.

As I take my position on the starting grid, I realize I’ve transcended into something new, not just a driver, not just a champion, but something far more perfect.

The five red lights appear above the track, and time stretches like taffy. One by one they illuminate, each a heartbeat. In this moment of perfect suspension, I feel Nick’s essence slosh inside me again, a secret talisman.

When darkness falls and twenty engines scream to life, I’m already three moves ahead. My start is flawless, not just good, not just great, but supernatural. The car responds to my inputs like it’s hardwired to my nervous system. I slip past the Blair and the Ferraris before the first corner as if they’re standing still.

Turn 1 arrives and I brake at a point that would send any other driver careening into the gravel. But my car sticks, rotates perfectly, and launches down the straight. The g-forces should be crushing me, but today, they feel like Nick’s embrace.

“Incredible start, Ivy!” my engineer’s voice crackles through the radio.

I don’t respond. I don’t need to. Words are for people who haven’t transcended.

By lap three, I’ve built a five-second gap to second place. The Shanghai circuit unspools before me like a purple ribbon I’m simply following home. The famous turn sequence, that endless, tightening spiral that destroys tires and tests courage, feels like dancing through water. My hands float on the wheel, making micro-adjustments before my conscious mind even registers they’re needed.

“Ivy, your pace is... I’ve never seen data like this,” my engineer sounds genuinely stunned. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

What I’m doing is channeling something ancient and powerful. With every corner, every apex I clip with millimeter precision, I feel Nick’s presence within me, not just physically but somehow spiritually. His surrender in that trailer has given me something I never knew I was missing.

Lap Twenty, and I’m lapping backmarkers already. They scatter before me like frightened animals, sensing a predator in their midst. I slice through the field with surgical precision, not losing a tenth, not even acknowledging their existence.

“Pit this lap, Ivy. Box, box,” my engineer’s voice cuts through my reverie. “We’re switching to hards.”

I acknowledge with a slight nod no one can see. The pit lane entrance appears before me like a portal to another dimension. I navigate it perfectly, my car slowing precisely to the speed limit as if guided by supernatural forces.

The pit crew swarms around me in their choreographed dance. The vibrations cease as my car lifts, wheels detaching and reattaching in a blur of motion. Hard compound tires, built for longevity rather than outright pace, now connect me to the asphalt. In theory, I should be slower.

I am not.

The gap I’ve built is so monstrous that I emerge still in first position, the second-place car a distant speck in my mirrors. These new tires should feel different, more rigid, less compliant, but under my touch, they sing the same song of absolute dominance.

“Incredible, Ivy! You’ve maintained a gap through the pit stop. Just bring it home now.”

The circuit continues to unfold before me. The laps blur together, each corner executed with inhuman precision. I’m no longer driving the car. I am the car. The distinction between machine and flesh dissolves completely.

Time becomes meaningless. My consciousness floats somewhere above the cockpit, watching my body perform with mechanical perfection. Turn after turn, lap after lap, the world outside my visor smears into streaks of color and light.

I blink.

The checkered flag waves before me, though I have no memory of the final laps. I’ve gone beyond time itself, skipping forward like a stone across the surface of reality.

I blink again.

I’m standing on the podium, the top step. The Chinese national anthem plays, but it sounds distant, underwater. The weight of the trophy in my hands feels insignificant compared to the power coursing through my veins. Below me, Blair and Piastri driver whose name escapes me stand on lower steps, looking up with expressions of bewildered awe.

The champagne bottle is in my hands now. I shake it methodically, the motions familiar yet somehow new. When I spray the golden liquid across the podium, it arcs through the air like liquid sunshine. The crowd roars, but their adoration feels trivial, expected, deserved.

“Ivy! Ivy! Ivy!” they chant, their voices merging into a single worshipful drone.

The champagne spray slows, bottle emptying as reality crashes back into me like a concrete wall at 300 km/h. The world snaps into focus, the roaring crowd, the sticky sweetness coating my race suit, the photographers jostling below. My heightened state dissolves, leaving me suddenly, achingly aware of an absence.

Nick. I want Nick here.

The thought blindsides me with its intensity. I want to see his face, to drench him in victory champagne, to watch it soak his brown hair and run down his neck. To make him part of this moment.

I glance down at Blair on the third step of the podium, her silver eyes narrowed as she maintains that plastic media smile. Something possessive and primal surges through me.

“Where’s your boyfriend Nick?” I ask the question emerging more sharply than intended.

Blair’s smile flickers but doesn’t fade. “Why?”

The evasion ignites something dangerous in me. I move closer, looming over her from my higher position. “I said, where is he?” My voice cuts through the celebration noise like a blade.

Blair’s eyes dart to the cameras, calculating her response. “I broke up with Nick before the race,” she says, her voice carrying a practiced nonchalance. “He’s probably gone.”

The words hit me with physical force. My grip tightens on the empty champagne bottle as understanding dawns. Nick wasn’t lying in the trailer. They had actually broken up. The sex wasn’t revenge, it was... something else entirely.

“Whoops,” I mutter, the inadequate word escaping before I can stop it.

“Why do you care?” Blair asks, suspicion darkening her features. “What did you do?”

I regain my composure, a slow smile spreading across my face. “Nothing that concerns you, apparently.”

The race director gestures urgently from the side, signaling it’s time to leave the podium. I descend the steps with new purpose, ignoring the microphones thrust toward me and the shouted questions from journalists. My eyes scan the crowd, hunting for a specific face.

“Ms. Hunt! Can we get a comment on your dominant performance today?” A reporter blocks my path, recorder extended.

“Not now,” I brush past her without breaking stride.

Through the press of bodies, I spot Bridgette hovering near the team’s hospitality suite, tablet clutched to her chest, eyes tracking my approach with growing unease. Perfect.

I snap my fingers sharply in her direction, the sound cutting through the noise. Her head jerks up like a startled animal, and I watch her swallow hard as I close the distance between us. Everyone gets nervous around me, it’s a natural response to apex predators.

“Where’s Blair’s boyfriend?” I demand without preamble, my voice pitched low enough that the hovering journalists can’t catch it.

Bridgette blinks rapidly. “You mean Nick? He’s Blair’s ex-boyfriend now. They broke up this morning.”

Something tightens in my chest, confirmation that makes my blood run hotter. I lean closer, my height advantage forcing her to tilt her head back.

“I didn’t ask about their relationship status. Where. Is. Nick?”

“I don’t know,” she stammers, taking a half-step backward. “He wasn’t in the garage during the race. Nobody’s seen him since before the start.”

I grip her arm, my fingers digging into the expensive fabric of her blazer. “Listen carefully, Bridgette. If you don’t want me walking out of this team tonight, you will find him.” The threat hangs between us, deadly serious. “And I want everything you can get on him, background, family connections, previous relationships before Blair, everything.”

Her eyes widen. “What? I don’t understand…”

“I’m dead fucking serious,” I cut her off, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I want him found before I leave China.”

Something shifts in Bridgette’s expression, confusion giving way to calculation. She’s smart enough to recognize this isn’t just a whim. “This seems... personal.”

“It is.” I release her arm, smoothing the wrinkle I’ve left in her sleeve with deliberate care. “Consider it my victory bonus.”

Bridgette nods slowly, her professional mask sliding back into place. “I’ll make some calls. But Ivy... what exactly is your interest in Blair’s leftovers?”

The word “leftovers” ignites something primal in me. I lean in until my lips nearly brush her ear. “Call him that again, and you’ll be looking for a new job before your next breath.”

She pales, nodding quickly. “Understood. I’ll have something for you within the hour.”

“Good.”

Ivy: 

Chapter Text

[Nick’s POV]

Sometimes, Rock Bottom has a comfy mattress and complimentary slippers. I’m sprawled across my hotel bed in Shanghai, staring at water stains on the ceiling that look vaguely like China, the country where my relationship died and was buried in the same weekend.

The Shanghai skyline glitters through floor-to-ceiling windows, all neon promise and sleek ambition. It should be beautiful, but all I can think is how I’m eighteen floors up and the windows don’t open. Not that I’d jump.

My phone feels heavy in my hand as I scroll through my contacts. There’s really only one person to call when your world collapses, even if that person is a continent away and has always been better than you at everything.

I tap Melissa’s name and wait, each ring stretching into eternity.

“Nick? Hey.” My sister’s voice fills the room, tinny through the speaker but achingly familiar.

“Hey, Melissa,” I reply, surprised by how steady I sound for someone who’s been crying on and off for hours.

There’s a pause, the silence carrying years of complicated history between us. Despite being a really hard sister to deal with, since she’s moved to Formula E, she’s not arrogant anymore. A complete shadow of herself. The cutthroat competitor who used to mock my gaming career has been replaced by someone regretful, someone unsure of herself.

“You sound weird,” she says finally. “What’s wrong?”

I swallow hard, fingers picking at a loose thread on the hotel comforter. “Blair dumped me. Right before the race today.”

“Oh, Nick.” Her voice softens with genuine concern. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well.” I roll onto my side, watching the city lights blur through unshed tears. “Apparently, I was ‘in the way’ of her brilliant career.”

Melissa sighs, and I can almost see her running a hand through her practical brown bob. “That’s such bullshit. You’ve been nothing but supportive.”

Something about her immediate defense of me makes my throat tighten. “Thanks.”

A muffled voice speaks in the background on her end. Melissa covers the phone, her response indistinct before she returns. “Sorry, that was my engineer. We’re testing tomorrow.”

“How’s Formula E treating you?” I ask, desperate to talk about anything other than my shattered heart.

“Pretty good,” Melissa says, her tone brightening slightly. “The competition’s fierce, but I’m hanging in there at second in the championship. Early days, though. Plenty of races left to blow it.”

There’s that self-deprecating humor that’s become her trademark since moving to the electric series. Before I can respond, three sharp knocks on my hotel room door cut through our conversation.

“Someone’s at my door,” I mutter, pushing myself up from the mattress with effort. My body feels like it’s aged a decade since this morning.

“Want me to stay on the line?” Melissa asks.

“Nah, it’s probably just hotel staff. I’ll call you back.” I end the call and shuffle toward the door, not bothering to check my reflection in the mirror. Whoever’s knocking can deal with my puffy eyes and disheveled appearance.

I swing the door open without checking the peephole, a mistake I realize immediately when I find myself face-to-face with Ivy Hunt.

“Jesus Christ!” I stumble backward, nearly tripping over my own feet. “What are you doing here?”

Ivy stands in the hallway, transformed from the racing goddess I last saw. Her black and purple hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she’s wearing gray sweatpants and a loose Zenith team hoodie. She looks younger though the intensity in those purple eyes remains undimmed.

“Hello to you too,” she says, pushing past me into the room without waiting for an invitation. “Nice place. Smaller than mine.”

I stare at her in disbelief as she casually examines my room, picking up the remote control and tossing it back onto the bed like she’s considering whether to turn on the TV.

“How the hell did you find me?” I ask, my voice cracking slightly. My heart pounds against my ribs as memories of what happened in that trailer flood back.

Ivy turns to face me, her purple eyes gleaming with amusement. “Zenith paid for your hotel and plane tickets. It took Bridgette less than ten minutes to figure out you hadn’t left China yet.” She shrugs, dropping onto the edge of my bed like she belongs there. “You’re still on the company dime, Nick.”

I cross my arms defensively, keeping my distance. “Look, I already told you, Blair and I aren’t together anymore. It’s over.”

“I know,” she says, her expression softening slightly. “I saw her on the podium. She told me.”

An uncomfortable silence stretches between us.

“Congratulations on winning, by the way,” I mutter, not quite meeting her eyes. “I heard it was... dominant.”

“It was,” she says simply, not an ounce of false modesty. “I’ve never driven like that before.”

She pats the bed beside her, an invitation I’m not sure I should accept. After a moment’s hesitation, I sit down, leaving enough space between us that we couldn’t touch even if we both reached out.

“Why are you here, Ivy?” I ask, staring at the floor rather than at her. “If you’re worried I’m going to tell anyone about what happened in the trailer…”

“I’m not worried about that,” she interrupts, her voice surprisingly gentle. “I wouldn’t care if you did, actually. No one would believe you, and even if they did it might be awkward to explain how you went from victim to enthusiastic participant.”

My cheeks burn at the memory. “Then what do you want?”

Ivy suddenly slides across the bed toward me. Before I can react, her arms wrap around my shoulders, pulling me against her with surprising gentleness.

“Be mine, Nick,” she whispers, her breath warm against my ear. “I want you.”

The words hang in the air between us, shocking in their directness. I feel her fingers threading through my hair, her body radiating heat against mine. For a brief, disorienting moment, I’m tempted to surrender to the comfort she’s offering.

Instead, I place my hands on her shoulders and firmly push her away.

“No thanks,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected.

Ivy freezes, her purple eyes widening with genuine confusion. For once, the three-time world champion looks completely blindsided.

“Why not?” she asks, her voice shifting from confident to uncertain in those two simple words. There’s a note of panic underneath her question like she’s never considered rejection as a possibility.

I stare at her in disbelief. “Are you serious right now? You tried to rape me earlier today in that trailer. Fuck you mean ‘why not’?”

Her face contorts through several emotions, shock, anger, then something that looks almost like shame.

“That’s... that’s not what happened,” she stammers, running a hand through her messy bun. “You were into it. You said…”

“I know what I said,” I cut her off. “And yeah, I did end up participating. But how it started? You tackled me. You tied me up. You tore my clothes off while I was screamed for help.” I stand up, needing physical distance between us. “Just because I eventually gave in doesn’t make how it started okay.”

Ivy stands too, her posture suddenly defensive. “You’re making it sound worse than it was.”

“You’re fucking cooked, dude,” I say, incredulous at her attempt to rewrite what happened. “Completely delusional.”

Ivy’s expression shifts, her eyes darting around the room before landing back on me. “No, no, it wasn’t like that at all,” she insists, her voice taking on an almost pleading quality. “I was going to rape you purely to fuck up Blair’s race. It wasn’t personal at all.”

I stare at her, processing the insanity of what she just said. A small, disbelieving laugh escapes my lips despite everything.

“That’s your defense? That you were only sexually assaulting me to mess with someone else?” I sigh deeply, running my hands through my hair. “Look, I’m going home, alright? Or maybe I’ll tour with my sister for a while. Just... away from all this.”

Ivy crosses her arms, her head tilting slightly as she studies me. “Your sister’s Formula E team doesn’t have enough money to support you if you’re not essential personnel,” she says matter-of-factly. “And do you really want to go live with one of your recently divorced parents?”

My eyes widen, the words hitting me with complete surprise. “My parents got a divorce?”

The shock must be written all over my face because Ivy’s expression immediately softens. “You didn’t know?”

I sink back onto the bed, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight. “When? How do you even know this?”

The room spins around me. I leap to my feet, panic clawing its way up my throat. “When did this happen?”

“About six weeks ago,” Ivy says, watching me carefully. “I had Bridgette pull your background. It was in the report.”

“Six weeks ago?” I wheeze, my lungs suddenly forgetting how to function properly. “How the fuck didn’t I know about this?”

Ivy’s purple eyes track me with something almost like concern. “You didn’t check in with your family while following Blair around the world?”

“My dad never tells me shit!” I explode, pacing now, hands pulling at my hair. “He’s always threatening to leave, always saying he’s done with my mom’s controlling bullshit. I didn’t think he’d actually follow through this time! He’s probably traveling the country alone now like he said he always wanted too.”

The truth of it hits me like a physical blow. All those unanswered texts, the vague responses when I asked how things were at home. I’d been so wrapped up in Blair’s world that I’d missed my own family imploding.

“So, what are your options?” Ivy asks, her voice oddly gentle. “Go back and live with your mom, or...” her lips curl into a smile that’s half predatory, half hopeful, “become mine.”

I sink onto the bed, mental math spinning through my head. My streaming income, my savings account, the cost of living literally anywhere that isn’t my parents’ house or under someone else’s thumb. The numbers don’t add up.

“My savings won’t last more than two months tops,” I mutter, more to myself than to Ivy. “Not with rent...”

Something snaps inside me. I lunge forward, grabbing Ivy by her collar, yanking her close enough that I can see the golden flecks in her purple irises. Her eyes widen in surprise, but she doesn’t pull away.

“I’m not living with my mom again,” I growl, my voice low and desperate. “It’s not happening. You gotta help me out.”

For a moment, Ivy just stares at me, those purple eyes searching mine. Then her face splits into the most genuine smile I’ve seen from her like I’ve just handed her the world championship on a silver platter.

“Nick Woods,” she says, gently removing my hands from her collar but not letting go of them. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The way she says my name sends an electric current down my spine. It’s possessive, triumphant, and weirdly tender all at once.

“I’m not saying I’ll be your... whatever,” I clarify quickly, pulling my hands from hers. “I just need somewhere to stay until I figure things out.”

Ivy’s smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it grows more confident. “Of course.”

I run my hands through my hair, trying to make sense of this bizarre situation. One minute I’m mourning my relationship, the next I’m negotiating living arrangements with the woman who assaulted me this morning.

“What exactly is it you want from me, Ivy?” I ask, my voice catching slightly. “Because I need to understand what I’m getting into here.”

She sits beside me on the bed again, close enough that I can smell her expensive shampoo.

“I don’t know exactly,” she admits, looking down at her hands. “A lot of things, I guess.” When she raises her gaze to meet mine again, there’s an intensity there that makes my breath catch. “But mostly, I want your passion, Nick. What happened between us before my race... it changed everything.”

She reaches out, her fingers hovering just shy of touching my face. “When I was on that track today, I felt unstoppable. Like we’d created some kind of... connection that made me better than I’ve ever been.”

“Are you saying our... encounter... is why you won?” I ask, not quite believing what I’m hearing.

“I’m saying it transformed me,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never driven like that before. Never felt so... complete. You completed me.”

I stare at her, my mind racing to process what she’s saying. The most dominant driver in F1 is claiming I somehow gave her supernatural racing abilities through sex. It’s absurd, delusional, and yet, the way she’s looking at me with those intense purple eyes makes me wonder if she actually believes it.

“So you want me to fuck you before your races,” I say bluntly, cutting through all the mystical nonsense.

In one fluid motion, Ivy grabs my wrists and pulls me down onto the bed beside her. I land with an ungraceful thump as she leans over me, her face inches from mine, those purple-highlighted strands of hair falling around us like a curtain.

“You’re my other half, Nick,” she whispers, her voice trembling with an emotion I’ve never heard from her before. “Without you, I don’t think I can be whole again.”

I sigh, annoyed at how melodramatic this all sounds.

“I want my own hotel rooms when we travel,” I say, trying to establish some boundaries in this bizarre arrangement.

Ivy tilts her head, confusion flickering across her features. “What for?”

“Won’t you need your own anyway?” I counter, trying to sound reasonable.

She laughs, a sound that’s both musical and slightly unhinged. “You think I’ll let you sleep away from me? Nick, you’re coming with me everywhere from now on.”

The possessiveness in her voice should terrify me. Instead, I find myself weighing options like I’m choosing between takeout menus. Live with my bitchy, judgmental mother who’ll question every life choice I’ve ever made or become the mystical sex companion to a possibly unhinged Formula 1 champion.

I sigh deeply, thinking how this arrangement, as crazy as it sounds, is still better than returning to my mother’s house.

“Alright,” I concede, the word feeling like I’ve just signed some Faustian bargain.

Ivy’s face lights up with triumph. She leans down and captures my lips in a kiss that feels like surrender and bliss simultaneously. Her mouth is hungry, dominating, claiming me as thoroughly as she claimed the top step of the podium today.

When she finally pulls back, her purple eyes are glowing with satisfaction. “You won’t regret this,” she promises, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw.

“Sure.”

Chapter Text

I’m starting to think Ivy’s purple highlights are actually exposed wiring from the cybernetic brain beneath her scalp.

It’s been two days since we left Shanghai, two days of rest, and frankly, athletic sex that’s left me with muscles aching in places I didn’t know could ache. Now I’m standing in the heart of Zenith’s factory in Cambridge, England, watching my new... girlfriend? Owner? Mystical sex deity? I’m not entirely sure what to call her yet, but whatever she is, she’s currently suspended inside what looks like a million-dollar metal death trap.

The simulator is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, a massive dodecahedron like structure of gleaming metal and carbon fiber that rotates on multiple axes, creating a perfect physical simulation of g-forces. Not the static setup I use for iRacing, but something that probably costs more than everything I’ve ever owned combined. The entire contraption shifts and tilts violently as Ivy attacks a virtual Shanghai circuit, her body experiencing every bump, every corner, every moment of acceleration and braking as if she were actually in the car.

“FUCK! This fucking piece of shit is understeering like a fucking shopping cart!” Ivy’s voice blasts through the speakers, making one of the engineers wince. “What the fuck did you do to the front wing settings?”

The two women at the control panel exchange nervous glances as they adjust parameters on their screens. Their fingers fly across keyboards with practiced precision, though I notice a slight tremor in their movements.

“Is she always like this?” I ask the technician closest to me, a woman with short-cropped hair and thick-framed glasses who’s been casting sideways glances at me since I walked in.

She lets out a strained laugh. “No, this is calm for her,” she whispers, eyes darting toward the simulator as if Ivy might somehow see through the metal cocoon. “A few weeks ago, she threw her water bottle at the projection screen when the virtual tires degraded faster than she expected.”

I watch as the simulator pitches forward suddenly, mimicking heavy braking. Ivy’s cursing takes on a new level of creativity that would make sailors blush.

“Lap fifty of fifty-six, Ms. Hunt,” announces the lead engineer, her voice steady despite the stream of profanity still flowing from the simulator.

I lean against the wall, trying to look like I belong here among these technical wizards with their multiple PhDs and cutting-edge equipment. The last time I visited this factory was when Blair signed with Zenith. I remember how she’d given me the sanitized tour, carefully steering me away from the “classified areas” with a patronizing smile.

“The aerodynamics lab is off-limits to non-essential personnel,” she’d explained, her tone suggesting I should be grateful for whatever access I was granted.

But Ivy? When we arrived this morning, she’d grabbed my hand and marched me straight through security checkpoints, past doors with actual biometric scanners, and into rooms where engineers were hunched over what looked like alien technology.

“He stays with me,” she’d declared when someone had the audacity to question my presence. “Nick is essential to my performance.”

The door behind me slides open with a pneumatic hiss. I turn to see Bridgette entering, tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. Her eyes land on me, and a sigh escapes her perfectly glossed lips.

“So you insisted on coming here with Ivy?” she asks, disapproval radiating from every pore.

“Nope,” I reply, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. “She insisted I come. There’s a difference.”

Bridgette’s eyebrows rise slightly. “I see. And you always do what Ivy Hunt tells you to?”

Before I can answer, the simulator powers down, its complex movements slowing to a stop. The cockpit opens with a mechanical whirr, and Ivy emerges like some vengeful goddess rising from the depths. Her hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat, her eyes wild with the particular brand of focused rage that seems to fuel her existence.

“Fifty-six laps completed, Ms. Hunt,” says the lead engineer, offering a printout of data. “Your times were consistent throughout.”

Ivy snatches the printout from the engineer’s hand, scanning the data with laser-focused intensity. Her mouth twists into a scowl.

“Nine seconds,” she mutters, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “I was off Sunday’s pace by nine fucking seconds.”

She doesn’t seem surprised by this revelation, just annoyed, like she’s confirmed something she already suspected. The engineers shrink back slightly, their body language screaming that they’d rather be anywhere else right now.

“The simulator calibration might be…” one brave soul begins.

“The simulator is fine,” Ivy cuts her off without even looking in her direction. Her purple eyes remain fixed on me as she tosses the data sheet onto a nearby console. “The car is fine. It’s something else.”

I shuffle uncomfortably under her intense gaze, acutely aware of Bridgette still hovering beside me. She leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“You know, Nick, we still haven’t discussed your... role here. I’ve said it before, the team has certain expectations about appearance and conduct that…”

Ivy’s head snaps toward Bridgette with predatory speed. Her entire demeanor shifts, the annoyance about her lap times instantly replaced by something far more dangerous. The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as she stalks toward us, her movements fluid and menacing.

“Bridgette,” Ivy says, her voice deceptively soft. “What are you doing?”

Bridgette straightens, professionalism masking her obvious discomfort. “Just discussing team protocols with Nick. His attire is rather casual for…”

Ivy’s hand comes down in a sharp clap that echoes through the room like a gunshot, cutting Bridgette off mid-sentence. The entire engineering team freezes, all pretense of working abandoned as they watch the confrontation unfold.

“If you upset him, Bridgette, I’ll fucking kill you.”

The words hang in the air, delivered with such matter-of-fact certainty that no one doubts she means it literally. Ivy steps between us, her back to me like a shield.

“Nick can wear whatever the fuck he wants,” she continues, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Suede, denim, fucking pajamas, I don’t care as long as he’s present for me. So back the fuck off.”

Bridgette pales visibly, her perfectly manicured hand clutching her tablet tighter. “Ivy, I was simply…”

“We’re done here,” Ivy declares, reaching behind her to grab my wrist. Her grip is firm but not painful as she tugs me toward the door.

I barely have time to process what’s happening as Ivy drags me through the facility, past startled engineers and wide-eyed technicians. Her pace is relentless, her grip on my wrist unyielding as we navigate a maze of corridors. The few brave souls who make eye contact with us quickly avert their gaze when they see the thunderous expression on Ivy’s face.

“Where are we…” I start to ask, but she silences me with a look that could melt steel.

We round a corner and stop at an unmarked door. Ivy punches in a code with such force I’m surprised the keypad doesn’t shatter. The door slides open, revealing a small, sparsely furnished bedroom, clearly designed for those nights when going home isn’t an option.

Without warning, she shoves me inside and follows, the door automatically locking behind us with a definitive click. Before I can get my bearings, she’s on me, pushing me against the wall. Her eyes burn with a feverish intensity that makes my breath catch.

“I need you,” she growls, her fingers already working at her jumpsuit. “Right now.”

The zipper comes down in one fluid motion as she sheds the purple Zenith uniform with practiced efficiency. Her body is a marvel of athletic perfection, all lean muscle and dangerous curves. She kicks the jumpsuit aside and presses against me, her hands finding my belt buckle.

“Wait, Ivy, we’re at your workplace…” I protest weakly, even as my body betrays my words. She gets my pants down to my ankles.

“Shut up,” she commands, spinning around to face away from the wall, bending forward at the waist. She reaches between us, her fingers wrapping around my hardening length. “Good,” she purrs, satisfaction evident in her voice. “You’re already hard for me.”

My objections die in my throat as she guides me into her, already slick and ready. The sensation is overwhelming, her fiery warmth consumed me completely as she pushes back, taking control of our rhythm.

“Fuck,” she moans, not bothering to lower her voice. “This is what I needed. This is what was missing in the simulator.”

Her hips slam back against me with increasing urgency, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure up my spine. I grip her waist, trying to steady myself as she sets a punishing pace.

“You feel that?” she pants, looking back over her shoulder, her purple eyes locked with mine. “This is how I won in Shanghai. With you inside me, filling me up, making me complete.”

My gasps echo in the small room as she continues her relentless assault, her words becoming filthier, more desperate.

“Everyone out there thinks I’m a genius for that race,” she growls, “but you’re my secret weapon.”

“Fuck,” I moan, the words ripped from my throat as Ivy’s body slams back against mine.

But something shifts in her movements. The frantic, almost desperate pace suddenly transforms. Her hand reaches back, fingers threading through my hair with unexpected tenderness. She guides my head forward until my lips brush the nape of her neck.

“Kiss me there,” she whispers, her voice stripped of its usual hardness. “I want to feel your mouth on me while you’re inside me.”

I press my lips against her skin, tasting the salt of her sweat, breathing in her scent. She shivers, a small, vulnerable sound escaping her that I’ve never heard before.

“Nick,” she breathes my name like a prayer. “You feel so fucking good.”

Her hips still move with bruising force, but there’s something different in the way she’s grinding against me now. It’s not just about her pleasure anymore. She’s angling her body, changing the depth and rhythm until she finds the spot that makes me gasp.

“There,” she purrs, triumphant. “You like that? Right there? I can feel when it’s good for you.”

I nod as my hands slide around to cup her breasts. She arches into my touch with a moan that sounds almost surprised by her own sensitivity. Her fingers cover mine, guiding my movements, showing me exactly how she likes to be touched.

She turns her head, seeking my lips in an awkward but desperate kiss. Our tongues dance together as she continues to work her hips against mine, each thrust punctuated by a small whimper that vibrates against my mouth.

“I need you to come inside me,” she demands, though there’s a pleading quality to her voice I’ve never heard before. “I need to feel you let go. Please, Nick.”

Her words send me over the edge. I feel her inner walls clenching around me in rhythmic pulses, her entire body tensing as she reaches her climax. The sensation of her tightening around me is exquisite, pushing me past the point of no return.

“Ivy,” I gasp, my voice breaking as pleasure cascades through me like lightning. “I’m…”

“Yes,” she hisses, grinding back against me with desperate intensity. “Give it to me, Nick. All of it.”

Our bodies move in perfect synchronicity as we fall apart together. I clutch her hips, pulling her flush against me as I empty myself inside her, each pulse drawing a shuddering moan from both of us. The warmth spreads between us, intimate and primal, as I pour everything I have into her willing body.

She reaches back, fingers tangling in my hair as she holds me close, her body trembling with aftershocks. I can feel her heartbeat through where our skin connects, racing in time with mine. For these precious seconds, we’re truly one being, connected in the most fundamental way possible.

“Fuck,” she whispers, her voice uncharacteristically soft as she milks every last drop from me. “I can feel you filling me up. It’s... perfect.”

We stay joined for several moments, catching our breath, neither willing to break the connection.

“Thank you, Nick,” she says, pressing her forehead against mine. “Thank you for being with me.”

The admission hangs between us, more intimate somehow than what we just shared physically. I stroke her cheek, surprised by my own tenderness toward this woman who bulldozed her way into my life.

“I’m here,” I tell her, meaning it more than I expected to.

Her lips find mine, not with the frantic hunger from before, but with a gentle intimacy that catches me off guard. Her tongue teases against mine, exploring my mouth with languid strokes that make my knees weak. It’s almost sweet, this kiss, a striking contrast to the raw physicality we just shared.

After a moment that stretches like honey, she gently pushes me back, breaking our connection. She kneels and pulls my pants up, tucking me away and zipping me up with surprising care. Her fingers linger at my waistband, adjusting it with an almost possessive precision.

“There,” she murmurs, rising to her feet with feline grace.

I watch as she retrieves her jumpsuit, sliding back into it with efficient movements. When she turns to face me, her expression has transformed. The intensity that usually hardens her features has melted into something softer, more open. Her smile spreads across her face, not the calculated one she uses for cameras or the predatory one that precedes her more dangerous moods, but something genuine and almost goofy.

“What?” I ask, unable to keep from smiling back.

“Nothing,” she says, zipping up her suit. “I just feel good. Really good.”

There’s a looseness to her movements now, a fluidity that wasn’t there before. The tightly-wound coil of Ivy Hunt has temporarily unwound, leaving behind a woman who seems almost... normal.

“Come on, lover,” she says, extending her hand to me. “I need to get back in that simulator.”

I take her hand, still slightly dazed by this transformation. “Are you sure? You seemed pretty frustrated with it earlier.”

“Trust me,” she says with a wink. “I’ve got this now.”

We make our way back through the facility, and I notice the difference immediately. Where before Ivy had stalked through the hallways like a predator, now she moves with relaxed confidence, nodding at startled engineers who clearly expected hurricane Ivy rather than this calm, collected version.

When we return to the simulator room, the engineers exchange nervous glances, clearly bracing for another tirade. Instead, Ivy offers them a serene smile.

“Let’s run it again,” she says, already climbing back into the machine. “Same program, same parameters.”

The engineers exchange surprised glances but quickly set to work. I find a spot near the main monitoring station, leaning against the wall as the simulator hums back to life. The massive machine begins its dance again, tilting and rotating as Ivy attacks the virtual circuit.

This time, the room feels different. Where before there was tension thick enough to cut with a knife, now there’s an almost eerie calm. The only sounds are the mechanical whirrs of the simulator and the occasional tap of fingers on keyboards as the engineers monitor the data.

No cursing. No screaming. No threats to disembowel the nearest technician.

“Lap ten complete,” announces the lead engineer, her voice carefully neutral. “Times are... impressive.”

I watch the screens displaying Ivy’s telemetry data, the colorful lines and numbers meaning little to me beyond the obvious, she’s fast. Really fast.

The simulator continues its mechanical ballet, Ivy silent within its confines. The only indication of her presence is the data streaming across the screens and the occasional glimpse of her purple helmet through the small window in the cockpit.

“Halfway point,” calls out another engineer. “Still maintaining pace.”

The laps continue to fly by as Bridgette appears at my side, her earlier discomfort replaced by professional curiosity. “What did you do to her?” she asks under her breath, eyes fixed on the screens.

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant despite the heat rising in my cheeks. “Nothing.”

She gives me a sidelong glance that says she’s not buying it. “Right. It’s not hard to figure out what happened when you two disappeared for twenty minutes and came back looking... different.”

Before I can respond, the lead engineer’s voice cuts through our conversation. “Final lap.”

Everyone in the room leans forward, eyes fixed on the screens as Ivy completes her fifty-sixth lap. A collective gasp ripples through the engineers as the final time flashes on the display.

“She just beat her Shanghai race pace by over a second,” mutters the glasses engineer.

The simulator powers down with a hydraulic hiss that seems almost satisfied with itself. The engineers huddle around their stations, murmuring to each other in the reverent tones of scientists who’ve just witnessed something that defies explanation.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying to look casual while my mind races with implications. Did our quickie in the break room really just improve her lap times that dramatically? Does she just not know how to relax without fucking me?

The simulator’s cockpit opens. Ivy emerges pulling off her helmet in one smooth motion. Her purple-streaked hair tumbles free. Unlike before, there’s no rage, no frustration, just a serene confidence that radiates from her like heat from an engine.

She hands her helmet to a nearby technician without even looking at them, her purple eyes fixed on me with laser focus. The room seems to fade away as she walks toward me, her jumpsuit clinging to her athletic frame with each purposeful step.

Ivy walks out after a minute of unstrapping and she looks at me and says, “I’m going to be untouchable this season, Nick. And it’s thanks to you.”

The declaration hangs in the air, bold and unapologetic. My cheeks burn as I feel every eye in the room turn toward me.

Bridgette steps closer, her professional mask slipping to reveal genuine confusion.

“Seriously, what did you do to her?”

Not canon But how Ivy see's herself after sex:

Chapter Text

It’s 7 AM and I’m eating eggs that cost more than my monthly streaming subscription. The cafeteria at Zenith HQ gleams with the same polished perfection as everything else in this building, all chrome and purple accents that scream “we have more money than god.” I push the food around my plate, alone at a table designed for six, feeling like I’ve stumbled into someone else’s life.

Ivy’s been in the simulator since dawn. Three days straight now, all focused on preparations for Suzuka next week. The engineers have been tweaking setups for hours on end, trying to find that magical combination that’ll shave off precious milliseconds. I’ve learned that racing at this level is less about dramatic moments and more about the painstaking accumulation of tiny advantages.

The in-house Zenith chef slides a fresh cup of coffee in front of me with a sympathetic smile. I guess my face is doing that thing again, the one that makes people want to comfort me.

“Ms. Hunt still at it?” she asks, collecting my barely-touched plate.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “Third day running.”

She nods like this explains everything about my mood, which it doesn’t. What’s really eating at me is the notification sitting in my streaming app, reminding me I haven’t gone live in almost two weeks. My subscribers are probably thinking I’ve abandoned them, but every time I consider firing up the stream, my stomach knots with dread.

What would I even say? “Hey guys, sorry I disappeared, my girlfriend dumped me on international television and now I’m fucking her rival who may or may not have magical racing powers when I’m oozing inside her?”

Speaking of Blair, yesterday she casually mentioned being “single and focused on racing” during an interview with Sky Sports. The reporter didn’t even ask about her relationship status, Blair just threw it in there, like she was announcing a tire change. The clip’s gone viral, of course. My phone’s been blowing up with messages from people I haven’t spoken to in years, all pretending to check if I’m okay while fishing for gossip.

I take a sip of coffee, letting the bitter warmth distract me from the hollow feeling in my chest.

The truth is, I do miss Blair. Not the Blair who dumped me in that trailer, who looked through me like I was just another piece of equipment that wasn’t performing to specification. I miss the girl with electric blue hair who used to fall asleep on my shoulder during long flights, who’d wake me up at 3 AM because she’d thought of a new racing line and needed to talk it through. The Blair who loved loving me.

I trace my finger around the rim of my coffee cup, memories flickering like old race footage. That first kiss in the rain after her F3 podium. The way she’d curl against me on hotel beds, planning our future between races.

“We’ll get a place in Monaco,” she’d whisper, her silver eyes bright with dreams. “With a terrace overlooking the harbor where they set up the street circuit.”

I never minded being second to racing. How could I? The odds of making it as a driver are astronomical, and Blair was special, I knew that from the first time I saw her handle a kart. I understood the sacrifice. I just thought I’d be waiting at the finish line when the checkered flag fell on her career.

I sigh, draining the last of my coffee. Life with Ivy isn’t what I expected, but it’s good enough. Better than good in many ways. She’s surprisingly kind when we’re alone, attentive in ways Blair never was. And the sex... Christ, the sex is almost frightening in its intensity. Sometimes I feel like I’m being consumed rather than loved, like she’s trying to absorb something essential from me.

The strangest part is this nagging feeling that I’m using her more than she’s using me. She’s given me a place to stay, access to a world I never truly belonged in, and protection from the media circus that followed Blair’s announcement. All I do in return is... what? Fuck her to my hearts content? Be her good luck charm? It feels unbalanced, like I’m getting the better end of this bizarre arrangement.

My phone buzzes with a notification. It’s Nickismyhusbando in my Twitch DM’s: “Day 13 of no streams. Are you alive? Your subscribers are worried.”

I should message her back. She’s been my most loyal mod for years, defending me against trolls and keeping the chat civil.

The cafeteria door swings open with a soft pneumatic hiss, and my heart stops.

Blair West stands frozen in the doorway. She’s wearing the Zenith team uniform, but it looks different on her somehow, stiffer, more formal. Our eyes lock across the room, and for a moment, neither of us moves. The surprise on her face is almost comical, silver eyes widening, lips parting slightly.

“Nick?” Her voice carries across the empty cafeteria, echoing slightly off the polished surfaces. “What are you doing here?”

My mouth goes completely dry as I stare at Blair, my brain scrambling for something, anything, coherent to say. Those silver eyes I once knew so well are boring into me, demanding an explanation for my presence.

“Uhhh...” The syllable hangs in the air between us, painfully inadequate. I swallow hard, my throat clicking audibly in the silent cafeteria. “I’m dating someone who works here now.”

The words tumble out awkwardly, but at least they’re true. Sort of. If you can call whatever Ivy and I are doing “dating.”

Blair’s perfect eyebrows shoot upward, her mouth forming a small ‘o’ of surprise. She takes a step forward, her racing boots squeaking slightly against the polished floor.

“You’re dating...” She glances around as if the mystery girlfriend might materialize from behind the salad bar. “Who exactly?”

I fidget with my coffee cup, suddenly fascinated by a chip in the ceramic. “It’s, um, complicated.”

Blair’s laugh is sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Complicated? It hasn’t even been a week, Nick.” She shakes her head, electric blue hair swinging with the movement. “I knew you were desperate, but this is pathetic even for you.”

Something inside me snaps. A week? As if that’s the problem here. My hands clench around the coffee cup so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter.

“You don’t get to judge me,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet. “You threw me away like yesterday’s garbage.”

The rage building inside me feels like a physical force, pressing against my ribcage, clawing up my throat. Words bubble up, vicious and poisonous, things I’ve never said to anyone, things I never thought I was capable of saying. I want to tell her exactly what I think of her, how she should walk into traffic, how the world would be better off if she just disappeared.

But Ivy’s face flashes in my mind. Proud, intense Ivy who’s working her ass off in the simulator right now. Ivy who, for whatever reason, sees something in me worth having. I can’t make a scene here, in her team’s building, in front of her rival.

“I’ve got to go,” I mutter, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor with a screech that makes Blair wince.

“Nick, hold on…” she starts, but she’s interrupted as the cafeteria door bursts open.

Ivy bursts through the door, her face glowing with an almost manic energy. Her hair is slightly disheveled, purple highlights catching the fluorescent light as she practically bounces into the cafeteria.

“Nick! There you are,” she calls out, her voice carrying that distinctive post-simulator high. “I’ve got an hour break before the next session and I thought we could…”

She freezes mid-sentence, her purple eyes locking onto Blair like a targeting system. The smile on her face doesn’t disappear, it transforms, morphing from genuine joy to something predatory.

“Blair,” Ivy says, her voice dropping an octave. “Interesting. I thought you were supposed to be in Suzuka already for that promotional thing with Mercedes.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. Blair’s silver eyes narrow as she straightens her spine, instantly shifting into competitive mode.

“Change of plans,” she replies coolly. “The team wanted me here for some simulator work first.” Her gaze flicks between Ivy and me, the wheels visibly turning behind those silver eyes. “What were you saying about Nick, exactly?”

Ivy slinks toward me with fluid, confident movements. Her hand lands possessively on my shoulder, thumb brushing against my neck in a gesture that’s unmistakably intimate.

“Nothing that concerns you,” she purrs. “Nick and I have... private matters to discuss.”

The implication hangs in the air like smoke. Blair’s face goes through a rapid series of emotions, confusion, disbelief, and finally, something that looks almost like hurt.

“You’re joking,” Blair says, her voice barely above a whisper. She looks at me, searching my face for some sign that this is all an elaborate prank. “Nick, tell me she’s joking.”

I swallow hard, heat rising to my face. “I told you I was dating someone who works here.”

Blair’s mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for water. “Dating? You’re dating Ivy Hunt? My teammate?”

Ivy leans close to my ear, her breath tickling my skin as she whispers, “Oh, so we’re finally putting a label on it, are we?” Her voice carries a hint of amusement, yet there’s an undertone that’s victorious.

Before I can respond, she straightens up and fixes Blair with those piercing purple eyes. “Yes, we’re dating,” she announces, her voice carrying that championship confidence. “We’re lovers, Blair. You tossed him aside like he meant nothing, and now he’s mine.” Her hand slides from my shoulder to my waist, pulling me closer against her side.

Blair’s face pales, her silver eyes widening with shock before narrowing with calculation. She steps forward, ignoring Ivy completely as she addresses me directly.

“Nick, she’s only dating you to get in my head,” she says, her voice low and urgent. “Can’t you see that? This is just another race strategy to her.”

I almost laugh at Blair’s accusation. If only she knew how backwards she has it. Maybe that would’ve stung if Ivy had been playing mind games with me, but the reality is, I’ve barely seen her do anything except push herself to the limit in the sim rig and then practically worship me in private. Every moment away from the track, she’s been unexpectedly gentle. Plus, she’s literally the reason I’m not sleeping on my mom’s couch right now, drowning in her passive-aggressive comments about my “failed relationship” and “wasted potential.”

I open my mouth to tell Blair off, but before I can get the words out, something in Ivy snaps.

“You fucking bitch,” Ivy snarls, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that makes the hairs on my neck stand up. Her body tenses against mine, coiled like a spring about to release. I’ve seen Ivy angry a lot these past few days, but this is different.

“Ivy…” I start, but she’s already moving, stalking toward Blair with such menace that Blair actually takes a step back.

“You think everything is about you, don’t you?” Ivy’s voice trembles with rage, her hands balled into tight fists at her sides. “You think I’d waste my time dating someone just to mess with your precious fucking head?”

Blair’s eyes widen as Ivy advances on her. “I…”

“Nick is MINE,” Ivy continues, cutting her off. “Not because of you. Not because of racing. Not because of anything except that he completes me in ways your self-centered brain couldn’t possibly understand.”

The chef who had been hovering near the counter quietly backs through the swinging kitchen doors, wisely removing herself from the blast radius.

“Ivy, calm down,” I say, reaching for her arm.

Her eyes snap to mine, that dangerous fire still burning in them, but something else flickers beneath the surface. Fear.

“I know you’re not just with me to fuck with Blair,” I say quietly, my hand still on her arm.

The admission hangs between us, more honest than I’d planned to be in this fluorescent-lit cafeteria. Ivy’s expression softens for just a moment before hardening again as she turns back to Blair, shooting her a glare that could melt steel.

When she looks back at me, the fight seems to drain from her body. She sighs, a deep, weary sound that makes her seem suddenly human rather than the force of nature I’ve come to know.

“Let’s go back to the room,” she says, her voice low enough that only I can hear it.

I nod, relieved, and let her take my hand. As we turn to leave, Blair steps forward.

“Nick, wait…”

“He’s done waiting for you,” Ivy cuts in, her tone final. “Come on, Nick.”

We walk out of the cafeteria, Ivy’s grip on my hand almost painfully tight. The hallway stretches before us, all sleek surfaces and Zenith purple, but I barely notice it.

As we turn the corner toward the private rooms, Ivy suddenly stops walking. She turns to face me, those purple eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

“Nick,” she says, her voice softer than usual. “Let’s go to Suzuka early. Tomorrow, if possible.”

I blink in surprise. “Suzuka? But we have a few more days.”

Her fingers tighten around mine. “I know, but I want to get settled there, maybe do some track walks before everyone else arrives.”

“No,” I say firmly, crossing my arms. “I’m not going to be the reason you rush to Suzuka and mess up your preparation. If you need to stay here and train, I’ll just... I don’t know, hang out in our room. Read a book or something.”

Ivy’s eyes flash with something dangerous.

“Nick, you don’t understand,” she interrupts, her voice sharp with anxiety. “I don’t want Blair to steal you from me.”

The words hang between us, raw and exposed. I stare at her, momentarily speechless. The great Ivy Hunt, three-time world champion, is afraid of losing me to Blair West? The same Blair who tossed me aside like yesterday’s garbage?

“Steal me?” I finally manage. “Ivy, that’s... that’s not going to happen.”

The look in Ivy’s eyes shifts from vulnerability to determination in an instant. She grabs my wrist and practically drags me down the hallway, her grip surprisingly strong. Before I can process what’s happening, she’s shoved me through the doorway of our room, following close behind and slamming the door with enough force to rattle the frame.

“That’s right,” she says, her voice low and intense as she presses me against the wall. “Because I won’t let that happen. I won’t let her take you from me.”

Her intensity is overwhelming, those purple eyes burning into mine with a fierceness that both terrifies and thrills me. I reach up, cupping her face between my hands, feeling the tension in her jaw.

I stroke my thumb across her cheekbone, watching as her eyelids flutter slightly at the touch. An idea forms in my mind, one that might calm her fears while ensuring she gets what she really needs.

“You know what I want?” I ask, my voice dropping to just above a whisper. “I want to watch you beat her. On the track. Where it matters.”

Ivy’s expression shifts, her competitive nature immediately engaged. “I can beat her right now if we left for Suzuka this second. I don’t need more simulator time.”

I lean forward, my lips brushing against her ear as I whisper, “But can you ruin her?”

She pulls back slightly, her eyes widening as she processes my words. A slow, predatory smile spreads across her face, like I’ve just offered her the most delicious possibility imaginable.

“You want me to destroy her?” The excitement in her voice is palpable, her body practically vibrating with renewed energy.

I nod, though guilt twists in my stomach. In truth, I just want her to get the practice she deserves. I’m not actually hoping for Blair’s destruction, I’m hoping Ivy will calm down and focus, rather than rushing us to Japan out of insecurity.

Ivy’s hands slide up my chest, coming to rest on either side of my neck. She leans in, her lips capturing mine in a kiss that’s surprisingly gentle despite the fire in her eyes.

“I’ll ruin Blair just for you, Nick,” she promises, her thumb tracing my bottom lip. “I’ll make her regret ever letting you go.”

Chapter Text

Sixteen hours of sexual torture at 40,000 feet sounds like a dream until you’re three hours in, straining against purple silk restraints with a throbbing erection that’s been denied release more times than I can count.

“Please, Ivy,” I whimper, my hips bucking involuntarily as her fingers trace featherlight patterns along my inner thighs. “I can’t take much more.”

“Oh, I think you can,” she purrs, her purple eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. The private jet hums around us, the ambient noise of engines providing a soundtrack to my exquisite suffering. “We’ve only been in the air for three hours, Nick. We have thirteen more to go.”

My wrists strain against the silk ties securing me to the luxurious leather chair. I’d agreed to this, enthusiastically, even, when Ivy suggested we make our journey to Suzuka “memorable.” Now I’m questioning my life choices as she brings me to the edge for what must be the tenth time, only to pull away at the crucial moment.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” she murmurs, her fingernail tracing the length of my cock, which twitches desperately at her touch. “All flushed and needy, just for me.”

The cabin of Zenith’s private jet is dimly lit, the windows darkened despite the daylight outside. Ivy insisted on privacy for our “activities,” though there’s no one to see us anyway, she dismissed the flight attendants to the forward cabin with strict instructions not to disturb us unless called.

“I thought the point was for us both to enjoy this,” I gasp as her palm wraps around me again, beginning another torturously slow stroke.

“Oh, I am enjoying this,” Ivy laughs, leaning forward to press a surprisingly tender kiss to my forehead. “And don’t pretend you’re not loving every second, even if you’re struggling.”

She’s right, of course. Despite the ache in my groin and the trembling in my thighs, there’s something intoxicating about being completely at her mercy, about watching one of the most powerful women in motorsport focus all her formidable attention on my pleasure, even if she’s deliberately withholding the finale.

“You know what I love about you, Nick?” she asks, her voice dropping to that intimate register that makes my heart race even faster than her touch. Her hand continues its maddening rhythm, bringing me closer and closer to the edge. “You give yourself to me so completely. Why is that?”

The question hangs between us, more intimate than her hand wrapped around my aching cock. My mind scrambles for an answer that won’t reveal too much, that won’t leave me more exposed than I already am.

“I... I don’t know,” I stammer, the words catching in my throat.

Her lips find my neck, warm and soft, trailing a path of kisses from my collarbone to just below my ear. I shudder, my restraints pulling taut as my body arches toward her.

“Don’t you think it’s strange,” she whispers against my skin, her breath hot and damp, “how perfectly we fit together? How quickly this happened between us?”

Her teeth graze my pulse, and I gasp, my thoughts scattering like startled birds. The sensation of her mouth on my neck combined with her hand still working me in slow, deliberate strokes is overwhelming.

“It’s... it’s fine, isn’t it?” I manage, my voice trembling as she sucks gently at the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder. “We’re good together.”

She pulls back slightly, her purple eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my heart stutter. Her hand on my cock slows to an almost unbearable pace, each stroke maddeningly deliberate.

“Do you love me, Nick?”

“Huh?” The question blindsides me, so unexpected that for a moment I wonder if I’ve misheard her.

Her hand stops completely, resting at the base of my shaft, warm and still. Her thumb traces small circles against my skin, a gesture both gentle and threatening in its restraint.

“Do you love me?” she repeats, her purple eyes never leaving mine.

The air between us feels charged, dangerous. Panic rises in my chest, constricting my throat. My mind races with contradictory thoughts, how I’ve fallen into her orbit so completely, how her touch bewitches me in ways Blair’s never did, how terrified I am of this intensity.

“I... I don’t know,” I stammer, averting my eyes from her penetrating gaze.

“Liar,” she whispers, her voice like velvet-wrapped steel.

Her hand suddenly resumes its motion, faster now, building a rhythm that has me gasping. My hips buck even harder as pleasure coils tighter in my core. Just as I feel the first telltale twitch, the precursor to release, her hand vanishes completely. I groan in exhaustion, my body trembling on the precipice of ecstasy with nowhere to go.

“It’s a simple question, Nick.” Her voice is deceptively gentle as she traces one finger along my jawline. “Just tell me how you feel about me.”

I’ve been brought to the edge so many times that my nerves feel flayed open, my emotional defenses crumbling alongside my physical restraint. The constant denial has left me raw, vulnerable in ways that transcend the physical. Tears of frustration prick at the corners of my eyes.

“I’m afraid,” I confess, the words breaking free before I can stop them. “I’m terrified of loving you, Ivy.”

Her hand stills completely, those purple eyes widening slightly. “Why?”

“Because someday you’ll throw me away.” The admission burns my throat like acid. “Just like Blair did. Just like everyone does. And I can’t bear being blindsided again.”

Something shifts in Ivy’s expression, the predatory gleam softening into something caring. Without breaking eye contact, she slides down between my restrained legs, her movements fluid and deliberate.

“Look at me, Nick,” she commands, though her voice lacks its usual edge.

I force myself to meet her gaze as she lowers her head, pressing her lips to the base of my shaft in a kiss so tender it makes my breath catch. The sensation is electric, her warm mouth moving upward with excruciating slowness.

“I’m not going to throw you away,” she murmurs against my sensitive skin, her breath sending shivers up my spine. Her lips reach the tip, placing a reverent kiss there that makes me whimper. “You’re mine now. And I protect what’s mine.”

My hips strain desperately, seeking more of her mouth, more of that exquisite warmth. “And what happens when my luck runs out?” I gasp as her tongue flicks lightly across my most sensitive spot. “When I stop being your good luck charm?”

She takes me into her mouth completely then, a warm, wet heaven that has me pulling desperately against my restraints. The sensation is overwhelming after hours of denial. Just as suddenly, she releases me, rising up to look directly into my eyes.

“I love you, Nick.” The words hang in the air between us, startling in their simplicity.

I search her face for any sign of manipulation, any hint that this is just another game. Finding none, I still can’t quite believe it.

“No, you don’t. It hasn’t even been two weeks, Ivy. What you love is that you think I make you win.”

Her eyes flash dangerously, but I press on.

“And I like that about you,” I add softly, holding her gaze. “I don’t hold your ambition against you. Your drive to win is your most captivating trait, but…”

She silences me with a kiss so fierce it steals my breath. Her tongue invades my mouth, claiming me completely as her hand wraps around my aching length once more.

When she finally pulls back, her purple eyes are molten with emotion. “Don’t you dare tell me what I feel,” she growls, her fingers tightening around me in a grip that’s just shy of painful. “Just because you make me faster doesn’t mean I can’t win on my own. I’ve had countless victories before you, Nick. I’ve stood on podiums around the world. I’ve felt the spray of champagne and heard crowds chanting my name.”

Her free hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my throat. Her teeth graze the sensitive skin there, making me shudder.

“None of it…” her tongue traces a hot path up my neck, “None of it compares to how I feel when I’m with you.”

Her hand resumes its maddening rhythm, stroking me with renewed purpose. This time, she doesn’t stop as I approach the edge. If anything, her movements become more determined, more focused.

“I love the way you taste,” she whispers, her voice husky with desire. “I love the sounds you make when you’re desperate for me.”

My entire body trembles on the edge of release, her words pushing me closer to the brink. Just as I feel myself about to topple over, she stops again, leaving me breathless and writhing against my restraints.

“Ivy, please,” I beg, beyond shame now. “I can’t take anymore.”

A wicked smile spreads across her face as she slides down between my legs again. This time, she brings her fingers to her mouth, slipping them between her perfect lips before slowly drawing them out, glistening with her saliva. With deliberate sensuality, she uses those same fingers to part her lips, revealing the warm, wet heaven within.

“Tell me you love me, Nick,” she commands, her voice a sultry purr as she holds her mouth open, tantalizingly close to my throbbing length. “Say it, and I’ll let you finish right here, all over my precious tongue.”

The sight of her waiting mouth, her fingers holding herself open for me, sends a jolt of electricity straight through my core.

My mind reels with conflict, desire warring with self-preservation. The words she demands stick in my throat like barbed wire.

I want to say it. God knows I already feel it, but something deep inside rebels against surrendering this final piece of myself. More hot tears of frustration spill down my flushed cheeks.

“I’m not ready yet, Ivy,” I whisper, my voice cracking with emotion. “Please... I can’t.”

Her purple eyes flash dangerously. The fingers holding her lips part snap shut as she rises to her full height, looming over me with predatory intensity. A low, animalistic growl emanates from deep in her throat.

“Yes, you are, Nick,” she snarls, her voice dropping to that commanding tone that makes my insides liquify. She grips my jaw with fierce strength, forcing me to meet her gaze. “Now fucking say it.”

The dominance in her voice sends a jolt straight to my groin.

My body betrays me, cock twitching eagerly despite my emotional hesitation. Something about her absolute certainty, her refusal to accept my reluctance, breaks through my defenses.

“I love you,” I gasp, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “God help me, Ivy, I love you.”

Her expression transforms instantly, fierce possessiveness melting into radiant triumph. Without warning, she devours me with the scorching, slick embrace of her mouth, taking me so deep I see stars. After hours of denial, the sensation is overwhelming, like being struck by lightning.

My orgasm hits with brutal intensity, my body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash through me. Ivy doesn’t pull away, her throat working as she swallows everything I give her, her purple eyes never leaving mine.

When the last shudder subsides, she releases me with a satisfied smile, licking her lips with deliberate sensuality.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” she purrs, reaching up to release one of my wrists from its silken prison. “And you meant it too. I can tell when you’re lying.”

I collapse back against the chair, trembling in the aftermath of my release, my chest heaving as if I’ve run a marathon. Something primal and terrifying claws at my insides, a fear deeper than the physical vulnerability of being half-tied to this chair.

“Ivy,” I gasp, my voice breaking as panic surges through me. “Please don’t throw me away when you’re done with me.”

The words tumble out raw and unfiltered, exposing the deepest wound Blair left behind. My breath comes in shallow, rapid bursts.

Ivy’s expression transforms a wide evil smile. She cradles my face between her palms, thumbs gently wiping away tears that have been collecting on my face.

“Nick,” she whispers, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.

I force myself to meet those hypnotic purple eyes, expecting to see pity or perhaps annoyance at my emotional breakdown. Instead, I find something that pilfers what little breath I have left.

“I promise I won’t ever throw you away,” she says, each word precise and deliberate. Her lips curve into a smile that’s surprisingly gentle. “I love you too much for that.”

Her fingers find me again, wrapping around my still-sensitive length with a gentleness that contradicts the intensity of moments before. I gasp, my body simultaneously recoiling and leaning into her touch.

“Ivy, I just…”

“Shh,” she whispers, her thumb circling the head with practiced precision. “We’ve got a long journey still ahead of us, my love. This was just the beginning.”

Despite my body’s protests, I feel myself responding to her touch again, blood rushing south with alarming eagerness.

“You can’t possibly expect me to…” My words dissolve into a squeal as she increases her pressure slightly, her rhythm maddeningly perfect.

“I expect everything from you,” she whispers, leaning forward to place a soft kiss on my forehead. “And you’ll give it to me, won’t you? Because you love me.”

The words hang between us, my own confession echoing in my mind. I did mean it, that’s what terrifies me most. Somehow, in this whirlwind of chaos since Blair discarded me, I’ve fallen completely under Ivy’s spell.

“Yes.”

Ivy with the long tongue

Chapter Text

After being Ivy’s plaything on and off for sixteen hours, we landed in Japan and headed straight for the Suzuka Circuit. No hotel, no sightseeing, no recovery time for my thoroughly drained body, just me, Ivy, and her single-minded determination to conquer another track.

“Home sweet home,” Ivy announces as she punches a code into a keypad beside a sleek purple trailer parked in the paddock area.

The door slides open with a soft pneumatic hiss, revealing an interior that sends an uncomfortable shiver down my spine. The layout is eerily similar to the trailer where Ivy first raped me, same minimalist design, same purple accents, except this one features a massive king-sized bed dominating the main area.

“You sleep here?” I ask, wheeling my luggage inside. “At the track?”

Ivy shrugs, already stripping off her travel clothes. “Hotels are distractions. Here, I can focus completely.”

“And the bed?”

A predatory smile spreads across her face. “That’s new. Had it installed last week when I knew you’d be joining me.”

A good night’s sleep and one extremely thorough christening of said bed later, I’m sprawled naked across purple silk sheets, sweat cooling on my skin as Ivy moves around the trailer. My muscles ache in the most satisfying way possible, though my body still hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s in.

“Where are we going?” I ask, watching her pull on form-fitting athletic wear.

She glances at me over her shoulder, those purple eyes gleaming with that strange post-coital clarity I’ve come to recognize. Every time we have sex, she gets this look, like her brain has suddenly accessed some higher plane of existence.

“I have to do a track walk,” she says, tying her hair back in a tight ponytail. “Learn the terrain, feel the bumps, understand how the asphalt contours.”

I push myself up onto my elbows. “Do you want me to go with you?”

She pauses, conflict playing across her features. “I do, but I can’t get distracted if you come with me.” A sigh escapes her as she seems to wrestle with herself. “Actually, I need you to come with me.”

I sit up, gathering the silky sheets around my waist as I study her face. There’s that fierce concentration in her eyes, the same look she gets when analyzing telemetry data or discussing race strategy with her engineers.

A strange thought crosses my mind as I watch her prepare. Does Ivy genuinely believe there’s something magical about our intimate moments? Like my vitality somehow transforms her, makes her superhuman on the track? As if what we do together is some kind of performance-enhancing ritual, a placebo that convinces her brain she’s unstoppable?

The idea is both ridiculous and strangely compelling. Maybe it’s not about any actual physical change but the psychological edge it gives her, like athletes who refuse to wash lucky socks or follow exact pre-game routines.

“I want to have you with me,” she says, interrupting my thoughts as she laces up her running shoes, “but I also need to stay focused on every detail of this track. The elevation changes are subtle but crucial.”

“I understand,” I reply, offering a supportive smile.

Ivy hesitates at the door, then suddenly turns back and rushes toward me. Before I can react, she wraps her arms around me in a fierce embrace, pressing her body against mine with surprising intensity. I can feel her heart hammering against my chest as she holds me tight.

“We can hold hands, but that’s it, okay?” she murmurs against my neck, then pulls back, her purple eyes serious.

The request feels more for her than for me.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, reaching for my clothes. “I get it. Professional mode.”

Relief washes over her face as she watches me pull on my jeans and t-shirt. “Thank you for understanding.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re walking the famous Suzuka Circuit under the warm Japanese sun. The track is eerily quiet without the screaming engines that will fill it in a few days. Ivy’s hand is warm in mine, her grip firm but not possessive as we stroll along the racing line.

Ivy’s grip tightens on my hand as we approach the turn one, her eyes scanning the track with laser-like intensity. Her face transforms into a mask of pure concentration, almost trancelike as she absorbs every detail of the racing surface. She’s so focused I don’t even know if she remembers I’m here.

“So what’s the deal with you and your mom?” she asks suddenly, her gaze never leaving the apex of Turn 1.

‘I stand corrected’

I let out a surprised chuckle. “Focus on the track.”

“Yes, good point,” she replies, nodding seriously.

We continue walking, her eyes mapping invisible racing lines as her thumb absently strokes mine. Three minutes later, as we navigate the famous S-curves, she breaks her meditative silence again.

“Did your mom go to all of your sister’s races?” she asks, still not looking at me, her eyes fixed on the subtle camber of the upcoming corner.

“Ivy, seriously. Track walk, remember?”

“Right, right,” she mutters, squeezing my hand apologetically. “The shifts here are quite dramatic.”

I smile to myself, finding her behavior oddly endearing. The world’s most focused racing driver, who can thread a needle at 300 km/h, apparently can’t walk a track without her mind wandering to my family history.

We reach the Degner curve when she pipes up again. “Does your mom know we’re together?”

“For someone so obsessed with focus, you’re remarkably distractible,” I tease, gently bumping her shoulder with mine.

She finally tears her eyes from the track to give me a sheepish smile. “Sorry. My brain just works differently when you’re around. Part of me is calculating braking points, and another part just wants to know everything about you.”

“Tell you what,” I say, squeezing her hand as we round the corner. “I’ll make you a deal. Focus on your track walk now, and I promise I’ll tell you everything you want to know about my complicated family history when we’re finished.”

Ivy’s purple eyes narrow, her lips pressing into a thin line of annoyance. She looks like she wants to argue but instead gives a curt nod.

“Yes, of course,” she says, her tone clipped. Despite her agreement, her grip on my hand tightens possessively, as if afraid I might slip away if she loosens her hold even slightly.

We continue our path around the circuit in relative silence, though I catch her stealing glances at me whenever she thinks I’m not looking. Her thumb still traces small circles against my skin, an unconscious habit she’s developed that sends little sparks of electricity up my arm.

The minutes stretch on as we navigate the remainder of the course. I can feel Ivy’s restlessness growing with each step, her body practically vibrating with contained questions. The technical focus she usually maintains is clearly battling with her newfound obsession with my personal life.

As we finally walk past Turn 18, Ivy abruptly stops, whirling to face me with the excited impatience of a child on Christmas morning.

“Okay, I’m all done,” she announces, not even attempting to hide her eagerness. Her eyes are bright with anticipation, all pretense of professional track assessment abandoned. “Now tell me about your mother.”

I can’t help but laugh at her transparent enthusiasm. “That was the fastest track walk I’ve ever seen. Did you actually absorb anything about those last few turns?”

“Of course I did,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m a racing genius. Now stop stalling and tell me why your relationship with your mother is so strained.”

Her directness catches me off guard. Most people dance around family issues, but Ivy dives in headfirst, as fearless off the track as she is on it.

I sigh, looking past Ivy to the empty track stretching behind her. Something about the vastness of it reminds me of the distance between me and my family.

“My mom never really saw me,” I admit, the words coming easier than I expected. “Her entire world revolved around Melissa’s racing career. I was just... baggage that got dragged along to tracks across the country.”

Ivy’s eyes soften, her grip on my hand tightening slightly.

“She had Melissa in karting by age five, and everything, literally everything, became about maximizing her potential. Our house was decorated with Melissa’s trophies. Family vacations were planned around race schedules. Dinner conversations centered on racing strategy.”

“And you?” Ivy asks, her voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it.

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it this time. “I was the kid sitting in the corner of the garage with a book, or hanging out with mechanics who felt sorry for me. My mom barely noticed if I was there or not.”

We start walking again, but slower now, with no real destination.

“When I started dating Blair, my mom completely lost it,” I continue, surprising myself with how easily I’m divulging my secrets to Ivy. “Called me a disgusting, traitorous slut right to my face. Said I was betraying Melissa by sleeping with the enemy. She actually tried to kick me out of the house, packed my bags herself. Dad had to physically block the door.”

“Interesting,” Ivy whispers, her purple eyes wide.

“Yeah. And when I started streaming? She laughed in my face, told me I’d make more money with an OnlyFans. Nothing I did was ever good enough. Not racing-adjacent enough.”

Ivy stops walking, turning to face me fully. “What about when Melissa lost the F2 championship last year?”

My jaw tightens at the memory. “Mom blamed me, of course. Said I distracted Melissa by dating Blair, that I divided her focus when she needed family support.” I shake my head, anger rising in my chest. “The truth is, Melissa lost because my mom burned her out. Years of relentless pressure, never being allowed a normal childhood, always being told that second place was first loser, it finally caught up with her.”

Ivy lets out a low, mocking laugh, shaking her head. “Sounds to me like your sister just couldn’t handle the heat. Racing separates the predators from the prey.” She runs her fingers through her purple-streaked hair, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “Though I must admit, it’s somewhat disappointing. It would’ve been far more entertaining if I stole you away from your sister rather than your ex.”

“That’s not nice,” I say, but I can’t help the small laugh that escapes.

Her purple eyes gleam with something dangerous and possessive. “I’m only nice to you, Nick.” She steps closer, her thumb tracing circles on my wrist. “Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

The intensity of her gaze makes my stomach flip. I clear my throat, suddenly eager to shift the conversation away from my family’s dysfunction.

“What about you?” I ask. “How did you end up this way?”

Ivy’s expression shifts, hardening into something analytical and cold. She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope.

“It was simple, really,” she says, her voice taking on an edge I’ve come to recognize as dangerous truth. “I demanded their support. When they hesitated, I forced their hand.”

“Forced their hand? What does that mean?”

She shrugs, the gesture deceptively casual. “My mother wanted me to follow him into corporate law. My father thought racing was too dangerous.” A smile spreads across her face, all teeth and no warmth. “So I sold my grandfathers jewelry, family heirlooms, to buy my first kart. When they found out, they were furious.”

“Jesus, Ivy. How old were you?”

“Nine.” Her voice carries no remorse. “I told them they could either support me properly or I’d keep selling everything I could get my hands on. I’d already figured out where my father kept his most valuable pieces.”

I stare at her, trying to process this glimpse into her childhood. “That’s... intense.”

“It was effective,” she corrects, squeezing my hand possessively. “By the time I was ten they saw how serious I was, they’d hired the best coaches in Europe. By twelve, they were fully financing my junior career. Sometimes people need to see how passionate you are to get what you want.”

I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. “I’d never do something like that. I couldn’t just manipulate people into supporting me.”

Ivy’s expression softens unexpectedly, her fingers reaching up to brush my cheek with surprising tenderness. “That’s because you’re too good for this world, Nick. Too kind.” Her thumb traces my lower lip as her eyes hold mine. “But don’t worry. I’ll take care of you from now on. You don’t need to be calculating when you have me.”

There’s something both comforting and terrifying about her promise. Before I can respond, we round the corner heading back to the paddock and nearly collide with Blair. She’s clutching a coffee that sloshes dangerously close to the rim, her usually immaculate appearance noticeably disheveled. Her electric blue hair sticks up at odd angles, and dark circles shadow her silver eyes.

Ivy’s posture immediately shifts, shoulders squaring as she steps slightly in front of me, creating a barrier between Blair and myself.

“Weren’t you supposed to be at the media pen an hour ago?” Ivy asks, her voice dripping with contempt. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Blair’s eyes dart between me and Ivy, her silver gaze lingering on our intertwined hands. Something flickers across her face, something raw and wounded that vanishes so quickly I almost think I imagined it.

“Overslept,” she mutters, taking a sip of her coffee. Her hand trembles slightly, causing more liquid to splash over the rim. “Jet lag’s a bitch.”

I notice now the wrinkles in her team shirt, the way her racing boots are laced unevenly. This isn’t the meticulously put-together Blair West I know. The Blair who would rather die than appear unprepared, who used to lay out her clothes the night before races with military precision.

“Jet lag?” Ivy scoffs, her voice sharp with mockery. “Your body should be used to it by now.” She presses herself closer to my side, her hip bumping against mine possessively. “Unless something else is keeping you up at night?”

Blair’s jaw tightens, a muscle twitching beneath her pale skin. “I’m fine,” she snaps, but the dark circles under her eyes tell a different story. “Just working through some setup issues with the engineers.”

Ivy lets off a cruel laugh.

“Sure.”

Chapter Text

I stare into the webcam, summoning my best “everything’s totally fine” smile as the familiar iRacing logo fills my screen. My usual fanatic wheel sits cold beneath my fingers.

“Hey everyone, DNF_Nick here. Been a minute, huh?” My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. The chat immediately floods with messages, a mix of genuine concern, thinly veiled curiosity, and the occasional marriage proposal.

It’s Thursday evening, and I’m holed up in the second-floor office of Ivy’s trailer at Suzuka. She never uses this space, it’s all sleek minimalism with a desk that probably costs more than my parents’ car and a view of the paddock that would make motorsport photographers weep. Ivy insisted I make myself at home while she handles media obligations with the Japanese press. She seemed a little sad when I declined to join her.

“So yeah, lot of changes since we last hung out,” I continue, scrolling through the track selection menu. “For those who don’t know, Blair and I split up about two weeks ago.”

The chat explodes. I deliberately avoid looking at it.

“Anyway, I figured it was time to get back to streaming. No point hiding forever, right?” I force a laugh that sounds painful even to my own ears.

I navigate to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway on the track selection screen, feeling a strange comfort in the familiar oval’s simplicity. Something about those four perfect left turns feels right tonight, no complexity, just pure speed and concentration.

“Going with Indy tonight,” I mutter, selecting an IndyCar from the vehicle options. “Figure I need something straightforward while we catch up.”

The loading screen appears as I adjust my headset. My hands remember the wheel even if my heart isn’t fully in it yet. The chat continues scrolling frantically, but I’ve made the decision to ignore it for now. Questions about Blair, about what happened, about where I’ve been staying, they can all a minute.

“Just me and the oval tonight, folks. No voice chat with other drivers. Figured we’d have plenty to talk about as it is.”

The track materializes on screen, and something inside me settles as I pull out onto the legendary speedway. The virtual engine roars to life, a poor substitute for the real thing but comforting nonetheless. I ease into the first lap, feeling the familiar rhythm return to my fingers.

By the third lap, I’m pushing harder, finding the groove, dancing on that knife-edge between control and chaos that makes racing so addictive. The chat continues to explode with questions and comments, but I keep my eyes fixed on the virtual track ahead.

A notification pops up in the corner of my screen. Nickismyhusbando has logged on as moderator. Almost immediately, a message from her appears in bold text:

“OMG NICK HOW ARE YOU HOLDING UP??? We’ve all been so worried!”

I can’t help but smile at her familiar enthusiasm. The triple question marks, the all-caps concern. It feels like reconnecting with an old friend after too long apart.

“Hey, Husbando,” I say, my voice warming for the first time since starting the stream. “I’m... surviving, I guess? Taking it day by day.”

I clip the apex perfectly on turn one, the car responding like an extension of myself. The speedometer climbs past 220 mph as I barrel down the straightaway.

“Missed you so much!” Nickismyhusbando types in the chat. “Life feels empty without your stream.”

I take a deep breath as I navigate turn three, the virtual car hugging the inside line perfectly. “Missed you too. Missed all of this, honestly.”

The chat continues scrolling at a frantic pace, but two new usernames suddenly catch my eye among the blur of messages. Bluelightning_69 and Zenithstan have joined the stream, their names standing out against the sea of familiar regulars.

“Glad to see you back on track,” types Bluelightning_69, the message somehow cutting through the noise.

“Your racing line is sloppy. Brake later into turn one,” writes Zenithstan.

I nearly lose control of the car, my concentration shattered by the authoritative tone of the message.

“Thanks for the tip, Zenithstan,” I reply, trying to keep my voice casual while my mind races. “And welcome to the stream, Bluelightning_69. New viewers?”

“Not exactly,” Bluelightning_69 responds immediately. “Been watching on and off for a while, just never commented before.”

I swallow hard, forcing myself to focus on the track as I push the car harder into the next turn, deliberately braking later as Zenithstan suggested. The car responds beautifully, shaving a tenth off my previous lap time.

“Look at that improvement,” Zenithstan comments. “See? I know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, well...” I trail off, uncertain how to respond to this mysterious new viewer who seems to know racing so well. “Thanks for the tip. It did help.”

I force myself to concentrate on the virtual track, trying to ignore the strange feeling in my gut. The chat continues to scroll, but I find myself drawn to these new names, watching for their comments among the blur of messages.

“So what happened with Blair?” Zenithstan asks bluntly. “Whole paddock’s talking about it.”

I nearly swerve the car into the wall. “Paddock? You follow F1?”

“Intimately,” comes the reply, followed by a purple heart emoji that makes my stomach clench.

“Nick doesn’t have to talk about his breakup if he doesn’t want to,” Nickismyhusbando jumps in, her message highlighted in mod green. “Let’s respect his privacy.”

“Thanks, Husbando,” I say, genuinely grateful for the intervention. “But it’s fine. People are curious, I get it.”

I take a deep breath, focusing on the next turn as I formulate my response.

“Blair and I broke up,” I say simply, keeping my voice neutral. “These things happen. We wanted different things.”

“Different things like what?” Bluelightning_69 presses immediately. “Was it because of her career? Or did someone else catch your eye?”

I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. “Look, I’d rather not get into specifics. It was mutual and we’re both moving forward.”

That’s a lie, but I’m not about to air our dirty laundry for the entire internet to dissect. Despite everything, I don’t want to become tabloid fodder or have my words twisted into clickbait headlines. The racing world is small enough that anything I say could easily make its way back to the paddock.

“Mutual?” Zenithstan types, followed by a laughing emoji. “That’s not what I heard.”

My stomach drops. “Well, whatever you heard is probably exaggerated. Racing gossip is worse than high school.”

“Were you cheating on her?” someone in chat asks, the message scrolling by too quickly for me to catch the username.

“Absolutely not,” I snap, my car wobbling slightly as my concentration breaks. “I would never. Can we please talk about something else?”

“Let’s respect Nick’s boundaries,” Nickismyhusbando writes, her mod status highlighting the message. “He’s been through enough without us interrogating him.”

“Fine,” Zenithstan concedes. “But your racing would improve if you stopped hesitating before turn four. You’re losing at least two-tenths there.”

I narrow my eyes at the screen. “Are you some kind of racing coach, Zenithstan?”

“Something like that,” comes the immediate reply.

“Nick deserves better anyway,” Nickismyhusbando types. “Someone who appreciates his kindness and support.”

“Agreed,” Zenithstan responds, adding another purple heart emoji.

“You know,” Bluelightning_69 types suddenly, “I think you and Blair were perfect together. The paddock’s golden couple. She probably regrets losing you.”

I can’t help but laugh, a short, harsh sound that probably comes across as bitter to my viewers. “I doubt that,” I say, shaking my head as I navigate through turn one. “Blair’s got bigger things to worry about than her ex-boyfriend. Like practice tomorrow.”

“You don’t think she misses you at all?” Bluelightning_69 persists.

“Look,” I sigh, trying to keep my focus on the virtual track, “I don’t think she’s losing that much sleep over me.”

“That’s not true,” Bluelightning_69 types immediately. “Some people don’t know how good they have it until they’re alone.”

“Can we please change the subject?” I ask, my voice strained. “I’m trying to beat my personal best here, and talking about my ex isn’t exactly helping my concentration.”

“Yes,” Zenithstan replies. “But for the record, Blair was an idiot to let you go. I would never make that mistake.”

My car swerves slightly as I process that comment. Before I can formulate a response, Nickismyhusbando jumps in.

“Some of us have been supporting Nick for years,” she types, her message highlighted in mod green. “We know his true worth isn’t tied to who he dates.”

Something about her dedication warms me, creating a small bright spot in what’s been a hellish couple of weeks. I find myself smiling genuinely for the first time since starting the stream.

“That means a lot,” I tell her. “Seriously.”

The chat suddenly scrolls faster as my comment to Nickismyhusbando seems to trigger something. I’m focusing on the apex of turn three when Zenithstan’s message appears in bold text:

“Nick, who is this whore? I heard a rumor you got a new girlfriend. Would she really be okay with you flirting with this whore moderator?”

My hands jerk on the wheel, sending my virtual car slamming into the wall at over 200 mph. The screen fills with spinning debris as the game physics take over, my perfect lap ruined in an instant.

“What the fuck?” I sputter, heat rushing to my face. “That’s completely out of line, Zenithstan.”

The chat explodes with reactions, most defending Nickismyhusbando, while others are just enjoying the drama. I struggle to keep up with the scrolling messages.

“I wasn’t flirting,” I say firmly, my voice tight with anger. “Nickismyhusbando has been my mod for years. She’s a friend, and you don’t get to talk about her like that.”

“Sorry,” Zenithstan types after a pause. “But is it true? About the new girlfriend?”

My stomach drops. How would some random viewer know about Ivy? We’ve been careful to keep things private, especially after the Blair disaster.

“My personal life isn’t up for discussion,” I say, trying to sound authoritative while my mind races. “And I don’t appreciate the tone of your message. This is supposed to be a fun, positive space.”

Nickismyhusbando jumps in: “I can handle myself, Nick, but thanks for defending me. Some people just don’t understand professional boundaries.”

“No one asked you,” Zenithstan replies immediately.

Before I can respond, a notification flashes across my screen: “User Zenithstan has been banned from chat by moderator Nickismyhusbando.”

A startled laugh escapes me as I watch the aggressive user’s messages disappear from the chat. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly.

“Thanks, Husbando,” I say, genuine gratitude warming my voice. “Saving the day as always.”

“Just doing my job,” she types back, adding a smiley face emoji.

I feel my cheeks flush slightly at her protective tone. It’s nice to have someone in my corner.

The chat scrolls with approving messages about the ban, viewers rallying around their moderator’s decision. As I reset my car on the track Bluelightning_69’s message appears, standing out against the flowing text:

“So who’s better at sex?” Bluelightning_69’s messages.” Blair or your new girlfriend?”

I choke on air, my hand jerking on the wheel again as my virtual car swerves dangerously close to the wall. The chat erupts in a frenzy of exclamation points and shocked emojis.

“Alright chat, I think I’m gonna log off for today,” I announce, my voice strained as I struggle to maintain composure. The virtual car continues toward the pit lane as I begin my hasty retreat. “Sorry to cut this short, but I’m still getting back into the swing of things.”

The chat scrolls frantically, most viewers begging me to stay, while others are clearly enjoying the drama unfolding. Bluelightning_69 remains silent, the provocative question hanging in the digital air like smoke.

“Nick,” Nickismyhusbando types, her message highlighted in moderator green, “I hope you take some time to yourself before you start dating again. Healing takes time.”

“I... I’ll look into that,” I lie, my voice softer than intended. “Thanks for having my back today, Husbando.”

I force a smile for the camera, hoping it doesn’t look as brittle as it feels. “See you all next time. DNF_Nick signing off.”

The moment the stream ends, I slump back in my chair, exhaling a shaky breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My phone buzzes immediately, a text from Ivy.

“Who the fuck is Nickismyhusbando.”

Chapter Text

When you’re in love with a racing driver, you learn there are different kinds of speed. There’s the calculated velocity of a perfect qualifying lap, and then there’s the terrifying momentum of Ivy Hunt storming into her trailer like she’s about to commit a murder.

I’m sitting on the king-sized bed, phone still warm in my palm from frantically texting her that I have no idea who Nickismyhusbando was in real life. The door crashes open with enough force to rattle the expensive bottles of moisturizer on her vanity. Ivy stands silhouetted in the doorway, her purple-streaked hair wild around her face, chest heaving like she sprinted all the way from the media center.

“You’re fucking lying to me,” she snarls, kicking the door shut behind her with a thunderous slam. “I watched your entire stream.”

My stomach drops through the floor. “Ivy, I swear…”

“Don’t.” She holds up one finger, the gesture somehow more threatening than if she’d brandished a knife. “Don’t you dare lie to me, Nick.”

“She’s just been my mod for three years. That’s as much as I know about her.”

She stalks toward me, each step deliberate, predatory. The mattress dips as she climbs onto the bed, crawling forward until she’s hovering over me, her purple eyes burning with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

“Three years,” she whispers, her voice dangerously soft. “Three years she’s been moderating your streams. Three years of inside jokes and little heart emojis. Three years of her calling herself your ‘husbando’ while you act like you barely know her.”

“Wait, husbando just means ‘friend’ in internet slang,” I stammer, my voice cracking with panic. “That’s literally what she told me when I asked her about the username a couple years ago.”

Ivy pulls back slightly, her expression shifting from rage to something almost pitying. The look she gives me is so condescending that heat rushes to my face, it’s the same expression you’d give a child who still believes in Santa Claus well into their teens.

“Oh, Nick,” she says, her voice softening dangerously. “You sweet, naive idiot. Husbando means she considers you her fictional husband. She’s been openly claiming you as hers for three years while you just... what? Thought she was being friendly?”

“Are you sure that’s what it means?” I ask, my voice small as the implications start sinking in. My mind races through years of interactions, searching for signs I might have missed.

“Of course I’m sure,” Ivy says with absolute certainty, her eyes narrowing. “I googled it on the way over here. It’s anime terminology. It’s weeb shit, Nick.”

“Oh.” The single syllable falls from my lips like a stone. “I... I had no idea. She’s always only been friendly with me. Professional, even.”

In one fluid motion, Ivy grabs my wrists and pins them above my head, her body pressing mine into the mattress. Her face hovers inches from mine, teeth bared in a feral smile.

“She’s a fucking simp, Nick,” she growls, her breath hot against my face. “She’s been obsessing over you for years while you’ve been oblivious. And now she’s trying to manipulate you when you’re vulnerable.”

“She’s only ever been friendly with me,” I protest, trying to wiggle my wrists free from Ivy’s iron grip. “In all these years, she’s never once asked to meet up or suggested anything beyond our streamer-mod relationship.”

Ivy’s grip tightens, her knuckles whitening as she leans closer, her purple eyes burning into mine. “You’re being stupid. Tell you what, make me a mod. I’ll show you how a woman acts when she doesn’t have ulterior motives.”

“You want to be my mod?” I blink in surprise, momentarily forgetting the precariousness of my position. “Aren’t you too busy for that? Ivy, your time is way too valuable to be moderating some gaming stream when you’re literally a world champion…”

“Don’t tell me what my time is worth,” she cuts me off, her voice sharp enough to slice through steel. She releases one of my wrists to press her index finger against my lips. “I decide what deserves my attention, and right now, that’s making sure this internet stalker understands exactly who you belong to.”

“Ivy,” I say, meeting her intense gaze, “you can be a mod if you want, but there are conditions. You can’t scare away my viewers, and you absolutely cannot just ban Husbando. She’s been to helpful. That’s non-negotiable.”

Her eyes widen slightly, that dangerous fire still burning in them as she stares down at me. After a moment, she releases a dramatic sigh that seems to deflate her entire body.

“Do you know,” she says, her voice softer now, “that you’re literally the only person in the whole world I make concessions for?”

The admission hangs between us, surprisingly vulnerable coming from someone who bulldozes through life taking exactly what she wants.

“That’s what love is,” I reply with a small smile. “Compromise.”

She feigns a disappointed frown, but I can see the corners of her mouth fighting not to turn upward.

“Fine,” she mutters. “I just hope this little arrangement doesn’t affect my performance on race day.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” I say quickly, a familiar anxiety tightening my chest. “I don’t believe in much, but I’m ridiculously superstitious when it comes to the track.”

Her expression softens as she studies my face. Her hands tighten around my wrists, not painfully but possessively, grounding me to her.

“Good,” she whispers, leaning down until her lips brush against my ear. “Stay hungry for me, Nick. I love that about you.”

The tension in her body shifts from anger to something else entirely. Her teeth graze my earlobe, sending shivers down my spine.

“Also,” Ivy adds, pulling back slightly with a mischievous glint in her eyes, “I’d like to discuss your driving technique on that oval. Your line was atrocious.”

I laugh nervously, the sound hollow even to my own ears. She shifts her weight, sitting up straighter as her expression transforms into something analytical and critical.

“Your entry into turn one was consistently too early,” she continues, her voice taking on that clinical precision I’ve heard her use with engineers. “And you were braking way too soon before the apex. No wonder you couldn’t maintain speed through the exit.”

My smile falters as memories flood back, sitting in the family garage while my mother loomed over Melissa, dissecting every lap, every turn, every millisecond lost. The same cold, clinical tone. The same ruthless assessment.

“You need to trust the downforce more,” Ivy continues, gesturing with her hands now. “Even in a simulation, physics still apply. If you commit to the speed, the aerodynamics will keep you planted. Your problem is hesitation.”

I feel my chest tightening, that familiar suffocating sensation creeping in. Melissa’s defeated expression flashes before my eyes, thirteen years old and being told she’d never make it if she couldn’t nail that racing line.

“Um, can we not do this?” I interrupt, my voice smaller than intended. “It’s just... this is bringing back some pretty awful childhood memories.”

Ivy freezes mid-sentence, her analytical expression melting into something softer, more concerned. “What do you mean?”

“My mom,” I explain, looking away from her intense gaze. “She used to tear Melissa apart like this after every practice session. Same tone, same criticism. I’d sit there watching my sister slowly crumble under the weight of it all.”

“And it wasn’t just during the criticism sessions,” I continue, the memories flooding back with uncomfortable clarity. “If Melissa performed poorly at a race, Mom would spend the entire day radiating anger at everyone in her path, snapping at Dad for his cooking, yelling at me for breathing too loudly, even screaming at restaurant servers. But somehow, it always circled back to Melissa being the ultimate disappointment.”

I rub my face with my free hand, suddenly exhausted. “I just wanted to enjoy the stream tonight, you know? Racing games are supposed to be fun for me. I’m not trying to become the next virtual you or whatever. I don’t want the pressure of perfection hanging over me.”

Ivy’s weight shifts on the bed as she releases my other wrist, her expression softening into something I rarely see, genuine concern mixed with understanding. She moves to sit beside me rather than over me.

Suddenly, Ivy’s arms wrap around me, pulling me into a fierce embrace that catches me off guard. Her warmth envelops me completely, her face buried in the crook of my neck.

“If I ever meet your mother,” she whispsers against my skin, her voice vibrating with barely contained rage, “I swear I’m going to beat the shit out of her. No one gets to treat my boyfriend like that.”

A laugh bubbles up from my chest, unexpected but genuine. There’s something darkly comforting about having a three-time world champion threatening bodily harm to my mother on my behalf. I return her embrace, arms tightening around her athletic frame.

“If you do meet my mom,” I say, still chuckling, “could you maybe not commit assault? Just... try to be civil?”

Ivy pulls back slightly, her purple eyes narrowed as she considers my request. “Maybe,” she concedes, though her tone suggests she’s making no promises. “I’ll attempt diplomacy first.”

“And what about Melissa?” I press, suddenly concerned about the inevitable meeting between my sister and my new girlfriend. “When you meet her, please don’t immediately go into attack mode. She’s been through enough.”

Ivy’s lips curl into that predatory smile I’ve come to both fear and adore. “No promises there, Nick. If she’s anything like Blair on track, my competitive instincts might kick in.”

I sigh deeply, resigning myself to the chaos that will inevitably ensue when these worlds collide. Ivy responds by pulling me down onto the bed beside her, her body molding against mine as she nuzzles into my chest like a particularly dangerous housecat.

“I love you,” she whispers, the words still new enough between us to send a shiver down my spine. “Every broken, hesitant, too-kind part of you.”

My heart swells painfully in my chest. “Yes, yes, I love you too,” I reply, the repetition betraying my lingering disbelief that someone like Ivy Hunt could possibly love someone like me.

We lie there in comfortable silence for several minutes, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest. The warmth of her body and the steady rhythm of her breathing gradually unwind the tension that had built up during the stream.

“I can’t believe you thought ‘husbando’ meant ‘friend,’” she murmurs suddenly, amusement coloring her voice. “That’s so dumb, it has the word husband in it, Nick.”

“Okay.”

She smiles wide as she pulls me impossibly closer.

“My little bimbo.”

Chapter Text

Turns out, being a paddock ghost is harder when your girlfriend is the most recognizable driver on the grid. I’m trying to blend into the Zenith garage wall, hood pulled low over my face, as mechanics buzz around me like purple hornets preparing for Free Practice One. Outside, the Suzuka crowd roars in anticipation, their excitement vibrating through the concrete floor.

This morning, sports blogs exploded with grainy photos of Ivy walking the track with a “mysterious companion.” The headlines ranged from curious (“Hunt’s Secret Strategy Session With Unknown Advisor”) to downright invasive (“Purple Queen’s New King? Hunt Spotted With Mystery Man”). Ivy, predictably, found it hilarious. I’m still having heart palpitations.

“Just let me tell them,” she’d said this morning, straddling my lap while I frantically scrolled through social media. “I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. The moment people connect me to Blair’s ex, the narrative writes itself. Paddock bunny, team-hopping groupie, the shameless guy who bounced from one championship contender to another. I can already see the comments, the snide remarks about how I’m using Ivy for access, for fame, for whatever bullshit they’ll project onto me.

Worse, they’ll say she’s distracted, that I’m ruining her focus. And if her performance dips even slightly? I’ll be crucified.

“Nick?”

I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of my name ripping me from my thoughts. Bridgette stands before me, tablet clutched to her chest like always, her expression a careful professional mask that doesn’t quite hide her discomfort.

“Jesus, you scared me,” I mutter, tugging my hood lower instinctively.

“Sorry.” She doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Can we talk for a moment?”

I glance around nervously. “Is everything okay? Is Ivy…”

“Ivy’s fine,” Bridgette cuts me off. “She’s on the track still.” She hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “Look, I imagine you hate me, and that’s fair, but I was hoping we could speak... professionally.”

That catches me off guard. “Professionally? About what?”

Bridgette’s eyes dart around the garage before settling back on me. “About Ivy’s performance. Specifically, how you’ve... affected it.”

I feel heat rise to my face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Please.” She rolls her eyes. “Her lap times since Shanghai speak for themselves. I’ve asked her directly what changed, and she said…” Bridgette lowers her voice, leaning closer, “…that you helped her become the ‘Lisan Al Gaib.’”

I stare at Bridgette blankly. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the silence.

“I... don’t know what those words mean,” she finally admits, her professional facade cracking slightly.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. This is exactly why Ivy shouldn’t be allowed to watch sci-fi films the night before race weekends.

“We watched Dune last night,” I explain, lowering my voice as a mechanic brushes past us. “It’s about this girl who becomes the messiah for desert space people. The Lisan Al Gaib is their name for her, the prophesied one who’ll lead them to paradise or something. Ivy’s convinced I’m like... her mystical conduit to racing perfection.”

Bridgette’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rise almost to her hairline. “Yes, but... how?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “What exactly are you doing to her?”

The bluntness of her question makes me choke on air. “Nothing! I mean… it’s not…” I stammer, heat flooding my face. “I just... we just...”

A mechanic glances our way, and I force myself to take a deep breath. The last thing I need is for the entire garage to hear me discussing my sex life with Ivy’s race engineer.

“Look,” I say, regaining some composure, “I think it’s just a psychological thing, okay? Ivy believes I help her somehow, so her confidence is through the roof.”

Bridgette’s eyes narrow as she leans in closer, her professional demeanor slipping completely.

“So it’s just sex?” she asks bluntly, her voice clinical despite the intimate subject matter. “Is it something particularly exotic?”

The audacity of this woman never ceases to amaze me.

“I am absolutely not discussing this with you,” I hiss, glancing around frantically to make sure no one is listening.

Bridgette sighs, adjusting her tablet against her chest like a shield. “Nick, I’m not asking to judge or gossip. This is purely professional. Whatever’s happening between you two has shaved so much off her lap times. I need to understand the variables at play here.”

I press my palms against my eyes, wishing I could disappear into the floor. When I drop my hands, Bridgette is still staring at me expectantly, like I’m a particularly interesting data point she’s trying to analyze.

“If you’re so curious about our sex life,” I mumble, my voice barely audible over the garage noise, “talk to Ivy yourself.”

Bridgette’s shoulders slump slightly, a flicker of disappointment crossing her face.

“I suppose that’s fair,” she says with a resigned sigh. “Some mysteries of performance enhancement are meant to remain private.”

She turns away and retreats into the sea of purple uniforms and carbon fiber. I exhale slowly, grateful for the reprieve from her interrogation.

A hand clamps down on my shoulder from behind, firm and decisive. My lips automatically curl into a smile, assuming Ivy has returned from practice. I turn, the words “How was the…” dying on my lips as I find myself staring into silver eyes instead of purple.

Blair stands before me, her electric blue hair much neater than before. She looks more put-together than yesterday, the dark circles under her eyes less pronounced, her Zenith uniform crisp and unwrinkled. But her mouth is set in a tight line, brows drawn together in a frown that creates a small crease between them.

“We need to talk,” she says, her voice low enough that only I can hear it. “Alone.”

My stomach drops as I glance around the garage, suddenly paranoid that Ivy might materialize at any moment. The thought of her finding me in private conversation with Blair sends a cold shiver down my spine.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I reply, taking a half-step backward. “Ivy wouldn’t... I mean, I’m not comfortable with that.”

Blair’s eyes dart around nervously before locking back on mine. “It’s about Melissa,” she says quietly.

“What?” My heart skips a beat at my sister’s name. “What about her?”

“Come here.” Blair grabs my wrist with surprising strength, giving me no chance to protest as she pulls me through the garage.

I stumble after her, panic rising in my throat as we weave between mechanics and equipment. We exit the paddock into a secluded service corridor, the sounds of the garage fading behind us. It’s a blind spot, no cameras, no prying eyes, just concrete walls and the distant hum of engines.

Blair releases my wrist and turns to face me, her silver eyes uncharacteristically vulnerable.

“Nick, I need to confess something,” she says, her voice softening. “Melissa is fine. There’s nothing wrong with her.”

“Then why…”

“I lied.” She takes a deep breath, her shoulders sagging slightly. “I just needed to get you alone because I can’t stand this anymore. I’m sorry, Nick. I’m so incredibly sorry for how I’ve treated you these past few months.”

The apology catches me completely off guard. Blair West doesn’t apologize, not to competitors, not to journalists, and certainly not to ex-boyfriends.

“You’re... sorry?” I repeat, my voice hollow with disbelief.

“I was horrible to you.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I threw away something real because I thought my career needed it. I convinced myself you were holding me back when the truth is...” She swallows hard. “You were the only thing keeping me grounded.”

I stand frozen, unable to process this sudden vulnerability from someone who discarded me so callously just weeks ago.

“Blair, I…”

“I can’t sleep,” she continues, words tumbling out faster now. “I can’t focus. Everything’s falling apart, and it started the moment I let you go.”

She steps closer. “I made a terrible mistake,” she whispers, reaching for my hand. “I want you back, Nick.”

Her fingers brush against mine, and I jerk away like I’ve been burned. Something dark and unfamiliar surges through me, not just anger, but something deeper, more primal.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” I snarl, yanking my hand away completely. My voice echoes harshly in the concrete corridor. “You lied about my sister being in trouble just to get me alone?”

Blair’s eyes widen at my tone, I’ve never spoken to her like this before. Good. Let her be shocked.

“I’m not getting back together with you, Blair. Not now, not ever.” The words taste like freedom on my tongue. “You only want me back because I’m with Ivy now. If I wasn’t dating someone else, especially your teammate, you wouldn’t give a fuck about me.”

She steps closer, desperation flashing in those silver eyes. “That’s not true, Nick. Please, just listen…”

“No.” I cut her off, feeling a strange new power coursing through me. “You’d just get bored of me again the minute things got tough. The minute your career demanded another sacrifice.”

“No, we had something real, Nick,” Blair insists, her voice cracking. Her perfect composure is slipping, revealing something raw underneath. “What we had was special. You know it was.”

A shadow falls across Blair’s desperate face, and I feel the temperature in the corridor drop several degrees. Blair’s silver eyes widen in shock as she registers someone standing behind her.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing with my boyfriend, West?” Ivy’s voice cuts through the air like a blade, each word precise and deadly.

Blair whirls around, her body tensing as she comes face-to-face with Ivy. My heart hammers against my ribcage as I take in the scene, Ivy standing there in her purple racing suit, unzipped just enough to reveal the black sports bra underneath, her hair slightly disheveled from the helmet. Her expression is eerily calm, but her eyes burn with a fury I’ve never seen before.

“Hunt,” Blair manages, attempting to regain her composure. “We were just talking.”

“Is that so?” Ivy steps forward, closing the distance between them with predatory grace. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were trying to sink your claws back into what’s mine.”

Blair’s jaw tightens. “Nick is a person, not a possession. And we have a history that predates whatever... arrangement you two have.”

“Arrangement?” Ivy’s laugh is sharp enough to cut glass. “That’s what you think this is?”

I step forward, finding my voice. “Ivy, she lied about Melissa being in trouble to get me alone.”

Something dangerous flashes across Ivy’s face. She shifts her gaze from Blair to me, then back again, her purple eyes narrowing to slits.

“You used his sister?” The quiet in Ivy’s voice is more terrifying than any shouting could be. “You manipulated his family loyalty to try to steal him from me?”

Blair takes a step back, her shoulders bumping against the concrete wall. “I needed to talk to him without you hovering.”

“And yet here I am,” Ivy purrs, moving closer until she’s practically nose-to-nose with Blair. “Hovering.”

The tension between them crackles like static electricity. I should intervene, should say something to defuse the situation, but a part of me, a dark, vindictive part I didn’t know existed, wants to see Blair squirm under Ivy’s predatory gaze.

“Nick and I were having a private conversation,” Blair says, her voice steadier than her body language suggests. “One that doesn’t concern you.”

“Everything about Nick concerns me,” Ivy replies, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. She reaches past Blair to grab my wrist, her fingers wrapping around it possessively. “And you need to understand something, West. He’s not just some toy you can discard and reclaim whenever it suits you.”

Ivy tugs me away from Blair, her grip firm but not painful as she guides me back toward the garage. I don’t resist, relief washing over me as we put distance between ourselves and my ex. Something about Ivy’s possessiveness feels protective rather than controlling, a shield against Blair’s manipulation.

“Wait!” Blair’s voice echoes down the corridor behind us. “Nick, you’re making a terrible mistake!”

I keep walking, Ivy’s hand warm in mine, but Blair’s words chase us like angry wasps.

“She doesn’t love you!” Blair’s voice rises, cracking with desperation. “She’s just using you as a trophy, can’t you see that? When she’s done with you, she’ll toss you aside just like I did!”

My steps falter slightly, but Ivy squeezes my hand, anchoring me to her.

“You’ll regret this, Nick!” Blair’s voice grows sharper, more venomous with each step we take. “When she breaks you, don’t you dare come crawling back to me!”

The concrete corridor amplifies her words, making them bounce off the walls and slam into my back like physical blows. Each accusation grows more bitter, more cutting than the last, transforming from desperate pleas to vicious threats.

“She’ll never love you like I did!” The words are almost a screech now, Blair’s composure completely shattered. “She’s incapable of real feelings! She’s a fucking machine!”

Ivy’s pace never slows, her head held high as she leads me through the service door and back into the bustling garage. The moment we cross the threshold, the sounds of the paddock engulf us, mechanics shouting, power tools whirring, the distant roar of engines on track, drowning out Blair’s final, furious curses.

“You okay?” Ivy asks softly once we’re safely surrounded by the purple-clad Zenith team members.

I take a deep breath, surprised to find I’m steadier than expected. “Yeah, actually. I am.”

“Good.”

Blair: 

Chapter Text

Some women wear joy like a designer outfit. Ivy Hunt wears dominance like she was born in it.

Saturday morning at Suzuka, and I’m watching from the Zenith garage as Ivy climbs out of her car after setting a qualifying time that has the entire paddock buzzing. My body aches all over, courtesy of our pre-qualifying “ritual” that left me walking like I have a bum hip. Turns out that trying to sexually exhaust a professional athlete before her qualifying session was like trying to drain the ocean with a teacup, a noble effort, yet catastrophic failure.

The mechanics swarm around her purple machine like worker bees attending their queen, but Ivy’s eyes lock onto me through the crowd. There’s something predatory in her gaze, a satisfaction that goes beyond mere professional triumph. She stalks toward me with the confident swagger of someone who knows exactly what she’s capable of, both on the track and off it.

“Enjoy the show?” she purrs.

“That was...” I search for words that won’t sound like complete fanboy gibberish. “Unbelievable. You were three-tenths faster than anyone else.”

Her smile widens, purple eyes gleaming with victory and something more primal. Without warning, she grabs the front of my Zenith team shirt and pulls me into a kiss that’s more declaration of ownership than affection. Her mouth claims mine with bruising intensity, one hand sliding possessively to the small of my back.

I hear the collective intake of breath from the mechanics around us, followed by a few knowing chuckles. When Ivy finally releases me, I’m left gasping like I’ve just run a marathon at altitude.

“Consider that a thank you,” she whispers against my lips, “for your contribution to my performance.”

Before I can formulate a coherent response, the unmistakable clicks of camera shutters penetrate the moment. A group of paparazzi have gathered at the garage entrance, their long lenses capturing our intimate exchange with predatory enthusiasm.

“Miss Hunt! Is this your new boyfriend?” shouts one photographer, his accent thick with excitement.

“How long have you two been together?” calls another.

Ivy’s expression transforms instantly, that cocky confidence evaporating as her eyes widen with sudden realization. The cameras continue clicking frantically, each flash capturing her rare moment of vulnerability.

“Nick, I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her voice tight with genuine panic. “I completely forgot about the media. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her, though my stomach twists with anxiety. I glance at the photographers, whose excitement is palpable as they realize they’ve just captured something significant. “I guess they would have figured it out eventually. Blair’s ex suddenly with her teammate? The internet’s going to have a field day with us.”

Ivy’s hand finds my chin, gently tilting my face until our eyes meet. Her touch is surprisingly tender, a stark contrast to the possessive kiss moments before.

“We’re in this together,” she says with quiet intensity. “Let them say what they want. I’ll be with you through the whole process, okay? They can’t break us up.”

The moment is shattered by the sound of another car pulling into the garage. Blair’s purple Zenith machine glides to a stop beside Ivy’s, the mechanics immediately swarming around it. Blair climbs out, pulling off her helmet to reveal that electric blue hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, I can’t help but be impressed. P2 is an incredible achievement for a rookie, especially at a technical track like Suzuka.

Her silver eyes find us immediately, narrowing as she takes in our proximity. She huffs audibly, her lips curling into a scowl that could curdle milk.

“This is a garage, not a hotel room,” she snaps as she brushes past us, her shoulder deliberately bumping against mine. “Some of us are trying to work here.”

Ivy’s lips curl into that signature smile that always makes my heart skip a beat, the one that’s equal parts predator and champion.

“Congrats on your P2, teammate,” she calls to Blair, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Almost fast enough to matter.”

Blair’s shoulders tense as she turns, her silver eyes flashing dangerously. “Fuck off, Hunt,” she spits before storming toward her engineers, the tension in her wake thick enough to cut with a knife.

I wince at the exchange, but Ivy merely chuckles, sliding her arm around my waist and guiding me away from the commotion of the garage. The photographers continue snapping photos as we leave, but Ivy seems to have forgotten their existence entirely, her focus laser-sharp on me.

We make our way through the paddock, navigating the maze of team hospitality units and equipment crates. The Japanese sun beats down on us, surprisingly warm for spring, painting everything in golden light.

“You know,” Ivy whispers, her lips brushing against my ear as we walk, “if I win tomorrow, I think I should finally get to see you in a skirt around the paddock at the next race.”

Heat rushes to my face, spreading down my neck in a wave of embarrassment. “I thought you said you didn’t care what I wore here,” I stammer, glancing around to make sure no one can overhear us.

Ivy’s fingers tighten possessively at my hip, pulling me closer as we walk. “It’s not for the cameras, baby,” she purrs, her voice low and intimate. “And it’s definitely not for PR.” Her teeth graze my earlobe, sending a shiver down my spine. “It’s for me.”

I nearly trip over my own feet as we approach our trailer, my mind racing with images of myself parading around the Bahrain paddock, terrified of a draft. I never got used to skirts after I woke up here.

“If…” I swallow hard, finding my voice again as Ivy punches in the code to our trailer. “If you race really well tomorrow and win, I’ll... consider wearing a skirt at the next race.”

Her purple eyes light up with victory, as though she’s already claimed the top step of the podium. The door slides open with that familiar pneumatic hiss, and she pulls me inside, kicking it shut behind us.

“Consider?” she challenges, backing me against the wall. “That’s not very committal, Nick.”

“Fine,” I concede, my resolve crumbling under her intense gaze. “I’ll do it. But only if you win by more than five seconds.”

Ivy’s eyes flash with competitive fire, her lips curling into that confident smirk I’ve come to both love and fear.

“Five seconds?” She laughs, the sound rich with arrogance. “Child’s play.”

I shake my head, unable to hide my skepticism. Even for someone of Ivy’s caliber, a five-second gap is practically impossible in modern Formula 1. What she pulled off in China was nothing short of supernatural, potentially a once-in-a-career performance that left commentators speechless and competitors shell-shocked.

“I’d settle for you winning by any margin,” I admit, my voice softening. “I just want to see you on that top step again.”

Before Ivy can respond, my phone vibrates in my pocket. The screen lights up with a name that makes my stomach drop through the floor as I grab it. Mom. I stare at it like it’s a venomous snake, contemplating whether to let it go to voicemail.

Ivy notices my expression. “Who is it?”

“My mother,” I mutter, thumb hovering over the screen. With a resigned sigh, I accept the call and press the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“You disgusting little slut,” my mother’s voice cuts through the speaker, sharp enough to draw blood. “So you’re just bouncing around the paddock now? First Blair, now this Hunt girl? Have you no shame?”

I wince, pulling the phone slightly away from my ear. Ivy’s eyebrows shoot up, her enhanced hearing clearly picking up my mother’s tirade.

“Hello to you too, Mom,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. “I see you’ve been following the racing news.”

“It’s all over Twitter,” she hisses, each word dripping with venom. “My whore of a son betrayed his girlfriend, a promising rookie with actual talent for the world champion. Do you have any idea how this looks?”

I press my palm against my forehead, feeling a headache building behind my eyes. Ivy watches me intently, her expression darkening as she picks up fragments of my mother’s tirade.

“You’re going to completely fuck up Melissa’s week,” my mother continues, not bothering to pause for my response. “She’s racing in Miami next Sunday, and now all anyone’s going to ask her about is her brother’s sex life. Did you even think about that before you started parading around with this Hunt woman?”

Of course. Once again, it all comes down to how my life affects Melissa. Not once has she asked if I’m okay, if I’m happy, if I’m being treated well. Just how my choices might inconvenience her precious racing prodigy.

“Sorry, Mom,” I mutter, my voice flat and emotionless. What else can I say? Nothing will ever be good enough.

“You’re such a lazy fuck-up,” she spits, the familiar refrain cutting through me with practiced precision. “If you were a girl, I swear I would have beaten the shit out of you while you were growing up just to teach you some sense. Melissa hardly ever needed to learn any lessons, but you, you just never fucking think, do you?”

Ivy’s face transforms as she listens, her eyes narrowing dangerously. Before I can stop her, she snatches the phone from my hand.

“Ms. Woods,” she says, her voice deceptively calm. “This is Ivy Hunt. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting yet.”

My heart stops as my mother’s voice squawks through the speaker, too muffled for me to make out the words.

“No, I don’t think I will give him back the phone,” Ivy continues, her tone hardening.

I reach for the phone, but Ivy sidesteps me easily, her athletic reflexes making it impossible for me to reclaim it.

“Actually, Ms. Woods, I think it’s you who doesn’t understand.” Ivy’s voice drops an octave, taking on that dangerous edge I’ve heard her use with Blair. “Your son is brilliant, kind, and far more resilient than he should have to be. The fact that he’s turned out so wonderfully despite your parenting is nothing short of miraculous.”

My mouth drops open as Ivy continues her systematic dismantling of my mother.

“And for the record,” she adds, pacing the trailer like a caged tiger, “Nick didn’t betray anyone. Blair dumped him. I was smart enough to recognize what she threw away.”

I watch Ivy transform as she listens to whatever my mother is saying through the phone. Her shoulders square, her jaw tightens, and something dangerous flashes in those purple eyes.

“Ms. Woods,” Ivy cuts in, her voice razor-sharp. “Let me make something perfectly clear. Your son isn’t the problem here.”

She pauses, listening for a moment before her lips curl into a cold smile.

“No. Your daughter wasn’t unlucky because her brother dated her rival.” Her voice drops to a deadly calm. “Melissa was weak. She never belonged in Formula 1. And that weakness?” Ivy’s eyes find mine, softening just for a second before hardening again. “That comes directly from you.”

My heart stops. The silence on the other end of the line is deafening.

“I’ve studied your daughter’s races,” Ivy continues mercilessly. “She crumbles under pressure. She second-guesses every move. She races like someone terrified of disappointing her mother, not like someone hungry for victory.”

I should feel outraged, should leap to Melissa’s defense, but something in Ivy’s brutal assessment rings painfully true. I’ve watched my sister shrink year after year under our mother’s expectations.

“How dare…” My mother’s voice is loud enough that I can hear it from where I stand.

“I don’t need to hear this,” Ivy snarls, jabbing at the screen to end the call. She tosses my phone onto the couch like it’s contaminated, her entire body vibrating with rage. The silence that follows feels electric, dangerous.

After a moment, she turns to me, her purple eyes blazing. “Your mother,” she says, running her fingers through her hair in frustration, “is genuinely the worst human I’ve ever encountered. And I race against people who would kill their own mothers for pole position.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, collapsing onto the edge of the bed. “Welcome to my world.”

In one fluid motion, Ivy pulls me backward onto the mattress, her body following mine in a graceful arc until she’s hovering above me. Her expression shifts from fury to something playful yet possessive.

“You know what?” she purrs, her fingers tracing my jawline. “I could be your new mommy.” Her lips curl into that predatory smile I’ve come to adore. “I’d take such good care of my precious boy.”

“I think you already are.”

Kendal Woods, Nick's mother: 

Chapter Text

The grid beneath me thrums with energy, fifty thousand horsepower waiting to be unleashed. I close my eyes, feeling the power inside me, Nick’s power, flowing through every cell of my body.

Race day at Suzuka. The culmination of everything we’ve worked for. Everything I’ve taken from him.

I run my hand across my flat stomach, a small smile playing on my lips. Pregnant with victory. That’s what I am right now. Nick’s essence still warm inside me from our ritual five minutes ago, feeding the beast that drives me forward on the track. Some drivers meditate before races. Some listen to music. I fuck my boyfriend until his legs shake and then carry his life force into battle.

The Japanese sun beats down on the grid, making the purple livery of my Zenith machine gleam like royalty. Mechanics scurry around, making final adjustments, but I barely notice them. My focus has narrowed to a laser point, my body whistling with a strange calm that only comes from thoroughly claiming my other half.

I stretch my neck, feeling the pleasant ache of Nick’s teeth marks hidden beneath my racing suit. My secret weapon, my talisman. The press would have a field day if they knew how literal my “performance enhancement” really was.

My eyes drift to P2, where Blair stands beside her identical purple car. Her posture is rigid, her movements jerky as she grips her helmet in white-knuckled hands. Even from here, I can see the tension radiating from her like heat waves.

She catches me watching and her silver eyes narrow with naked hatred. I can’t help but smile. There’s something delicious about watching her unravel, thread by thread, day by day. First I took her spotlight. Then I took her boyfriend. Soon, I’ll take this race.

“Good luck, cuh,” I call out, the casual slang rolling off my tongue with deliberate mockery.

Her nostrils flare as she jams her helmet over her electric blue hair, the movement so aggressive I’m surprised she doesn’t give herself whiplash.

“I don’t need luck,” she snarls, her voice tight with fury.

I slide my own helmet on, savoring the familiar embrace of carbon fiber. The world narrows to what I can see through my visor, sounds muffling into that cocoon of focus I’ve perfected over years of competition.

“Let me know how my slipstream tastes after the race,” I say, just loud enough for her to hear me before her crew closes her in.

The comment lands perfectly. I see her shoulders tense, her head jerking toward me before her race engineer steps between us, blocking my view.

*****

The five red lights extinguish, and Suzuka erupts into chaos.

My start is perfect, muscle memory and instinct taking over as I launch off the line like a purple missile. The car becomes an extension of my body, boundaries dissolving between machine and woman. I am no longer Ivy Hunt. I am pure velocity, a force of nature harnessing fifty thousand horsepower.

Every corner feels like destiny rather than decision. My hands don’t end where flesh meets steering wheel, they continue through steering wheel, through suspension, through rubber meeting asphalt. I am the car. The car is me.

“Medium compound performing beautifully, Ivy,” My engineer’s voice cuts through my trance. “You’re flying.”

I grunt an acknowledgment, unwilling to break the perfect communion between myself and machine. By lap ten, I’m in a flow state so profound it borders on religious experience. My body thrums with Nick’s soul.

“Maintaining gap at 1.8 seconds,” My engineer informs me. “Perfect pace.”

I should be dominating, pulling away with each sector like I did in China. With Nick’s power flowing through me, I should be untouchable. Yet something feels off, a disturbance in the force.

My eyes flick to the mirrors.

I find Blair’s purple machine, identical to mine, trailing in my wake. Not falling behind. Not struggling. Keeping pace.

Instead of frustration, a rush of euphoria floods my system. My lips curl into a feral grin behind my visor as I recognize what’s happening.

“Well, well, well,” I purr to myself, tightening my grip on the wheel. “Someone’s found her fire.”

It’s been three long years since anyone truly challenged me, not since my Ex-girlfriend Enza walked away from Formula 1 with our toxic relationship still smoldering in her wake. I’d forgotten this feeling, the pure, animal joy of genuine competition.

And here is Blair keeping pace through raw, unadulterated hatred. Her rage for me is fueling something magnificent in her driving.

Delicious.

I tap deeper into the primordial ooze my lover gifted me, letting it flow through my veins and into my fingertips where they connect with the steering wheel.

“If you want to race, then let’s race.”

I throw the car into the corner with savage precision, feeling the backend step out just enough to make my engineer gasp in my ear. The dar responds like it’s reading my thoughts, sliding to the absolute edge of control before biting into the asphalt with renewed fury.

By lap 19, Blair’s shadow looms larger in my mirrors. She’s close, too close, her front wing practically kissing my diffuser through the chicane.

“Fuck,” I whisper as my engineer’s voice crackles through the radio.

“Blair’s boxing this lap. Early strategy change from their side.”

I watch her purple machine peel away toward pit entry, the sudden absence of her pressure almost disorienting. My lips curl into a knowing smile. Clever girl. She’s trying to undercut me, get the fresh rubber advantage and overtake when I pit next lap.

I push harder through the next sequence of corners, squeezing every millisecond from these aging mediums. My engineer confirms what I already know, I need to box next lap or risk hemorrhaging time.

The pit entry appears before me like the maw of some mechanical beast. I throw the car in, hitting my marks with acute precision as the Zenith crew swarms around me. Every heartbeat feels like an eternity as they swap my worn mediums for fresh hards.

“Clear, clear!” My race engineer shouts, and I launch back onto the track, the car surging forward with renewed energy.

But there she is, Blair, just ahead of me as we merge onto the racing line, the undercut strategy working to perfection. Those few seconds in the pit were enough for her to claim track position.

“Fuck,” I growl, but there’s no real anger in it. Instead, a wild joy bubbles up inside me, a primal exhilaration at having genuine competition. Both of us on hard compounds now, this is pure racing, skill against skill, nerve against nerve.

I feel Nick’s love swirling in my womb.

In Nick I trust.

Through turn 8, I close the gap, my front wing slicing through the disturbed air of her wake. The car squirms beneath me, fighting the dirty air, but I wrestle it into submission. Turn 9 comes and goes, another opportunity missed as Blair defends with unexpected precision.

At the hairpin, I dive to the inside, braking impossibly late. For a breathless moment, I think I’ve got her, but this sneaky bitch slides her car across the apex with perfect timing, maintaining her position by mere centimeters.

“She’s defending well,” my engineer notes unnecessarily.

“I can see that,” I snarl back through a fierce grin. This is what I’ve been missing, a worthy opponent, someone who forces me to dig deeper, to find reserves of skill I’d forgotten I possessed.

The dance continues for laps. I stalk her through the Spoon Curve, waiting, calculating, feeling the machine respond to my every thought.

By lap 31, I see my opening. Blair defends the inside line, but I’ve baited her perfectly. I swing wide, catching the slipstream before pulling alongside. The speedometer climbs past 300 km/h as we hurtle side by side toward the braking zone. For one perfect moment, we’re parallel.

I break a heartbeat later than is sane, the g-forces crushing my body as I claim the inside line. My tires scream in protest but hold just enough grip for me to slide past her, claiming the position with millimeters to spare.

“Position secured,” my engineer confirms unnecessarily. I can feel Blair’s rage radiating from behind me, can almost taste her fury through the carbon fiber separating us.

The victory is short-lived. Four laps later, she returns the favor with ruthless precision. I defend the inside line through Degner, but she hooks her front wheel into a gap I didn’t even know existed, slithering past me with audacious skill that forces an appreciative laugh from my throat.

We trade positions twice more in the following laps, wheel-to-wheel through corners where most drivers wouldn’t dare attempt a pass. Each exchange is more daring than the last, a dangerous ballet at the absolute limit of adhesion. My heart pounds with exhilaration, not fear.

This is pure racing, no team orders, no fuel saving, no tire management. Just two alpha predators battling for supremacy on one of the most demanding circuits in the world.

The realization hits me as we scream through the S-curves in perfect tandem. I’m having fun. Not just the satisfaction of domination, but genuine joy in the battle itself.

The only thing that’s brought me more pleasure than this has been my time with Nick.

“Three laps remaining,” my engineer informs me. “Gap to P3 is ten seconds.”

I tuck in behind Blair’s car, feeling the turbulent air buffeting my machine as I line up the perfect overtaking opportunity. Turn fifteen approaches, my playground, my domain. I’ve mastered this sweeping turn in ways few drivers can comprehend. With Nick’s cum still humming through my blood-vessels, I know I can take this flat out while staying tight to the racing line.

My lips curl into a predatory smile behind my visor as I prepare to pounce. Blair’s car twitches slightly on entry, a microscopic mistake that will cost her dearly.

This is it. My moment.

Then, yellow flashes across my peripheral vision. Bright, intrusive, unmistakable.

“FUCK!” I slam my fist against the steering wheel, the impact reverberating through my gloves. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?”

My engineer’s voice crackles through the radio. “Yellow flag sector two, Ivy. Maintain position. No passing on yellow.”

“I can see the fucking flag!” I snarl, rage boiling through me like molten steel.

It’s not the prospect of losing that infuriates me. It’s the sheer cosmic injustice of having this sublime battle cut short by some fucking backmarker’s mistake. This perfect duel ruined by yellow cloth waving in the Japanese breeze.

I ease off the throttle as required, watching Blair pull away slightly. Through my helmet, I catch a glimpse of her glancing back, silver visor reflecting sunlight as if she’s checking whether I’ll respect the flags.

“Norris in the gravel,” my engineer updates. “Safety car deployed. Race will finish under yellow.”

The words land like a death sentence. Three laps remaining, and we’ll parade to the finish line like dutiful soldiers instead of the gladiators we are.

As the safety car leads us we approach turn nine, I spot Norris’s car half-buried in the gravel trap, front wing shattered like expensive confetti across the track. Behind the wheel, she sits motionless, blonde hair visible through her visor as she wipes furiously at her eyes.

“Crying again,” I mutter to myself, shaking my head as we crawl past her wreckage. “First Australia where she torpedoed me, now this. Second fastest car on the grid and she can’t keep it on the asphalt.”

“Pathetic,” I hiss, the word lost in the confined space of my helmet.

The final two laps unfold in excruciating slow motion, the safety car’s flashing lights mocking what could have been the most exhilarating finish of the season. Instead, we process like funeral cars to the checkered flag, positions frozen by regulation rather than determined by skill.

P2. Second place. The first loser.

I guide my machine into the parc fermé, killing the engine with perhaps more aggression than necessary. The post-race ritual unfolds around me, mechanics rushing to secure the cars, officials checking weights and measurements, cameras hovering like mechanical vultures.

When I finally extract myself from the cockpit, Blair is already standing beside her car, helmet off, that electric blue hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. Her face is a perfect study in barely-concealed success, silver eyes gleaming with self-satisfaction as she accepts congratulations from her engineers.

She stands, radiating condescension like it’s designer perfume.

I approach her with measured steps, swallowing my frustration and forcing my features into a mask of professional courtesy. The cameras track our every movement, hungry for any sign of teammate animosity they can splash across tomorrow’s headlines.

“Congratulations,” I say, extending my hand with a sincerity that surprises even me. Whatever universal unfairness robbed me of my rightful fight, Blair drove brilliantly today. She pushed me harder than anyone has, perhaps ever.

Her silver eyes narrow slightly, searching my face for sarcasm or hidden malice. Finding none, she takes my hand, her grip firm as we shake for the cameras.

“Thanks,” she replies, her voice carefully neutral. “Good race.”

The words are correct, the tone professional, but her eyes tell a different story. This isn’t just about today’s victory. This is about Nick, about dominance, about proving she’s better than me in every way that matters.

Little does she know, I’ve already won the war that matters most. Nick’s splooge still buzzes inside me, a secret power source she can never access again.

“See you on the podium.”

Chapter Text

I’m wedged between photographers and team personnel at the edge of the podium ceremony, trying to make myself invisible while keeping Ivy in sight. The Japanese crowd roars as Blair, Ivy, and Piastri hoist their trophies skyward, champagne bottles poised like weapons.

My stomach churns with a nauseating cocktail of anxiety and guilt. I failed her. All that talk about being her good luck charm, her secret weapon, her performance enhancement, and she finished second. The ritual didn’t work. I didn’t work.

I spent most of the race hiding in our trailer, unable to watch after the first few laps. Every time I peeked at the screen and saw Blair’s car ahead of Ivy’s, my chest constricted until I could barely breathe. The paddock screens showed her face during the safety car period, calm, focused, utterly unreadable behind her visor. But I know better. I know what second place means to Ivy Hunt.

The champagne sprays in choreographed chaos, drenching the three women on the podium. Blair aims her bottle directly at Ivy’s face with unnecessary force, a move too aggressive to be playful. Ivy barely flinches, her purple eyes cold as she returns fire with mechanical precision rather than joy.

I should have been better this morning. Should have given more of myself, should have found some way to fuel her victory like I did in China. The weight of responsibility crushes my lungs as I watch her go through the motions of celebration, her smile not reaching those fierce purple eyes.

The ceremony wraps up, drivers disappearing backstage for media obligations. I consider slinking back to the trailer to prepare for the inevitable storm of her disappointment, but something keeps me rooted to the spot. I can’t abandon her now, not when she needs support most.

Fifteen excruciating minutes later, Ivy emerges from the media pen. Her race suit is unzipped to her waist, champagne-soaked fireproofs clinging to her athletic frame. Her eyes scan the crowd with predatory focus until they lock onto mine.

My heart stops.

She’s coming straight for me, cutting through team personnel and journalists with single-minded determination. Her expression is unreadable, but her stride has purpose that makes my pulse skyrocket. This is it. The reckoning. The moment she realizes I’m not worth keeping around.

“Ivy, I’m so…” I start to apologize as she reaches me, but the words die in my throat as she grabs my face between her hands.

She presses a finger to my lips, silencing my apology before it can fully form.

“Shhh,” she whispers, and then her mouth is on mine.

This isn’t just a kiss, it’s a claiming. Her lips crash against mine with such fierce possession that I forget how to breathe. My mind goes blank as her tongue pushes past my lips, exploring every corner of my mouth with deliberate, hungry strokes. The taste of champagne lingers on her tongue as it dances with mine, sending electric currents down my spine.

I’m vaguely aware of camera shutters clicking frantically around us, capturing this moment of raw possession for the entire world to see. But Ivy doesn’t care. If anything, the audience only fuels her display.

Her hands slide from my face down to my waist, then lower still until she’s gripping my ass with both hands, squeezing possessively. The bold move draws gasps from the team personnel around us, but Ivy only deepens the kiss in response, her tongue still working magic against mine.

When she finally pulls back, her purple eyes are blazing with something primal and fierce. Not anger or disappointment as I’d feared, but pure, undiluted desire.

“You’re mine,” she growls against my lips, loud enough for those closest to hear. “Every photographer here can put that in their caption.”

My face burns with embarrassment and arousal as I notice the small crowd that’s gathered around us, phones and cameras raised to capture Ivy Hunt’s very public claiming of her boyfriend.

“I thought you’d be mad,” I manage to whisper, still dazed from the intensity of her kiss. “You didn’t win.”

Ivy laughs, the sound rich and genuine. “Win? Nick, did you even watch the race?”

“Yeah.”

She shakes her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Today was the most alive I’ve felt on track in years. Blair pushed me to my absolute limit. We were wheel to wheel, dancing on the edge of disaster. It was...” She pauses, searching for the right word. “Magnificent.”

I blink in surprise, struggling to reconcile this response with the victory-obsessed woman I’ve come to know.

“But you hate losing,” I say, confusion evident in my voice.

“I did lose to Blair today,” Ivy replies, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw with surprising tenderness. “But that yellow flag robbed us both of a proper finish. But the battle, God, Nick, the battle was everything.”

“And the best part,” Ivy adds, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone, “is that I could only fight her like that because of you.” Her eyes lock with mine, intense and sincere. “Without what you gave me, Nick, she would have absolutely destroyed me out there. I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

Before I can process her words, Ivy suddenly grabs my wrist and raises our joined hands high above our heads, like a referee declaring a boxing champion. The cameras click frantically around us.

“For those wondering who this is,” she announces to the gathered media, her voice carrying across the crowd with commanding presence, “His name is Nick Woods. Yes, he is my teammate’s ex-boyfriend.” An evil smile spreads across her face as gasps ripple through the audience. “Blair West discarded him like he was nothing, and I was smart enough to treasure what she couldn’t see.”

My face burns even hotter now. I try to tug my hand down, but Ivy’s grip is unrelenting, her strength surprising even after all our time together.

“Ivy,” I hiss through clenched teeth, “what are you doing?”

She ignores me completely, addressing the stunned journalists directly. “Write that down. Make sure it’s in the headline.”

The crowd of photographers surges forward, emboldened by Ivy’s provocative declaration. Camera flashes blind me like strobe lights as microphones thrust toward us from every direction.

“Nick! Nick! Over here!” A journalist with spiky blonde hair shoves her way to the front. “Were you seeing Ivy while still with Blair?”

Another voice cuts through the chaos: “Mr. Woods, did your relationship with Hunt begin before your breakup with West?”

The implications hit me like a punch to the gut. They think I cheated. They think I’m a slut who jumped from one driver to another without missing a beat.

Before I can stammer out a response, a male photographer with a massive telephoto lens shouts above the din. “Is it true you were cheating on Blair with Ivy before the Shanghai weekend?”

Ivy’s entire body goes rigid beside me. The playful, possessive energy evaporates instantly, replaced by something dangerous and cold. Her purple eyes narrow to slits as she releases my hand and steps forward.

“What the fuck? No.” Her voice cuts through the noise like a blade, silencing the crowd. “Nick and I only started talking after Blair publicly humiliated him. Get your facts straight before throwing around accusations.”

The sudden ferocity in her tone makes several journalists take a physical step backward. The photographer who asked the question seems to shrink under her glare, lowering his camera slightly.

“Blair dumped him in a hospitality trailer before the race,” Ivy continues, her words precise and deadly. “I found him alone and crying, and we fell madly in love.”

She turns to me, her expression softening just for a moment before hardening again as she faces the press. “And for the record, Nick Woods is the most loyal person I’ve ever met. The idea that he would cheat on anyone shows how little you understand him.”

The press surges forward like a hungry tide, emboldened by Ivy’s fierce defense of me. Microphones jab toward my face from every angle, questions flying so fast they collide mid-air.

“When exactly did you two start dating?” demands a woman with a Japanese accent and sharp, calculating eyes.

“What does Blair think about your relationship?” shouts another, his press badge swinging wildly as he pushes closer.

“Is she deep?”

A red-haired reporter thrusts her recorder practically against my lips. “Is it difficult dating your ex’s teammate? Do you still have feelings for Blair?”

My throat constricts as the barrage continues, each question more invasive than the last. The crowd presses in, shrinking my personal space until I can barely breathe. Camera flashes explode like artillery fire, capturing what must be my deer-in-headlights expression.

“Did you move straight into Ivy’s trailer after the breakup?” comes another voice.

“Is it cold or hot?”

“Are you just using Ivy to stay relevant in F1?” asks someone from the back.

My head spins with the onslaught. I’ve streamed for thousands of viewers on a few occasions, but something about these vultures picking apart my personal life makes my skin crawl. I open my mouth, but no sound emerges.

Ivy’s hand finds mine, squeezing with reassuring strength. Her touch anchors me, pulling me back from the edge of panic.

“That’s enough,” she says, her voice carrying that championship authority that makes even the most aggressive journalists pause. “Nick isn’t some paddock accessory for you to interrogate. He’s my partner.”

She pulls me closer, her arm sliding protectively around my waist. The gesture is possessive yet tender, a public declaration that manages to feel intensely private.

“One last question,” Ivy concedes, pointing to a younger journalist hovering at the edge of the crowd. “You. And make it good.”

The chosen reporter steps forward, notepad clutched like a lifeline. She can’t be much older than me, with nervous eyes that don’t quite meet mine.

“Mr. Woods,” she begins, her voice steadier than her demeanor suggests, “what’s it like dating someone who’s so... intense? Ivy Hunt is known for her ruthless determination. Is that what attracted you to her?”

The question catches me off guard. Not another accusation or innuendo, but something almost thoughtful. I glance at Ivy, whose eyebrow rises slightly, clearly curious about my answer.

I take a deep breath, suddenly aware of all the eyes on me, hungry for some insight into our relationship. The question hangs in the air, and I find myself smiling despite the pressure.

“It’s like dating the Lisan Al Gaib.”

Ivy snorts beside me, her shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. She presses her lips together, fighting to maintain her composure in front of the cameras.

“Well, that’s all, folks,” she announces abruptly, tightening her grip around my waist. “We’ve got places to be.”

Without waiting for a response, she steers me away from the bewildered press corps, cutting through the crowd with the same precision she uses to navigate chicanes. The journalists call after us, but Ivy moves with such purpose that even the most determined reporters fall back.

“You know we really shouldn’t have watched Dune the other night,” Ivy says as we finally reach the sanctuary of our trailer, her voice filled with amusement rather than reproach. “Now you’ve got space messiah references slipping out in front of the international press.”

“Hey, you called yourself the Lisan al-Gaib first!” I protest, dropping onto the couch as the door slides shut behind us, mercifully muffling the distant shouts of reporters.

Ivy throws her head back in laughter, the sound rich and genuine, completely different from the calculated chuckle she uses for cameras. She starts peeling off her champagne-soaked race suit, leaving a trail of purple fabric as she moves toward the shower.

“Fair enough,” she concedes with a playful wink. “Are you all packed for Cambridge? We have to leave tonight.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, slumping deeper into the cushions. “Everything’s ready to go.”

I can’t keep the weariness from my voice. The thought of another handful of flights, another track, another media circus makes my shoulders tense. “I hate triple headers. Three races in three weeks is brutal.”

Ivy pauses at the bathroom door, now wearing only her sports bra and compression shorts. Her eyes soften as she studies my exhausted expression.

“I hate them too,” she admits, leaning against the doorframe. “But I need to get to the simulator as soon as we land. The Bahrain track requires completely different setups.” Her lips curl into that predatory smile that never fails to make my heart race.

“Mommy has work to do.”

Chapter Text

Steam billows around us like the ghosts of our spent passion, curling into impossible shapes before vanishing against the cold tile. Ivy’s skin glows pink from the scalding water and what we just did against the shower wall, a welcome that made the sixteen-hour flight fade into distant memory.

“That was...” I trail off, watching droplets trace the contours of her body as she steps out of our shared shower. Even after fifteen days together, the sight of her still steals my breath.

She tosses me a towel with a self-satisfied smirk. “I know exactly what it was.”

The Zenith headquarters in Cambridge feels like another world compared to the Suzuka paddock. Everything here is sleek, modern, and aggressively purple, from the accent walls to the ergonomic furniture. Our private suite sits just down the hall from the simulator room, a strategic placement that I’m starting to resent.

I dry off quickly, watching as Ivy slips into her team-issued compression gear. Her movements are purposeful, almost mechanical, as she transforms from my passionate lover back into the ruthless champion the world knows.

“Let me guess,” I sigh, already knowing the answer. “Straight to the sim?”

“Have to,” she says, not meeting my eyes as she pulls her damp hair into a tight ponytail. “Bahrain’s less than a week away.”

The sixteen-hour flight from Japan was nothing like our private adventure to Suzuka. Instead of Ivy’s torturous attention, I spent most of the journey dozing against her shoulder, occasionally stealing kisses when Blair wasn’t looking. The team engineers were too busy with their laptops to notice our subtle affection, while Bridgette pretended we didn’t exist, a small mercy after her invasive questions about our sex life.

“You literally just stepped off a plane,” I protest weakly, knowing it’s futile. “Don’t you need rest?”

Ivy pauses, her expression softening as she approaches me. Her fingers trace my jawline with surprising tenderness.

“I know,” she says, a rare note of apology in her voice. “This sucks.”

I force a smile, leaning into her touch. “It’s okay. I understand.”

But something inside me crumbles a little. The constant cycle of tracks, planes, and simulators leaves precious little time for us to just be together. Since that first explosive weekend, our relationship has existed in stolen moments between practice sessions and strategy meetings.

“I really would love to tell people I was with you for at least one championship, you know?”

Ivy’s hands freeze on my shoulders, her purple eyes widening slightly. For a moment, she looks almost surprised, as if I’ve reminded her of something she’d forgotten.

“I haven’t told you what my long-term goal is, have I?” she asks, her voice softening to that intimate tone she reserves just for me.

“No, I don’t think you have.” I wrap the towel around my waist, curious about this sudden shift in conversation.

She sits on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside her. When I join her, she takes my hand, tracing small circles on my palm with her thumb.

“The triple crown, Nick,” she says, her eyes blazing with sudden intensity. “That’s what I’m after. Formula 1 is just the beginning.”

“Triple crown?” I repeat, trying to recall what that means in racing terms.

“Monaco Grand Prix, Indianapolis 500, and Le Mans,” she explains, counting them off on her fingers. “I’ve already got Monaco. Thrice, actually. But I need the other two to cement my legacy.”

I watch her face transform as she speaks, a fervent glow lighting her features from within.

“Victoria Zenith and I have an agreement,” she continues. “I promised her four world championships, and in return, she’s going to give me a winning endurance car for Le Mans.” Her lips curl into a predatory smile. “We’ll see if she keeps her end of the bargain.”

“Wait, this has been your plan all along?” I ask, genuinely surprised by this revelation.

Ivy nods, squeezing my hand. “Victoria set up an endurance team the moment I won my first championship. She realized I wasn’t joking about my ambitions.” A laugh escapes her, sharp and delighted. “Everyone thought I was just talking big, but she saw the hunger in me.”

She stands suddenly, pacing the room with renewed energy. “And this year, Nick, after I secure my fourth title for Zenith, I’m retiring from Formula 1.”

“Retiring?” The word hits me like a physical blow. “But you’re at the peak of your career!”

“Not retiring from racing,” she clarifies, her eyes gleaming with that dangerous fire I’ve come to adore. “Just from F1. I won’t be back until I’ve conquered that fucking triple crown.”

The passion in her voice is magnetic, drawing me in despite my shock. This is the Ivy I fell for, relentlessly focused, burning with ambition that would scorch anyone else from the inside out.

I shake my head, trying to process this bombshell while admiring her unwavering determination. “The Indy 500 though? That’s a whole different beast. You can’t just show up and race without a team backing you.”

Ivy’s eyes flash with that predatory gleam. She stops pacing and plants her hands on her hips.

“You don’t need a permanent team for Indianapolis,” she explains, her voice vibrating with confidence. “Special qualification entries happen every year. One-offs for the 500.” She kneels in front of me, taking both my hands in hers. “Besides, any IndyCar team would sacrifice their firstborn to have me in their car for the greatest spectacle in racing.”

I can’t help but smile at her absolute certainty. The scary part is, she’s right. “True enough,” I concede, squeezing her fingers. “Your name alone would guarantee sponsorship money.”

“Exactly.” She rises in one fluid motion, returning to her pre-sim preparations with renewed purpose. “I’ve already had preliminary talks with Penske and Ganassi. They’re practically salivating at the possibility.”

I watch her move around the room, mesmerized by the way she seamlessly shifts between planning career domination and pulling on her socks. The contrast is almost comical, this woman plotting global motorsport conquest while doing such mundane things.

“So where does that leave us?” I ask quietly, the question that’s been lurking beneath the surface finally breaking through.

Ivy freezes mid-motion, one arm halfway into her Zenith jacket. Her purple eyes find mine, sharp with sudden intensity.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean...” I gesture vaguely between us. “If you’re jumping between continents chasing different championships, where do I fit in?”

Ivy’s expression softens immediately. She crosses the room in three quick strides and sits beside me on the bed, her racing preparations momentarily forgotten. Her warm palm cups my cheek, thumb gently stroking across my skin.

“Wherever you want to fit in, Nick,” she says, her voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “I really love you and your company. I want you with me through all of it.”

The tenderness in her touch makes my chest ache. I lean into her hand, savoring the warmth of her skin against mine.

“Let’s say you get it all, right?” I ask, voicing the question that’s been gnawing at me. “The triple crown, the legacy, everything. Is there ever a point where you’d want to slow down? Maybe have a family?” I pause, searching her eyes. “Or are you more like Fernanda Alonso, planning to race for twenty-plus years until they have to pry the steering wheel from your hands?”

A slow smile spreads across Ivy’s face, her purple eyes sparkling.

“Are you asking if I want to raise a family with you someday, Nick Woods?” she asks, her voice teasing but soft around the edges.

I swallow hard, suddenly aware of how much her answer means to me. “I guess I’d just like to know if there’s a future where I don’t have to share the person I love with racing. Where I get to be first priority sometimes.”

A flicker of surprise crosses Ivy’s face, her eyebrows lifting slightly as understanding dawns in those hypnotic purple eyes. It’s as if she’s seeing a part of me that’s been visible all along but somehow escaped her notice, this quiet longing for primacy in someone’s life that’s followed me since childhood.

“Nick,” she says softly, squeezing my hands. “You’re already my whole world. Everything I do, everything I will do, you’re right there at the center of it.” Her gaze intensifies, burning with conviction. “But I promise you this, the minute I reach my goal, the second that triple crown is mine, you will be my only focus. No more chasing, no more proving myself to the world.”

The sincerity in her voice makes my chest tighten. I manage a small smile, trying to ignore the flutter of hope her words ignite.

“That’s really nice to hear,” I tell her, though “nice” feels woefully inadequate for the wave of emotion washing through me.

She leans forward, pressing her forehead against mine. “I mean it, Nick. I’ve never wanted a future with anyone before you. I’ve never even considered slowing down.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “But with you? I can actually see it. A life after racing.”

My throat tightens with sudden emotion. The words tumble out before I can stop them.

“But what if... what if my essence or whatever you call it when you race suddenly stops working? You wouldn’t just get rid of me, right?”

The question hangs between us, raw and vulnerable. I hadn’t meant to voice my deepest fear so bluntly, but there it is.

Ivy’s expression shifts from surprise to something softer. Without a word, she rises and crosses to her travel bag in the corner of the room. She rummages inside for a moment, her back to me, before turning with something clutched in her palm.

“I was going to wait,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically nervous. “I had this whole plan for Bahrain.”

My heart stutters as she approaches and, in one fluid motion, drops to one knee before me. Between her fingers gleams a ring with a diamond so massive it catches the light from every angle.

“I was hoping to do this when I had you in a skirt on the podium in Bahrain with me,” she confesses, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. “In front of all those cameras, so you couldn’t possibly say no. But since I lost at Suzuka, the skirt bet is off the table.”

I stare at her, completely dumbfounded, my mouth opening and closing without sound.

“Nick Woods,” she continues, her purple eyes locked on mine with an intensity that steals my breath, “I don’t give a damn about your ‘essence’ or whatever magical racing boost you think you give me. I love you. Every anxious, self-deprecating, stupidly loyal part of you.” She takes a deep breath. “Will you marry me?”

The room spins around me. This can’t be happening. Not to me. Not with her. Not after everything we’ve been through in such a short time.

“Are you serious?” I manage to croak, staring at the glittering ring. “We’ve only been together for, what, two weeks?”

Ivy doesn’t flinch. “When you know, you know. And I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

Every logical part of my brain is screaming at me that this is wrong, that it’s stupid, that it’s absolutely insane. Two weeks. We’ve been together for just two weeks.

And yet...

“Yes,” I hear myself say, the word escaping before my rational mind can catch it.

Ivy’s face transforms, her expression shifting from nervous anticipation to radiant joy. “Yes?” she repeats, as if she can’t quite believe it.

“Yes,” I confirm, more firmly this time.

As I look at her kneeling before me, I realize these past two weeks have been the most intense, chaotic, and beautiful days of my life. Never have I felt so cherished, so desired, so completely and utterly loved by another human being. Ivy Hunt, three-time world champion, the most feared woman on the racing grid, looks at me like I’m her entire universe.

She takes my left hand with trembling fingers, Ivy Hunt, trembling! And slides the enormous ring onto my finger. The weight of it is immediately noticeable, the diamond catching light from every angle.

I can’t help the slight grimace that crosses my face as I stare at the massive stone. It sits on my hand like a glittering beacon, impossible to miss. Despite living in this world for almost half my life, a giant diamond ring doesn’t feel like a thing a boy should have to me.

“What’s wrong?” Ivy asks, her euphoria faltering as she catches my expression.

“The ring is just...” I hesitate, turning my hand to examine it from different angles. “It’s so huge.”

Her eyebrows draw together, that competitive fire instantly rekindling in her purple eyes. “And?” she challenges, her tone suggesting I’ve somehow insulted her.

“I was thinking maybe something simpler might suit me better?” I suggest carefully. “Like a band without a diamond?”

“No.” The word is final, brooking no argument. Her jaw sets in that familiar stubborn line I’ve come to recognize when she’s absolutely unmovable.

She takes my hand between both of hers, her thumbs caressing the ring. “I want anyone who sees you when I’m not around to know immediately that you are owned by someone with the funds to stop anyone who tries to snatch you up.” Her voice drops lower, possessive and fierce. “This isn’t just jewelry, Nick. It’s a warning to others.”

I look from her intense expression to the ring and back again, suddenly realizing I can’t win this argument. Not against someone who treats every disagreement like it’s the final lap of a championship race.

“I love it,” I say quickly, forcing my lips into a smile. The diamond catches the light, almost blinding me with its sparkle. I might not actually like how ostentatious it is, but the fact that Ivy chose it for me, that she wants the world to know I’m hers, that part I do love. “It’s perfect because it came from you.”

Her expression softens immediately, that predatory intensity melting into something warmer, more vulnerable. Before I can say anything else, she surges forward, capturing my lips in a kiss so passionate it steals my breath. Her hands cradle my face like I’m something precious, something irreplaceable. The contrast between her fierce possessiveness and this tender worship makes my head spin.

When she finally pulls away, her purple eyes are shining not just with desire or triumph, but something deeper, almost reverent.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” she whispers, her thumbs tracing my cheekbones. “Every time I think I couldn’t possibly love you more, you prove me wrong.”

“I love you too. But we’re fucking cooked.”

Chapter Text

There’s a sick, fascinating beauty in watching a simulator bounce and pitch while containing your fiancée. From the outside, the massive geometric pod looks like some alien egg sac about to birth a particularly aggressive extraterrestrial, all hydraulic limbs and violent jerks as Ivy pushes virtual limits inside.

I’m leaning against the wall of Zenith’s Cambridge facility, nursing my third coffee of the morning while trying not to stare at the massive diamond weighing down my left hand. A day later and I still can’t get used to the feeling of it, this loving shackle that’s simultaneously a declaration of love and a giant middle finger to Blair.

The engineers huddle around monitors displaying Ivy’s telemetry data, murmuring in that strange technical language that sounds like English but might as well be Twi’lek. Occasionally one of them glances at me with a mixture of curiosity and discomfort, like I’m some exotic pet Ivy brought to work against company policy.

“She’s really pushing through turn nine,” one of them whispers to another, who nods without looking at me.

“Still losing time in sector three though,” another adds, frowning at a multicolored graph that apparently represents Ivy’s virtual progress around Bahrain International Circuit.

The door to the simulator room swings open, and the temperature seems to drop ten degrees as Blair strides in, her electric blue hair freshly styled, silver eyes sharp and focused. She’s wearing the team’s purple tracksuit unzipped over a black compression top, looking every inch the professional athlete she is.

“Morning,” she says to the room at large, deliberately avoiding eye contact with me as she approaches the engineers. “How’s she doing?”

The engineers mumble their replies, one of them gesturing to the screens with a nervous glance my way. Blair follows his gaze, and that’s when her silver eyes lock onto the diamond glinting on my left hand.

Her entire body freezes mid-step. I instinctively try to hide my hand behind my back, but it’s too late. Blair’s face drains of color, her eyes widening to an almost comical size.

Before I can even process what’s happening, she’s across the room, her fingers wrapping around my wrist with surprising strength. The engineers fall silent, their heads swiveling in unison like spectators at a tennis match.

“I need to borrow Nick for a moment,” Blair announces, her voice strained with forced casualness. “Team matter.”

Without waiting for a response, she drags me toward the door, her grip tight enough to leave marks. I stumble after her, too shocked by her sudden action to resist. The last thing I see before the door swings shut is the bewildered expressions of the engineers, their mouths hanging open in collective confusion.

Blair pulls me down the hallway and into a small supply closet, flipping on the light and slamming the door behind us. The space is cramped, filled with spare computer equipment and cleaning supplies. The scent of industrial disinfectant fills my nostrils as Blair finally releases my wrist, her breathing heavy.

“Nick, what the fuck are you doing?” she hisses, grabbing my left hand and holding it up between us, the diamond catching the harsh fluorescent light. Her face isn’t angry like I expected, it’s genuinely worried, almost frightened. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I…”

“Nick, I’m worried about you,” Blair cuts me off, her silver eyes searching mine with what appears to be genuine concern. Her voice has lost its usual edge, replaced by something softer, almost pleading.

I pull my hand from her grasp, anger flaring inside me. “You don’t get to be worried about me.”

“Listen to me,” she says, stepping closer in the cramped space. “Ivy is really fucking cruel. You’ve seen her on TV before, right? The way she treats her competitors, her team, hell, even journalists, and fans.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Aren’t you worried she’ll treat you like that too? This is happening so fast...”

The genuine fear in her expression catches me off guard. For a moment, I see a glimpse of the Blair I fell for, the woman who’d wake me with gentle kisses and whispered jokes, not the cold, calculating driver who discarded me when I became inconvenient.

“Does your mom even know?” she asks, gesturing to the ring.

I let out a bitter laugh. “No. When it came out on Twitter that I was dating Ivy, Mom called me to tell me I’m a slut and that if I was a girl, she would have beaten me.” The words taste like ash in my mouth. “So no, I haven’t rushed to share the happy engagement news with her.”

Blair’s face twists into a sneer. For a moment, she looks genuinely pained.

“Fucking Kendal,” she mutters, running a hand through her electric blue hair. “Look, I know we’ve got... history, but we dated for years, Nick. Tell your sister about this engagement, at least. Melissa’s always been a good sounding board for you.”

She steps closer, her silver eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable.

“You need someone rational in your life right now. Someone who can help you think this through properly.” Her voice softens. “I’m not asking you to come back to me, I swear. I’m just worried about someone who used to be my best friend.”

The sincerity in her tone catches me off guard. For a second, I almost believe her.

“Fuck off, Blair,” I snap, my patience finally shattering. “I’ll tell whoever I want about my engagement when I’m ready. It’s none of your fucking business anymore.”

The words explode from me with a force that surprises us both. Blair flinches, her silver eyes widening at my uncharacteristic outburst. Before she can respond, the supply closet door swings open, flooding the cramped space with harsh hallway light.

Ivy stands in the doorway, still wearing her simulator suit, purple eyes taking in the scene with dangerous stillness. She doesn’t speak, just stares at Blair with an expression so cold it could freeze hellfire.

Blair’s shoulders slump slightly. She gives me one last searching look before brushing past Ivy and walking away down the corridor without another word.

Ivy watches her retreat, then turns to me. “She’s upset we’re engaged?”

“Yeah. She wants me to tell my sister and mom,” I explain, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “Like she has any right to dictate who I share our news with.”

“I’d love to tell them, Nick,” Ivy says, a predatory smile spreading across her face. “Especially your mother. I’ve been dying to meet the woman who wants to hurt you.”

My stomach tightens at the thought. “I’m not ready for that particular apocalypse yet. Mom would probably have an aneurysm on the spot.”

Ivy wraps an arm around my waist, guiding me away from the supply closet. “I’ve done enough sim work for today anyway. Let’s go lay down.”

We make our way through Zenith’s labyrinthine hallways, the purple-accented walls giving everything an otherworldly glow. Ivy’s hand never leaves my lower back, her touch both protective and affectionate as we pass curious team members who pretend not to notice us.

Once we’re back in our suite, I collapse onto the bed with a groan. The emotional whiplash of the last twenty-four hours, from surprise proposal to Blair’s ambush, has left me completely drained.

My phone buzzes in my pocket just as Ivy starts peeling off her simulator suit. The screen lights up with Melissa’s face, her familiar smile looking up at me from my contacts.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, staring at my sister’s name flashing on the screen. The timing is so perfect it feels staged, like the universe is conspiring to keep this engagement drama rolling. “This is way too convenient.”

“Who is it?” Ivy asks, pausing with her suit halfway down her torso.

“Melissa,” I reply, holding up the phone so she can see. “Right after Blair suggested I call her. What are the odds?”

Ivy’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “That’s... interesting.”

I swipe to answer, putting the call on speaker. “Hey, Melissa.”

“Nick?” Melissa’s voice crackles through the speaker, sounding more bewildered than anything else. “I just got the weirdest text from Blair. She says you’re... engaged to Ivy Hunt? That can’t be right.”

I shoot a glance at Ivy, who’s now perched on the edge of the bed, her simulator suit pooled around her waist as she leans in to listen.

“Yeah, actually,” I confirm, my voice surprisingly steady. “It just happened last night.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. I can almost see Melissa’s face, her brows knitting together the way they always do when she’s processing something unexpected.

“Oh,” she finally says, the single syllable heavy with unspoken questions. “That’s... fast.”

Ivy’s lips curl into that predatory smile I’ve come to adore. She slides closer to me on the bed, her body radiating heat as she presses against my side.

“It’s not fast when you know,” Ivy interjects, leaning closer to the phone, her voice rich with certainty. “Some people spend years together and never truly connect. Nick and I found something real the moment we met.”

Her hand slides possessively over mine, fingers interlacing as she brings our joined hands to her lips, pressing a kiss against my knuckles just above the diamond ring.

“We’re absolutely crazy about each other,” she continues, her purple eyes never leaving mine as she speaks to my sister. “When you know, you know.”

There’s another lengthy pause from Melissa’s end. I can practically hear the gears turning in her head, processing this bombshell with the same methodical approach she uses to analyze race data.

“Nick,” Melissa finally says, her voice softer now, almost cautious. “Can we talk? Just us?”

Before I can respond, Ivy’s grip on my hand tightens fractionally. “Anything you want to say to my fiancé, you can say in front of me,” she declares, her tone light but with that unmistakable edge of steel beneath.

“It’s true,” I say quickly, squeezing Ivy’s hand. “I know how this sounds, Mel, but behind all that competitive intensity, she’s incredibly sweet with me. She’s a total softy.”

Ivy’s eyes widen, her expression a mixture of surprise and something almost like embarrassment at being described as a “softy.” I’ve never seen her look so caught off guard.

“Oh,” Melissa’s voice softens. “Well, alright then. So she’s treating you well?”

“Better than I’ve ever been treated,” I reply honestly, running my thumb over Ivy’s knuckles. “Even when things were good with Blair, they were never this good. Ivy actually sees me.”

There’s a long pause, and I can almost picture Melissa’s resigned expression, the one she’s worn since childhood whenever she decides to support my questionable decisions.

“Well,” she finally sighs, “if you’re happy, I’m happy for you. And worst case scenario, you divorce her for half her money in a few years.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Ivy blurts out, looking genuinely alarmed as she leans closer to the phone. The sudden loss of control in the conversation has clearly caught her off guard. “That’s not…”

“Oh shit!” Melissa suddenly exclaims, cutting Ivy off mid-sentence. “I completely forgot. I meant to call you the other day. Herta took a nasty hit during testing. Broke her collarbone and fractured two ribs.”

“Is she okay?” I ask having no idea who Herta is.

“She’ll recover, but she’s out for at least two months,” Melissa continues, her voice quickening with excitement. “And since I’m already driving for Andretti in Formula E, they’ve asked me to step in. They’re flying me back and forth for the next month to prep for the Indy 500 qualification.”

My heart rate kicks up a notch. The Indianapolis 500, the race I’ve streamed more than any other.

“That’s amazing, Mel!” I exclaim, genuinely thrilled for my sister.

“If I qualify, you should come watch me race,” Melissa says, her voice warm with invitation. “You’d love it, Nick.”

I’m already nodding enthusiastically before I remember she can’t see me. “That would be incredible! I’d…”

The sudden tension in Ivy’s body stops me mid-sentence. Her fingers have gone rigid in mine, and when I glance at her face, I see her purple eyes have narrowed to slits, her jaw clenched tight. She looks... conflicted, almost pained.

“Uhhh,” Ivy interjects, her voice strangely strained. “Melissa, can we discuss this as a couple before Nick gets back to you? The timing is a bit complicated.”

I frown, confused by Ivy’s reaction until it hits me, the Indy 500 coincides with Race 8 in Monaco.

“Oh, sure,” Melissa replies easily. “I just know Nick loves Indianapolis more than any other track when he streams. I figured he’d enjoy walking the actual circuit, feeling the history of the place.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” Ivy says, her tone carefully neutral. “We’ll talk it over and let you know.”

“Sounds good,” Melissa says. “Congrats again on the engagement, you two. Try not to kill each other before the wedding.”

After we end the call, Ivy’s expression clouds over like a storm front. She pulls away slightly, her bottom lip jutting out in that adorable pout I’ve come to recognize when something’s truly bothering her.

“I really don’t want you to go,” she says quietly, staring down at our intertwined hands.

My heart sinks. The Indianapolis 500 has been my dream race since I was a kid, watching from the family garage while everyone fussed over Melissa. To see it in person, to breathe in that century of history, to feel the rumble of engines vibrating through my chest...

“Alright then,” I sigh, resignation settling over me like a heavy blanket. “I won’t go.”

Ivy’s head snaps up, her purple eyes widening with surprise. “No,” she says firmly, reaching out to tap my forehead gently with her palm. The gesture is unexpectedly tender, almost playful despite the serious conversation.

“You’re going to go,” she continues, her voice taking on a strange, determined quality. “I just have to get over it. It’s one race out of the season, and I’ve already won Monaco the past three years.”

She sounds like she’s giving herself a pep talk, convincing herself more than me.

“Huh?” I blink at her, genuinely confused by this sudden reversal.

“Yeah, I know I could argue with you and demand you wait for me to get there after F1,” she explains, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her simulator suit. “But I mean... it’s your sister. Even if I don’t respect her as a racer, she’s still family.”

The admission seems to cost her something, each word carefully measured as if she’s testing out this new, accommodating version of herself.

“You’ll fly out to Spain the minute the race is over though,” she adds quickly, her competitive nature reasserting itself. “And meet me there.”

A smile spreads across my face, warm and genuine. “Alright.”

Ivy’s shoulders relax slightly, as if she’s passed some internal test. She crawls fully onto the bed, abandoning the rest of her simulator suit in a purple puddle on the floor. Her sports bra and compression shorts cling to her athletic frame as she straddles my lap, her hands coming to rest on my shoulders.

“Besides,” she says, her lips curling into that predatory smile that never fails to make my heart race, “I have a plan to make sure you don’t forget who you belong to while you’re watching your sister race.”

“Oh?” I manage, my mouth suddenly dry as her fingers trace the collar of my shirt.

“I’m going to fuck you so thoroughly before you leave,” she purrs, leaning closer until her lips brush against my ear, “that you’ll still be trembling while you’re sitting in those stands.”

“I can’t wait.”

Chapter Text

There’s something hypnotic about watching the woman you love speed around a racetrack at 300 km/h, like watching a goddess of war dance between disaster and glory. My knuckles have gone white against the Paddock Club balcony railing, the diamond on my finger catching Bahrain’s merciless sunlight as Ivy’s purple machine screams down the main straight.

The desert heat is oppressive, sweat trickling down my back despite the air conditioning pumping through the exclusive viewing area. I’ve barely touched my champagne, too focused on the purple blur that contains my fiancée as she fights for pole position.

“Fucking hell,” mutters a voice beside me, followed by a disgruntled sigh.

I tear my eyes away from the track to find a guy about my age leaning against the railing. He has short dark brown hair and bloodshot brown eyes, his expensive designer shirt partially unbuttoned and showing a bit too much chest. The fruity concoction in his hand looks radioactive, decorated with at least three different tropical garnishes and a tiny purple umbrella. He takes a long sip, leaving a mustache of condensation on his upper lip that he doesn’t bother to wipe away.

When he notices me looking, he straightens his posture and extends his free hand, the movement causing his drink to slosh dangerously.

“You’re Nick, right?” he asks, his words carrying the slight slur of someone several drinks deep.

“Yeah,” I reply cautiously, shaking his hand.

He tosses his head to get his bangs out of his eyes, a gesture that reminds me of every popular boy in high school. “I’m Adam. Lana Norris’s boyfriend.”

My stomach tightens. Lana Norris, the British driver whose crash brought out the yellow flags in Suzuka that cost Ivy her battle with Blair. The one Ivy called “pathetic” for crying in her car.

“Nice to meet you,” I offer, turning back to the track where Ivy’s purple machine is starting another flying lap.

Adam sways slightly on his feet, leaning in closer than necessary. His perfume, something expensive and overpowering, mixes unpleasantly with the scent of alcohol.

“Can you keep a secret?” he asks, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

I lean back, creating some distance between us. “Probably not, to be honest.”

He laughs, but there’s something broken in the sound, a hollowness that doesn’t match his attempt at camaraderie. His bloodshot eyes reflect something darker than mere intoxication.

“Lana’s team principal has been blackmailing me,” he blurts out, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

“What?” I nearly choke on my champagne.

Adam leans in closer, his drink sloshing dangerously as he cups one hand around his mouth. “Lana has this... kink,” he whispers, his cheeks flushing. “She likes to watch me with black pregnant women.”

My brain short-circuits, unable to process what I’m hearing. “I... what?”

“Well, she actually prefers when they peg me,” he continues, his face now crimson as he takes another gulp of his drink. “You know, with strap-ons and stuff.”

“Please stop talking to me,” I mutter, looking desperately for an escape route.

He doesn’t seem to register my discomfort, continuing as if I’d asked for elaboration. “But now Morgan Stella, Lana’s team principal, she found out somehow. She has videos, and she’s threatening to release them if I don’t ‘play ball.’”

The conversation has veered so far from normal paddock small talk that I feel like I’ve entered some bizarre alternate dimension. On the track below, Ivy’s car screams past, completely unaware of the surreal conversation happening above.

“You need to tell the police.”

“Jesus,” Adam murmurs, his eyes suddenly wide with panic. His phone erupts with a shrill ringtone, and he nearly drops his tropical abomination as he fumbles to retrieve it from his pocket. The caller ID drains his face of color.

“Oh no,” he whispers, hand trembling as he holds up the screen. “It’s Morgan. What should I even say to her?”

I just stare at him, completely at a loss for words. Instead of waiting for my response, Adam lets out a small squeak and scurries away, phone clutched to his ear like it might bite him. His shoulders hunch as he disappears behind a group of corporate sponsors, his voice rising to a high-pitched “Yes, Ms. Stella, right away!”

“What the fuck?” I mutter, watching his retreat with a mixture of confusion and relief.

The surreal encounter leaves me feeling like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s fever dream. I turn back to the track, trying to refocus on Ivy’s qualifying session, but Adam’s bizarre confession lingers in my mind like an unwanted earworm.

“Excuse me.”

I whirl around at the sound of a woman’s voice behind me, the champagne in my glass sloshing dangerously. My heart nearly stops.

Standing before me is Enza Venturi herself, the Italian racing legend, three-time world champion, and Ivy’s former mentor. Her elegant black hair frames a face that’s graced countless magazine covers, those famous hazel eyes studying me with calculated interest. She’s dressed in an impeccably tailored white pantsuit that makes her look like she’s stepped straight off a Milan runway rather than into a sweltering paddock.

“Holy shit,” I blurt out, my brain-to-mouth filter completely malfunctioning. “You’re Enza Venturi!”

My voice cracks embarrassingly on her last name, but I can’t help it. This woman is motorsport royalty. Before Ivy’s meteoric rise, Enza was the queen of Formula 1, her tactical brilliance and ruthless overtaking making her both feared and revered throughout the paddock. She’s the woman to dethrone Michaela Schumacher for Christ’s sake.

“You’re an absolute legend,” I continue, the words tumbling out in an unstoppable fanboy avalanche. “My sister and I used to watch all your races. That battle with Alonsa at Monza in 2016? Unbelievable. We still talk about it.”

Something shifts in Enza’s expression, her perfectly composed features faltering for just a moment. The cool, almost maniacal smile she’d been wearing transforms into something more uncertain, almost panicked.

“Shit,” she mutters under her breath, her Italian accent thickening with apparent frustration. “You’re much nicer than I was hoping you’d be.”

I blink at her, completely thrown by this unexpected response. “Me? Wait, you know who I am?”

Enza’s shoulders slump as she moves to stand beside me at the railing, her perfect posture crumbling like a sandcastle at high tide. The balcony breeze catches her hair, sending dark strands dancing across her face.

“I came here to tell you to break up with Ivy,” she says, her voice soft but direct.

My expression hardens instantly. “What the actual fuck is with everyone today?” I snap, gripping the railing tighter. “First Adam with his weird fucking blackmail confession, and now you want me to dump my fiancée? Is there something in the paddock water?”

“What…” Enza starts, but her words die in her throat as her gaze drops to my left hand. Her hazel eyes widen dramatically, fixating on the enormous diamond catching the desert sun.

“You’re her... fiancé?” The word trembles on her lips, fragile and disbelieving.

“Yeah,” I confirm, straightening my spine and squaring my shoulders. “And I’ll deadass throw hands right now if you think I’m dumping her.”

I’ve never threatened to fight anyone in my life, let alone a motorsport legend, but something about defending my relationship with Ivy brings out a protective ferocity I didn’t know I possessed.

Enza’s eyes glisten momentarily, but she blinks rapidly, refusing to let tears fall. She doesn’t look intimidated by my amateur tough-guy routine, more like someone who’s just been told their terminal diagnosis is confirmed.

She turns away, leaning heavily against the railing. Below us, Ivy’s purple machine screams through the final corner, setting a purple first sector time.

“You have no idea what you’re getting into,” she murmurs, her voice almost lost beneath the engine’s howl. “She’s not who you think she is.”

I roll my eyes so violently I’m surprised they don’t detach from their sockets. “I don’t give a shit what you think she is or isn’t. I love who she is with me.”

Enza scoffs, a bitter smile twisting her elegant features. “In our last season together, we were lovers.”

“What the fuck?” The words explode from me before I can stop them. My stomach lurches like I’ve just crested a roller coaster. “She never told me that.”

“Did you ask?” Enza’s eyebrow arches perfectly, her expression almost pitying.

“No, I guess I didn’t,” I admit, suddenly feeling dizzy. “It’s only been about three weeks since we got together.”

Enza laughs, the sound brittle as glass. “She begged me to be her lover at the start of the season. She was my protégée.” Her voice drops to a whisper, her eyes distant with memory. “It felt wrong, but oh so right.”

“Stop talking about my fiancée like this,” I snap, my hands trembling against the railing. “I don’t want to hear this shit.”

But Enza continues, her words spilling out in an unstoppable flood, eerily mirroring Adam’s earlier confession. “She showered me with love, with devotion. I gave her everything, my knowledge, my body, my heart.” Her voice catches. “Then finally, our last race together, she had pole position. As we were getting into our cars, she made the most evil smile I’ve ever seen in my life. Her eyes were... manic, soulless. She laughed at me and said she never loved me, that she didn’t even like me. That she just wanted to destroy me. I could barely even drive that day.”

I stare at her for a long moment, then burst into laughter.

“Ruthless,” I say, nodding with something like admiration. “That tracks.”

Enza blinks at me, clearly thrown by my reaction. “Did you hear what I said? She used me, manipulated me, and discarded me when I was no longer useful.”

“So that’s why you walked away from Formula 1?” I ask, leaning against the railing with newfound confidence. “And now you’re slumming it in IndyCar? Seems like quite the downgrade for Ferrari’s last champion.”

Enza shakes her head, a flash of determination replacing the vulnerability in her eyes. “I’m going to beat Ivy at her own game.”

“I’m not following,” I reply, genuinely confused.

“The Triple Crown,” she says simply, as if those three words explain everything. Her hazel eyes burn with renewed purpose.

I sigh deeply, running my thumb over the massive diamond on my finger. “Look, Enza, if you get in Ivy’s way again, she’ll just destroy you. Again.” I meet her gaze directly. “It’s your funeral.”

Something suddenly clicks in my brain. Enza Venturi. IndyCar. My sister.

I jab my finger toward her, my hand trembling with a sudden surge of protective rage. “Wait a second. My sister Melissa is driving the Indy 500 this year, and if I hear you’ve been anywhere near her...”

My thoughts scatter like startled birds. What exactly am I threatening her with? I’m not exactly intimidating.

“I don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll tell Ivy you tried something, and she’ll probably...” The words tangle in my throat as I struggle to articulate the implied threat. Ivy would destroy her, but saying that out loud feels both childish and terrifying.

I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. “Just stay the hell away from my sister. Don’t even look at her, got it? She doesn’t need your mind games or whatever this is.”

Enza’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows knit together in genuine confusion. “Why would I do anything to your sister?” She shakes her head slowly. “I don’t even know her.”

The earnest bewilderment in her voice makes me falter. Maybe I’ve misread the situation entirely.

“What the fuck was the point of any of this?” I demand, gesturing wildly between us. “Coming here, telling me all this shit about Ivy, trying to break us up? What were you hoping to accomplish?”

Enza’s shoulders slump even further.

“I thought I’d save you,” she says simply, her voice soft with something like regret. “Before you end up like me.”

I stare at her for a long moment, this woman whose career I’d followed since childhood, whose races I’d analyzed on endless replays, whose biography sits dog-eared on my bookshelf back home. The living legend now standing before me, reduced to this desperate attempt to meddle in a relationship she knows nothing about.

Without another word, I turn and walk away, leaving behind the woman I once idolized. Each step feels heavier than the last, like I’m shedding some part of my childhood with the increasing distance between us.

Behind me, I hear her call my name once, but I don’t look back. On the track below, Ivy’s purple monster flashes across the finish line, setting a time that will undoubtedly secure pole position. The crowd erupts in cheers, the sound washing over me like a cleansing wave.

“At least she’s driving well.”

Enza:

Chapter Text

There’s a special kind of loneliness that comes from being surrounded by thousands of people who don’t know your name. I’m sprawled across our king-sized bed in Ivy’s trailer, staring at the ceiling while the distant roar of the Bahrain crowd filters through the walls like white noise. My phone burns a hole in my palm, Twitter notifications piling up as photos of my fiancée’s pole position celebration flood my timeline.

The door hisses open, and Ivy strides in like a conquering empress, still wearing her fireproof underwear, her race suit tied around her waist. Purple highlights frame her flushed face, sweat glistening on her collarbone as she tosses her gloves onto the counter.

“Hey, you,” she says, her voice husky with post-qualifying adrenaline.

“Hey,” I manage, not quite meeting her eyes.

She freezes mid-step, those predatory instincts immediately sensing something amiss. Her purple eyes narrow as they scan my face, reading my mood like a speedometer.

“What’s wrong?” she asks me. The mattress dips beneath her weight as she sits beside me, one hand coming to rest possessively on my thigh.

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a boulder. “I met Enza Venturi today in the Paddock Club.”

Ivy’s hand freezes on my thigh, her entire body going still like a predator that’s just spotted movement. Her purple eyes sharpen with dangerous intensity.

“She told me you two were lovers,” I continue, the words tumbling out faster now. “Said you destroyed her at her final race after using her all season.”

For a heartbeat, Ivy says nothing. Then her lips curl into a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Well,” she says with eerie calm, “sounds like she gave you the highlights.”

I stare at her, searching for denial, explanation, anything that might contradict Enza’s story. Instead, Ivy shifts closer, drawing me into her arms with surprising gentleness. I allow myself to be pulled against her, inhaling the familiar scent of sweat and that expensive perfume she wears under her racing suit.

“Did you love her?” I whisper against her collarbone, afraid to look at her face.

Ivy’s laugh vibrates through her chest, a low, rich sound that I feel more than hear. She pulls back slightly, cupping my face in her hands to force me to meet her gaze.

“No,” she says simply, her thumbs tracing my cheekbones. “I didn’t love her. I wanted her so wrecked from that loss that she’d quit racing altogether. Maybe even kill herself.” Her voice carries no remorse, just matter-of-fact certainty.

The casual cruelty in her admission makes my stomach twist. I search her face for any sign of regret but find only that familiar competitive gleam.

My mind reels with the implications. Is this what we are? Am I just another stepping stone in her path to glory?

“You like me more than you liked her, though, right?” The question escapes my lips before I can stop it, small and uncertain.

Ivy’s expression softens unexpectedly. A genuine laugh bubbles up from deep in her chest as she leans forward to press her lips against mine. The kiss is tender, almost reverent, nothing like the possessive claiming she displayed for the cameras earlier.

When she pulls back, her purple eyes shine with adoration.

“Nick, I don’t just like you more. I actually love you,” she whispers, her fingers tracing my jawline. “There are no games with you. You’re not my competition. You never were.”

Relief floods through me, and I wrap my arms around her tightly, burying my face in the crook of her neck. Her body is warm against mine, solid and real.

But doubt still lingers, poisonous and persistent.

“I’m not going to discover this is all some elaborate scheme to get Blair to quit Formula 1, am I?” I whisper against her skin, half-joking, half-terrified of her answer.

Ivy stiffens against me, her entire body going rigid. She pulls back, her purple eyes wide with something between shock and hurt.

“God, no,” she breathes, her hands moving to grip my shoulders. “Nick, that’s not…”

She stops, swallows hard, then takes a deep breath.

“Look, I need to be honest with you,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. “When we first... when I took you that day in Shanghai, I was thinking about Blair. I wanted to get inside her head, to throw her off her game.”

“But then it turned out you were already single by then,” she continues, her voice cracking slightly. “And suddenly, it wasn’t about her anymore. It was about us. You and me.”

She pulls me against her chest, squeezing me so tightly I can barely breathe, her heartbeat thundering against my ear.

“I’ve never felt this way about anyone,” she whispers into my hair. “I meant every word of that proposal. If you don’t believe me…” She pulls back, her purple eyes blazing with a fierce determination. “Let’s do it tomorrow. The second we have a free moment after the race. Let’s get married right here in Bahrain.”

I stare at her, searching her face for any sign of deception. There’s none, just raw vulnerability mixed with that characteristic Ivy Hunt intensity.

My hands find hers, fingers intertwining as I try to process her whirlwind proposal. There’s something beautiful about her impulsiveness, her ability to make life-altering decisions with the same confidence she uses to take hairpin turns at 200 mph. But marriage isn’t a race, it can’t be won with pure speed and aggression.

“Not in Bahrain,” I say softly, squeezing her hands.

Her face falls slightly, that competitive fire dimming in her purple eyes. “You’re having second thoughts?”

“No,” I reply quickly, bringing her hand to my lips. “I just don’t want our wedding to be in a country I barely know. And I’m definitely not getting married in Saudi Arabia next weekend either.”

She nods slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “That’s fair.”

I stare at our intertwined fingers, the massive diamond catching the light. “What about Miami? The race after Saudi?” I suggest, feeling a flutter of excitement. “We could get married in America.”

“Miami,” she repeats, testing the word on her tongue. Her head tilts slightly, those calculating eyes studying me. “You’re American, right?”

“Born and raised,” I confirm with a small smile.

She contemplates this for a moment, thumb absently stroking the back of my hand. I can almost see the gears turning behind those hypnotic purple eyes, weighing options, calculating outcomes, the same way she approaches every race strategy.

“Miami it is, then,” she decides, that familiar certainty returning to her voice.

“Maybe we could get Melissa to come,” I suggest the idea blooming as I speak. “And my dad too. He’d probably like to see his son get married, even if it’s this sudden.”

Ivy’s eyes light up with unexpected enthusiasm. “That sounds perfect. I’ll have my parents fly in from England for it too.”

“Your parents?” The words slip out before I can stop them. In all our whirlwind romance, I’ve heard almost nothing about Ivy’s family. “Will they... I mean, do you think they’ll like me?”

“I honestly don’t know,” she admits, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “My parents have always walked on eggshells around me. Like I’m some volatile substance that might explode if they say the wrong thing.”

The confession hangs in the air between us, unexpectedly raw. I reach for her hand, threading our fingers together.

“Were you always like that?” I ask, studying her face. “Even when you were younger?”

She tilts her head back and laughs, the sound rich and genuine. “Oh God, yes. Very much so. I was the nightmare child who’d rather break her toys than let anyone else play with them.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “I once bit a girl at school because she beat me in a spelling competition.”

I can’t help but smile at the image of tiny Ivy, purple highlights and all, sinking her teeth into some unsuspecting child over a spelling bee.

“We could keep the wedding small,” I suggest, squeezing her hand. “It would make things easier, less pressure. I’m definitely not inviting my mother, though.”

She nods enthusiastically, leaning in to press her forehead against mine. “I can’t wait.”

Chapter Text

[Ivy’s POV]

Some people pray before a race. I prefer to be filled with my fiancé.

The Bahrain grid thrums with pre-race electricity, fifty mechanics performing their synchronized ballet around twenty cars worth more than some countries’ GDPs. I roll my shoulders inside my race suit, feeling Nick’s cum still warm inside me, our pre-race ritual complete just minutes ago.

Nothing centers me like being stretched and filled by him, carrying his power into battle like ancient warriors who fucked before marching to war. The memory of his hands gripping my hips, his desperate moans as I rode him mercilessly in our trailer, sends a delicious shiver down my spine.

I run my gloved hand across my flat stomach, a secret smile playing on my lips. I’m practically bursting at the seams with Nick’s cum. His life force fueling the monster that drives me forward on track. Call it superstition, call it madness, but since Shanghai, I haven’t once felt small.

My gaze drifts to P2, where Blair stands beside her identical purple Zenith machine. Her shoulders are slumped, her posture a far cry from the cocky swagger she displayed in Japan. She looks... broken. Defeated. The electric blue hair poking out beneath her helmet seems duller somehow, her silver eyes vacant as she stares at nothing in particular.

The sight should fill me with satisfaction. Instead, I feel a strange hollowness. Where’s the fun in crushing someone who’s already crushed?

“Everything good with the car?” I ask my race engineer as she makes final adjustments to my steering wheel settings.

“Perfect,” my engineer confirms, her fingers dancing across the complex array of buttons and dials. “Weather’s holding steady. Track temperature exactly as predicted.”

Behind me in P3, Olivia Piastri gestures animatedly to a tall, brown-haired woman with glasses. The engineer nods seriously, making notes on her tablet as Olivia explains something about the car’s balance.

I glance back at Blair, and something shifts in my chest. A race without worthy opposition is hardly a race at all. What’s the point of dominating if there’s no resistance, no challenge?

Nick’s words from before Suzuka echo in my mind. “Can you ruin her.” I told him then I’d make Blair ever regret letting him go. A wicked idea sparks in my mind.

I scan the immediate area. Olivia has wandered off somewhere as well as her engineer. My engineer has also disappeared into the sea of purple uniforms, probably fetching something from the garage. The pre-race chaos provides perfect cover for what I’m about to do.

I catch Blair’s eye and motion her over with a crooked finger, plastering my most infuriating smile across my face.

“What?” she asks, reluctantly shuffling toward me, suspicion etched across her features.

“I just wanted to share something special with you,” I say, keeping my voice low enough that only she can hear me. “About how Nick and I got together. You know, since you’re technically responsible.”

Her silver eyes narrow to slits. “I don’t want to hear about your relationship.”

“Oh, but you should,” I purr, leaning closer. “See, after you reported me to the stewards in China for that yellow flag incident, I was so furious I wanted to fight you, but I found your boyfriend instead. I decided to hurt him. Really hurt him.”

Blair’s posture stiffens, the first signs of life I’ve seen in her all weekend.

“I cornered him in your trailer,” I continue, watching her face carefully. “I pinned him down, tied his hands to a table, and raped him. It’s funny you had just dumped him, he even had tears in his eyes but i had no idea. I thought he was lying until you confirmed the breakup on the podium. Nick fought back at first, but then something... interesting happened between us.”

“He must have felt so betrayed by how deeply you shattered his heart,” I whisper, watching her face contort, “because what started as revenge transformed into something... passionate. You should have seen him begging me to untie his wrists, those pretty eyes all desperate. Of course I obliged.” I lean closer, my voice dropping lower. “And then I fell completely, hopelessly in love.”

Blair’s face drains of all color. Her silver eyes widen, not with the anger I expected, but with pure, unfiltered horror. Her body trembles visibly beneath her racing suit.

“You...” Her voice shakes, barely audible over the pre-race commotion. “You raped my boyfriend because I reported you for missing a fucking yellow flag?” She takes a step back, her helmet nearly slipping from her trembling fingers. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I smile, drinking in her reaction like fine champagne. This is even better than I’d hoped.

“I love to win, Blair,” I say with a casual shrug. “I thought you were like me too. Willing to do whatever it takes. I’d do anything to get in my opponents head.”

Blair stares at me like she’s seeing me for the first time, her silver eyes searching my face for any sign that I’m joking. Finding none, she shakes her head slowly, her voice still unsteady.

“That’s not normal. What the fuck is wrong with you?” she repeats, the words barely a whisper.

I laugh, the sound sharp enough to make her flinch. “You threw him away like garbage,” I counter, gesturing dismissively. “What do you care what happened after?”

The horror in her eyes begins to crystallize into something harder, sharper.

“You’re sick,” she spits, her voice finding strength in disgust. “You’re fucking deranged.”

“Am I?” I tilt my head, studying her with predatory interest. “Or am I just more committed to victory than you’ll ever be?”

Before she can respond, the one-minute warning blares across the grid. Mechanics scramble into final positions, the controlled chaos intensifying around us.

A movement catches my eye, a woman rises from beneath Olivia’s car like some mechanical specter, wiping grease-stained hands on her orange uniform. She must have been working on Piastri’s car while I was busy with Blair, crouched low enough to be invisible until now. Her eyes meet mine briefly before darting away anxiously, focused on some adjustment to her tablet.

I freeze momentarily, wondering how much she overheard. Probably nothing over the cacophony of pre-race preparations. Even if she did, who would believe her? The thought dissolves as quickly as it forms, I have bigger prey to focus on.

Blair hasn’t moved, still staring at me with an expression I’ll treasure forever. It’s beyond disgust or anger. It’s the look of someone who’s glimpsed something truly monstrous lurking beneath human skin. Fear mingles with revulsion in those silver eyes, her mouth slightly open as if words have failed her completely.

“Well,” I drawl, injecting every syllable with mockery, “I’ll see you out there on track, cuh.”

I slide my helmet over my head before she can respond. The world narrows to what I can see through my visor, sounds muffling into that perfect racing cocoon.

As I lower myself into my car’s cockpit, I feel a warm trickle down my inner thigh, Nick’s essence making its presence known. The sensation sends a jolt of electric pleasure through my body, a physical reminder of our connection, our ritual, our power.

Through my visor, I catch Blair still watching me, her helmet now in place but her posture rigid with tension. Even with her face hidden, I can feel the weight of her stare, the horror and hatred radiating from her like heat waves off desert asphalt.

God, this feels good. Better than good, it feels transcendent. There’s a purity to her hatred now, an honest emotion I can use, manipulate, twist to my advantage.

Now, we can finally race.

*****

[Blair’s POV]

The cockpit feels like it’s closing in on me, walls shrinking until I can barely breathe. My stomach heaves violently as bile rises in my throat, the acid taste of revulsion burning behind my teeth. I fumble with trembling fingers to adjust my visor, desperate for air that doesn’t feel contaminated by what I just heard.

Oh god. Nick.

The image flashes unbidden, him pinned down, helpless, terrified, while I was busy sulking over my image. My chest constricts with a pain so acute it feels physical. All month I’ve been drowning in regret over ending things, replaying our final conversation, wondering if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.

‘But this... this is so much worse.’

I didn’t just break his heart. I left him vulnerable to a monster. A monster who’s now smirking at me from her pole position car, purple eyes gleaming with satisfaction behind her visor.

“West? Are you receiving?” My engineer’s voice crackles through the radio, distant and unimportant. “Your heart rate’s spiking. Everything okay?”

I can’t answer. My mouth opens, but no sound emerges. I’m failing at the most basic human functions, breathing, speaking, thinking clearly, just as I failed Nick when it mattered most.

“Blair? Do you copy?” The concern in my engineer’s voice cuts through the fog.

“I’m here,” I manage, the words scraping my throat like broken glass. “I’m... fine.”

My racing suit clings to my sweat-soaked body as the truth crystallizes in my mind with horrifying clarity.

Nick isn’t with Ivy by choice. He’s her prisoner, her victim, trapped in the clutches of a monster wearing human skin.

And I’m the only one who knows.

The realization hits me with such force that my vision blurs. My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly I can feel my knuckles straining against my gloves. I’ve never felt this kind of clarity before, this absolute certainty of what I need to do.

The first red light comes on.

Nick needs to be saved. Ivy needs to be stopped. Permanently.

Even if Nick never comes back to me after what I did to him, I can’t leave him with her. No one deserves that kind of torture, that psychological prison. My throat constricts as I think of him smiling at her side, the diamond on his finger marking him as her property. A trophy of her violence.

The third light glows. Then the fourth.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears as the final light illuminates. I’m not racing for points today. I’m racing for Nick’s life.

All five lights extinguish at once, and twenty-two engines scream in unison as we launch forward. Ivy’s car rockets ahead of mine, her perfect start giving her an immediate advantage. I slam my foot down harder, desperation fueling my aggression as we hurtle toward the first corner.

The world narrows to just her purple car and mine, everything else peripheral, unimportant. My stomach churns with nausea as I realize what I’m contemplating. There’s no coming back from this, no podium that could justify what I’m planning. But Nick’s freedom is worth more than my career, my reputation, everything.

Through turn one, I stay tight to her rear wing, refusing to let her break away. The G-forces crush my body as we accelerate down the straight, my car dancing on the edge of control. My engineer’s voice crackles in my ear, something about tire temperatures, but her words wash over me unheard.

My mind races through scenarios, calculating angles, speeds, points of impact. It would need to look like an accident. A racing incident. Just two competitors pushing too hard, with catastrophic consequences.

As we complete the first lap, she’s still in reach, her purple machine tantalizingly close. One decisive move. Physics would do the rest.

The moment arrives with the next lap, turn one approaching at blistering speed. Ivy takes the racing line with clinical precision, her car hugging the inside curve.

I make my decision.

I deliberately steer towards the inside, positioning myself for the kill. The speedometer screams past 300 km/h as I aim my car like a missile toward her vulnerable side. My breath catches in my lungs, time stretching elastic as my finger hovers over the brake pedal.

But as the gap closes, mere meters separating our machines. A paralyzing thought crashes through my rage. I’m about to end someone’s life.

I slam the brakes, a moment of humanity piercing my vengeful haze. Too late. Far too late.

My wheels lock instantly, tires screeching across asphalt as momentum carries me forward. The sickening crunch of carbon fiber meeting carbon fiber reverberates through my entire body as I T-bone Ivy’s car with catastrophic force.

The world becomes chaos.

Ivy’s purple machine launches skyward, spinning horrifically in slow motion. The nose cone tears away first, disintegrating into a shower of composite fragments. Her front wheels snap from their moorings like toys, cartwheeling across the track in opposite directions. The impact sends her car flipping, once, twice, three times, each rotation scattering debris across the desert circuit.

My own car becomes airborne in the collision’s aftermath, the sudden weightlessness nauseating as my world inverts. The sky becomes ground as I flip, the harness cutting into my shoulders while my head slams against the cockpit sides despite the padding.

We both come to rest in the gravel trap, our multi-million dollar machines reduced to twisted wreckage. The sudden silence after such violence is almost more shocking than the crash itself.

I hang upside down, suspended by my harness, blood rushing to my head. Through my cracked visor, I can see Ivy’s mangled car twenty meters away. The protective halo, that titanium ring designed to shield drivers from exactly this kind of catastrophe, remains intact around her cockpit.

Movement catches my eye. Her steering wheel flies through the air, tossed aside with deliberate force. My heart plummets as I realize what this means.

She’s alive.

I watch in disbelief as Ivy extracts herself from the destroyed chassis, using her arms to pull her body from the wreckage with impossible strength. Not a stumble, not a limp, she emerges like some invincible demon, apparently unscathed despite the violence I’ve just subjected her to.

Hot tears flood my eyes beneath my visor. I failed. I tried to kill her, compromised everything I believe in, and accomplished nothing except destroying two cars and possibly my career.

The marshals rush toward us, yellow flags waving frantically. They reach my overturned car first, voices muffled through my helmet as they check my condition. I can only nod numbly as they carefully extract me from the twisted cockpit.

As my feet touch solid ground again, the full weight of what I’ve done crashes over me. My legs buckle beneath me, and I rip my helmet off just in time to vomit violently into the Bahrain gravel. The marshals step back, giving me space as I empty my stomach, retching until only bitter bile remains.

When I finally look up, Ivy stands twenty paces away, still wearing her helmet. Even with her face obscured, the hatred radiating from her is palpable, a physical force that makes my skin crawl. She knows. She knows exactly what I tried to do.

A medical team approaches, but she waves them away without taking her eyes off me. The message is clear.

This isn’t over.

And Nick is still her prisoner.

Chapter Text

I watch with breathless anticipation from the Paddock Club balcony as Ivy launches her purple beast from pole position, the car responding to her touch like it’s an extension of her body. My heart pounds against my ribs, the diamond on my finger catching the desert sun as I grip the railing. She’s magnificent, a goddess of speed carving through the Bahrain air with surgical precision.

Lap one unfolds like poetry in motion. Every apex kissed perfectly, every straight attacked with calculated aggression. The commentator’s voice booms through nearby speakers, marveling at how Ivy Hunt is “absolutely untouchable today.” Pride swells in my chest. That’s my fiancée down there, carrying my sperm into battle.

But as they approach turn one on lap two, time suddenly stretches like taffy.

Blair’s car, the identical purple Zenith machine trailing behind Ivy’s, suddenly veers inward at a horrifying speed. As she gets closer she finally hits her brakes, but her car ends up locking up.

“No!” The word tears from my throat as the inevitable collision unfolds.

The impact is catastrophic. Blair crashes into the side of Ivy’s car with such impact that it’s sent flying into the air, spiraling wildly against the blue Bahrain sky. Purple carbon fiber explodes in every direction as Ivy’s machine cartwheels across the track.

My legs give out beneath me. I collapse against the railing, unable to breathe, unable to process what I’m witnessing. Around me, the Paddock Club erupts in gasps and screams, but they sound distant, underwater. My entire world narrows to the mangled purple wreckage spinning to a stop in the gravel trap.

“Please,” I whisper, the word a desperate prayer to whatever gods might be listening. “Please be alive. I don’t care if she’s broken just please let her be alive.”

The medical car screams onto the track as marshals sprint toward the crash site, yellow flags waving frantically. Seconds stretch into eternities as I search desperately for any sign of movement from Ivy’s destroyed machine.

Then, impossibly, miraculously, I see her steering wheel fly in the air with an angry throw. And then her purple helmet emerges from the wreckage. Ivy lifts herself from the twisted carbon fiber with fluid movements that defy the violence she just endured. She stands, brushes gravel from her suit, and turns toward Blair’s overturned car with such deliberate menace that I can feel it even from this distance.

Relief floods through me with such force that my knees nearly buckle again. She’s alive. She’s walking. She’s okay.

The moment of relief is immediately followed by a second cold wave of dread as my eyes dart back to Blair’s overturned car. Oh God. Blair. The mangled purple chassis lies upside down, smoke wisping from the twisted remains.

My stomach lurches. Despite everything, despite the humiliation, the public breakup, the way she’d tried to manipulate me in Cambridge, I feel sick at the thought of her being seriously hurt. I never wanted this. Not for her. Not for anyone.

“Please get out,” I whisper, surprising myself with the intensity of my concern. “Come on, Blair.”

I scan the wreckage desperately, searching for any sign of movement. The seconds tick by with excruciating slowness. Around me, strangers murmur and point, their faces reflecting the horror I feel. Someone nearby is filming with their phone, and I resist the urge to knock it from their hands.

Finally, marshals reach Blair’s car. They work with urgency, stabilizing the vehicle before carefully pulling her out. When I see her helmet emerge from the wreckage, another wave of relief washes over me. She’s conscious. She’s moving.

Blair stumbles to her feet, rips off her helmet, and immediately doubles over, vomiting into the gravel. Even from this distance, I can see her body trembling violently.

“Thank god,” I breathe, sagging against the railing.

But as my relief solidifies, something darker rises beneath it, a simmering anger that starts in my gut and spreads outward like poison. What the actual fuck was Blair thinking? That move wasn’t just aggressive. It was suicidal. There was never a gap there, not even close. Did she honestly think she could thread that needle at 300 kilometers per hour, or was she just driving like a complete moron?

I push away from the railing, my hands shaking with a mixture of leftover fear and growing rage. People around me are still gasping and pointing, some already rewatching the crash on their phones, but I can’t stand here another second.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, shouldering past a group of corporate guests who barely register my existence. I need to get to Ivy. Now.

The Paddock Club stairs feel endless as I take them two at a time, my heart still hammering against my ribs. Security tries to stop me at the bottom, some rule about staying in designated areas during red flags, but I flash my team credentials with such ferocity that the guard actually steps back.

“That’s my fiancée,” I snap, not slowing down.

The paddock is chaos, team personnel rushing in every direction, medical staff jogging toward the track exit. I follow them, knowing they’ll lead me to where the drivers are being brought. The desert heat beats down mercilessly as I weave between golf carts and equipment trolleys, the massive diamond on my finger catching sunlight with every movement.

The medical center looms ahead, a squat white building with ambulances parked outside. Two Zenith team members stand anxiously by the entrance, their purple uniforms making them easy to spot. They recognize me immediately.

“Nick!” calls one, a tall woman whose name I can never remember. “She’s inside. She’s refusing treatment.”

Of course she is. That’s my Ivy.

I burst through the door into the blessed cool of air conditioning. The reception area is a flurry of activity, doctors conferring in hushed tones, nurses preparing equipment. I scan the room frantically until I spot a flash of purple and black in a curtained-off section.

“Sir, you can’t…” a doctor begins, but I’m already pushing past him.

Ivy sits perched on the edge of an examination table, still in her racing suit, helmet discarded beside her. There’s not a scratch on her, not even a hair out of place. She’s arguing with a medical officer who looks increasingly frustrated.

“I told you, I’m fine,” she’s saying, her voice carrying that edge of steel I’ve come to recognize. “I don’t need…. Nick!”

Her eyes light up as she spots me, relief washing over her face. She reaches for me, but I step back, crossing my arms over my chest. My jaw clenches as I fix her with the coldest stare I can muster.

“What?” she asks, her relief morphing into confusion.

I don’t budge, keeping my eyes locked on hers, silently communicating my fury. Her purple eyes narrow, meeting my glare with one of her own, the championship-winning intimidation stare that’s made grown racers tremble.

But not me. Not today. Not after watching her car cartwheel through the air.

We remain locked in this silent battle of wills until Ivy finally breaks. Her shoulders slump slightly, and she exhales sharply through her nose.

“Fine,” she mumbles, turning to the doctor with obvious annoyance. “Let’s run your little tests. But my fiancé stays with me.”

The doctor glances between us, clearly sensing the tension crackling in the air. After a moment’s hesitation, he nods.

“Of course,” he says, gesturing toward a chair beside the examination table. “You’re welcome to stay.”

I take the seat without a word, my anger still simmering as the doctor begins checking Ivy’s vitals. She submits to the examination with the grace of a panda falling out of a tree, wincing dramatically when the blood pressure cuff tightens around her arm.

Every exaggerated wince, every dramatic sigh from Ivy chips away at my anger until it crumbles completely. Watching her petulant resistance to basic medical care after such a horrific crash, I feel something inside me break. My vision blurs as unexpected tears well up in my eyes, the emotional whiplash of the last twenty minutes finally catching up to me.

I let out a shaky breath, a small smile tugging at my lips despite everything. She’s alive. She’s here. She’s being ridiculous.

Ivy pauses mid-complaint, her purple eyes focusing on my face. Her expression softens immediately, the hardness melting away as she notices my tears.

“Hey, it’s okay, Nick,” she says, her voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “I’m fine, see? Not even a scratch.”

I nod, swiping quickly at my eyes with the back of my hand. “I know. I just... I got so scared. Seeing your car like that...”

The doctor discreetly steps away, giving us a moment of privacy as Ivy reaches for my hand, threading her fingers through mine.

“It’ll take more than Blair’s temper tantrum to get rid of me,” she says, trying for humor but not quite hitting the mark. “The halo did its job. The car absorbed everything.”

I squeeze her hand, anchoring myself to her solid presence. “That wasn’t just aggressive driving, Ivy. That was…” I struggle to find the right words. “It looked deliberate.”

Ivy’s eyes flash with something dangerous, a shadow crossing her face so quickly I almost miss it. Her fingers tighten around mine for a split second before relaxing.

“Nick...” she begins, her voice low and controlled. The way she says my name sends a chill down my spine. There’s something there, something she’s holding back.

I lean closer, searching her face. “What happened out there? You know something, don’t you?”

She holds my gaze, those purple eyes unreadable as she seems to make a decision. The bustling medical center fades into background noise around us. Finally, she lets out a breath and pulls me closer until our foreheads nearly touch.

“I need you to trust me right now,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Let’s just get through this medical nonsense and the stewards’ investigation. Once we’re alone, I’ll tell you everything.”

The weight in her words makes my stomach drop. Whatever “everything” is, I can tell it’s not good.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

We push through the medical center doors, leaving behind the antiseptic smell and fluorescent lighting. The stewards are still huddled somewhere, poring over telemetry data and replay footage, deciding how to handle the crash that stopped my heart mid-beat. I don’t care about their verdict. All I care about is the woman walking beside me, miraculously unscathed.

As we step into the corridor, Blair appears like some ghost from a horror movie, her silver eyes bloodshot and wild. Her race suit is half-unzipped, hanging loosely from her trembling frame. Gravel dust still clings to her electric blue hair. She stares at us, no, through us, with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.

“Nick,” she croaks, her voice barely audible. “You need to come with me.”

Ivy’s fingers tighten around mine, her body tensing like a coiled spring.

“He’s not going anywhere with you,” Ivy says, her voice dangerously calm. “Not after what you just pulled on track.”

Blair’s gaze flickers between us, something desperate and unhinged lurking behind those silver eyes. Concussion, maybe? The way she’s swaying slightly, pupils dilated, something’s definitely off.

“Please,” Blair whispers, taking a shaky step forward. “Nick, you don’t understand…”

“I understand perfectly,” I cut her off, surprised by the steel in my own voice. “You nearly killed her. You nearly killed yourself.”

The race continues somewhere in the background, the distant scream of engines providing an eerie soundtrack to our standoff. Blair opens her mouth to say something else, but a medical officer appears behind her, clipboard in hand.

“Ms. West, we need to complete your evaluation,” the woman says firmly.

Blair’s shoulders slump in defeat, but her eyes never leave mine, communicating something desperate that I can’t, nor want, to decipher. As the medical officer leads her away, she looks back once more, her expression haunted.

“Come on,” Ivy murmurs, tugging gently at my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

The walk to our trailer feels endless, the paddock a blur of concerned faces and whispered conversations that halt abruptly as we pass. News travels fast in the F1 bubble. By now, everyone has seen the crash footage, formed their opinions, chosen sides.

The moment our trailer door slides shut behind us, something breaks inside me. The fear, the relief, the lingering adrenaline, it all crashes together in a tidal wave I can no longer contain. I spin Ivy around, my hands trembling as they frame her face.

I can’t stop myself. My hands move of their own accord, desperate to touch every inch of her, to confirm she’s really here, alive and whole. The image of her car flying through the air replays in my mind like a horror film on loop.

“I thought I’d lost you,” I whisper, my voice breaking as I pull her against me.

Ivy’s eyes soften, understanding flooding her expression as she reads the naked fear on my face. She doesn’t resist when I guide her backward toward the bed, her body yielding to my desperate need for connection.

“I’m right here,” she murmurs, her fingers already working at the zipper of her race suit. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I fumble with my shirt, yanking it over my head with such urgency that I hear a seam rip. My pants follow, kicked away with the same frantic energy. Ivy shimmies out of her race suit, her sports bra and compression shorts joining the growing pile on the floor.

When I push her onto the mattress, she goes willingly, her purple eyes never leaving mine.

“This is embarrassing,” she says with a small laugh as I climb over her, reversing our usual positions. “Me on bottom?”

“Stop thinking,” I breathe against her lips, pressing my body against hers, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. “Just feel me.”

Our mouths crash together with desperate intensity, the kiss deep and hungry. I pour everything into it, my fear, my relief, my overwhelming gratitude that she survived. Her hands slide up my back, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us, just the reassuring heat of her body beneath mine.

“I’m here,” she whispers against my mouth. “I’m safe.”

Ivy arches beneath me, her body a canvas of strength and vulnerability all at once. She reaches between us, her fingers wrapping around my length with that perfect pressure that makes my breath hitch. The confident smirk I’ve grown to worship plays across her lips as she positions me at her entrance.

“Show me,” she breathes, her voice husky with need as she guides me inside her welcoming heat. “Show me exactly how much you need me.”

I gasp as she envelops me completely, the sensation overwhelming in its perfection. Her legs rise, wrapping around my waist in a gentle but unmistakable lock, her ankles crossing at the small of my back.

“Fuck,” I whisper, trembling above her as the intimate connection grounds me back to reality. The terror of nearly losing her transforms into desperate passion, my hips moving with instinctive rhythm.

Her purple eyes never leave mine, holding me captive in their gaze as effectively as her legs hold my body against hers.

“I really wasn’t…” My voice breaks as emotion threatens to overwhelm me.

“Shhh,” she whispers, reaching up to trace my lips with her fingertip. “I’m right here. It’s okay.”

Her inner muscles tighten around me, drawing a moan from deep in my chest. I drop my forehead to hers, our breath mingling as I lose myself in her. Each thrust is both pleasure and affirmation, she’s alive, she’s here, she’s mine.

Her soft moans fill the trailer, each one sending electric currents through my body. Every sound she makes is like a secret melody composed just for me, growing louder and more desperate with each thrust. The way her breath catches when I hit that perfect spot makes me dizzy with desire.

“Harder,” she gasps against my ear, her voice raw and commanding even in submission. “I need to feel you deeper.”

I comply immediately, driving into her with renewed intensity. Her body responds beautifully, squirming beneath me as her powerful thighs tighten their grip around my waist.

“Like this?” I pant, adjusting my angle to hit that spot that makes her eyes roll back.

“Yes,” she hisses, her fingers digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks. “Just like that.”

She pulls my face down to hers again, claiming my mouth in a kiss so deep and possessive it steals my breath. Her tongue slides against mine, exploring, marking her territory even as I move inside her. Between kisses, she whispers against my lips, each word punctuated by a gasp or moan.

“I love you,” she breathes, her purple eyes locked on mine with an intensity that’s almost frightening. “You’re mine, Nick. Only mine.”

There’s something in her gaze that transcends ordinary passion, something wild and dangerous and completely intoxicating. The way she looks at me makes me feel both treasured and consumed, like I’m the most precious thing she’s ever possessed.

“Say it back,” she demands, her inner muscles clenching around me in a way that makes coherent thought nearly impossible. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” I gasp, the word torn from somewhere deep inside me. “I’m yours, Ivy. Only yours.”

Her smile is radiant and terrifying all at once, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. She reaches up to grip my face between her hands, holding me so I can’t look away.

“I would destroy anyone who tried to take you from me,” she whispers, and somehow this declaration of possessive madness is the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard. “Anyone.”

Her words ignite something primal within me. My hips snap forward with renewed purpose, each thrust deeper than the last. I feel her body tensing beneath mine, her back arching off the mattress as her inner walls begin to pulse and contract around me.

“Oh god, Nick!” she cries out, her nails digging crescents into my shoulders.

The sensation of her climaxing around me is overwhelming her silken heat, gripping and releasing in rhythmic waves, drawing me impossibly deeper. I can’t hold back the guttural moan that tears from my throat as her body writhes beneath mine, her powerful thighs trembling against my sides.

“Fuck, Ivy, I’m…” I gasp, feeling the pressure building at the base of my spine, white-hot and unstoppable.

Her eyes lock with mine, pupils blown wide with pleasure as she continues to shudder through her release. The sight of her coming undone beneath me pushes me over the edge. Heat rushes through me as I bury myself to the hilt, my entire body tensing as I begin to spill inside her.

“I love you!” The words burst from me mid-climax, raw and unfiltered, as waves of pleasure crash through my system.

Even in the throes of her own pleasure, Ivy’s lips curve into that predatory smile I adore. Her hands cradle my face as I continue to pulse within her, her thumbs stroking my cheekbones with surprising tenderness.

“Say it again,” she whispers, her voice husky with satisfaction.

“I love you,” I repeat, the words flowing easier now as aftershocks ripple through both our bodies. “I love you so much it terrifies me.”

She pulls me down for a kiss that’s surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the desperate coupling of moments before. When we part, her purple eyes are gleaming with something that looks almost like vulnerability.

“I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you,” she confesses, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my sweat-slicked back. “It’s like you’ve rewired my brain.”

The intensity of our connection overwhelms me, and I collapse against her, my head finding its natural place against her chest. My breathing comes in ragged pants, heart hammering so hard I wonder if she can feel it against her skin. I’m still trembling from the aftershocks of our lovemaking, my body limp with release.

Ivy’s arms encircle me, one hand stroking my hair with a loving tenderness while the other traces lazy patterns along my spine. She cradles me against her, my ear pressed to her heartbeat, steady and strong, unlike my own erratic pulse.

“You did such a good job,” she murmurs, her voice a velvety purr that vibrates through her chest. “My good boy.”

Heat rushes to my face at her words, a strange mixture of embarrassment and pleasure washing over me. I’ve never responded to praise like this before, but something about the way Ivy says it, possessive yet tender, makes my insides melt.

She presses a kiss to the top of my head, her lips lingering against my hair as she inhales deeply.

Then she sighs, a sound that carries more weight than post-coital contentment should allow.

“Nick,” she says softly, her fingers still playing with my hair. “I need to tell you something about what happened on track today. About why Blair crashed into me.”

I tense immediately, trying to push myself up to see her face, but her arms tighten around me, keeping me pressed against her chest.

“I think she tried to kill me,” Ivy states with such calm detachment that for a moment I wonder if I’ve misheard her.

“What?” I gasp, struggling again to look at her, but she maintains her gentle prison, fingers massaging soothing circles at the nape of my neck.

“Stay here,” she whispers. “I like holding you like this.”

What unsettles me most isn’t her revelation, as shocking as it is, but rather her tone. There’s no anger, no outrage, just a clinical certainty that borders on resignation. She sounds like someone discussing a slightly inconvenient weather forecast rather than an attempted murder.

“How do you know?” I ask, my voice muffled against her skin. “Are you sure it wasn’t just aggressive racing gone wrong?”

Ivy’s chest rises and falls with another deep breath. “Before the race, I said something to her. Something that... upset her.”

A cold feeling spreads through my stomach. “What did you say?”

Ivy’s fingers continue their gentle caress in my hair, almost hypnotic, as if trying to soften the blow of her next words.

“I wanted her angry,” she says softly. “I thought she’d race better that way. And you had told me before Suzuka that you wanted me to ruin her, remember?”

My stomach drops. I do remember saying that, but it was purely to motivate Ivy, to make her feel like we were a team against Blair. I hadn’t actually meant for her to destroy Blair’s psyche. Just a bit of competitive trash talk that now feels incredibly reckless.

“So I told her about us,” Ivy continues, her voice steady. “About how we fell in love. About our first time together.”

My heart plummets into my stomach, a sick feeling spreading through me. “You didn’t tell her the whole truth, right?” The question comes out as a whisper, dread building with every heartbeat.

Ivy shifts beneath me, and I can feel a slight tension in her body that wasn’t there before. “I told her I raped you.”

The words hang in the air like toxic gas. I pull away from her embrace, finally breaking free to look at her face. Her expression is oddly neutral, those purple eyes watching me carefully.

I let out a long, heavy sigh that seems to drain every ounce of energy from my body. My hand comes up to rub my forehead as I process what she’s just admitted.

“Jesus Christ, Ivy,” I finally manage, my voice hollow. “No wonder she tried to kill you. She thinks you’re holding me hostage or something.”

I sit up abruptly, pulling away from Ivy completely. Anger flares in my chest, hot and sudden.

“What the hell were you thinking?” I snap, running a hand through my hair. “That wasn’t just some mind game, Ivy. That was our beginning. Our story. It was private, special, and you fed it to her like ammunition!”

Ivy sits up, too, pulling the sheet to cover her chest, her expression hardening. “She’ll never be able to prove it. If she goes to the press with that story, I’ll just say she’s lying. You can deny it, too.”

“That’s not the point!” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “You can’t just…” I stop, taking a deep breath to collect myself, unable to really stay mad at Ivy. “And second, I still can’t believe she actually tried to fucking kill you over it. Like, literal attempted murder on an international broadcast.”

Ivy’s face softens slightly. “I know. Complete fuck up on my part. I wanted her angry enough to be at her best, to give me a real challenge. Instead, she’s acting like some sort of avenging angel.” She shakes her head, almost looking impressed. “I didn’t think she had it in her.”

A cold thought strikes me. “Did anyone else hear you tell her that?”

“No, of course not.” Ivy reaches for me, her fingers brushing against my arm. “We were alone on the grid. Everyone else was busy with pre-race preparations.”

Relief washes through me as I lean into her touch, allowing her to pull me back into her embrace. I wrap my arms around her tightly, burying my face in her neck.

“Thank god,” I whisper against her skin. “Even if the worst happens, even if this somehow gets out and you get canceled by the entire internet, I’m staying right here. You know that, right?”

Ivy laughs, the sound vibrating through her chest and against mine. Her fingers thread through my hair as she presses a kiss to my temple.

“My loyal boy,” she murmurs, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve every bit of me,” I say, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. “But we need to fix this. We can’t let Blair walk around thinking you actually assaulted me.”

Ivy’s eyebrows shoot up, surprise flickering across her face. “So what, we’re going to lie to your ex just to make her feel better?” Her tone carries a hint of incredulity, like I’ve suggested something completely absurd.

I fix her with the hardest stare I can muster, letting my disapproval radiate through every pore.

“Fine,” she sighs, shoulders dropping slightly in resignation. “Alright, alright.”

She reaches for me, pulling me back against her chest, her lips brushing my ear as she whispers, “You’re being a real brat today, you know that?”

“It’s Brat Summer.” I say with complete conviction.

“It’s fucking April, Nick.”

Chapter Text

[Tessa’s POV]

Sometimes, the most horrific truths are delivered in casual whispers, caught between the screech of tires and the roar of engines.

I’ve always been more comfortable with machines than people. Engines make sense, predictable, fixable, governed by laws of physics that don’t change on a whim. People are messy, unpredictable, often cruel. Today proved why I prefer the company of carbon fiber and titanium.

My hands won’t stop shaking as I stare at the replay of the crash on my tablet. The footage shows Blair’s car slamming into Ivy’s at Turn 1, sending both machines cartwheeling across the track in a ballet of destruction that should have killed them both. The red flag came out immediately, race suspended while they cleared the wreckage.

But I’m not trembling because of the crash.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to erase what I overheard on the starting grid. I was underneath Olivia’s car, making a last-minute adjustment to her diffuser when I heard Ivy’s voice just feet away, speaking to Blair with that casual cruelty that makes my skin crawl.

“I cornered him in your trailer. I pinned him down, tied his hands to a table, and raped him.”

The words replay in my head on a sickening loop. Nick. Sweet, gentle Nick with his kind eyes and self-deprecating humor. The boy I’ve watched grow into a man, always slightly hunched as if trying to take up less space in a world that never appreciated him enough.

I was always the awkward teenager hanging around the paddock while Nick was just a kid with skinned knees and a permanent look of wonder. Four years older than him, I existed in that strange peripheral space, too old to be his friend, too young to be an authority figure. Just Britney’s nerdy older sister who could explain how the cars worked if anyone asked.

Which they rarely did.

Our families’ lives intersected through racing. My sister Britney battled Nick’s sister Melissa in go-karts all through their teens, their rivalry continuing right up until Britney abandoned Formula 3, deciding racing was more her hobby than career. I stayed in the paddock world, following the technical path while Melissa climbed the racing ladder.

Nick was always in her shadow, the soft-spoken brother of a rising star. I watched him grow from a distance, noticing how he seemed to fold into himself more with each passing year, how his smile became more practiced, less genuine.

I lost track of him after Britney quit, and during college, racing consumed my life, endless hours of telemetry, simulation data, and aerodynamic calculations. Relationships became theoretical concepts, something other people had time for.

Then, about four years ago, I was mindlessly scrolling through Twitch at 2 AM, brain too wired from caffeine and stress to sleep. That’s when I saw him.

“DNF_Nick” was his awful username, streaming iRacing to an audience of literally seven people. There he was, grown-up Nick, with those same kind eyes and a nervous laugh I recognized immediately. He was absolutely terrible, spinning out on corners a twelve-year-old could handle, apologizing profusely to his non-existent audience.

Something about his kindness and genuine enthusiasm despite his obvious lack of skill touched me. Before I knew what I was doing, I’d created an account and started chatting. Within a week, I’d become his most active viewer and moderator.

My username makes me cringe a little now: “Nickismyhusbando.” It was meant to be ironic, a joke he’d never get because he didn’t know any Japanese terms. But watching him now, trapped in Ivy Hunt’s web of manipulation and abuse, that silly username feels like armor.

“Tessa? Earth to Tessa.”

A sharp voice cuts through my spiral of dark thoughts. I blink rapidly, reality rushing back as I find Morgan Stella standing over me, her tall frame casting a shadow across my workstation. The team principal’s vibrant red hair is pulled back in her signature severe ponytail, green eyes studying me with that calculating gaze that’s made her infamous throughout the paddock.

“Sorry,” I mumble, straightening my glasses. “I was just reviewing the crash data.”

“Clearly,” Morgan says with a hint of amusement. “You looked about a million miles away.”

I force a smile, closing the video replay on my tablet before she can see I’ve been obsessively rewatching the same footage for the past hour. “Just lost in thought.”

“Well, snap out of it.” Her hand rests on my desk. “I can’t believe you’re leaving us so soon, and for Zenith of all places.”

I sigh, guilt twisting in my stomach. McLaren has been good to me, giving me my first real opportunity in F1 after years of grinding through lower formulas. “I’m sorry. You know how it goes, though.”

Morgan’s smile tightens slightly, never quite reaching her eyes. That’s the thing about her, everything feels performative, like she’s constantly auditioning for the role of “competent female boss” rather than simply being one.

“After the race today, I’ll need you to sign some NDA paperwork regarding what you know about our car,” she says, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. “Standard procedure.”

“Of course,” I nod. “Trade secrets and all that.”

She hits my shoulder in what I suppose is meant to be a friendly gesture, though it lands a bit too hard. “Perfect! You get it. Alright, I’ll see you later.”

As Morgan strides away, I rub my shoulder absently, my thoughts immediately returning to Nick. When I first heard he was dating Ivy Hunt, I practically begged for the transfer to Zenith. I told myself I just wanted to keep an eye on him, make sure he wasn’t getting in over his head with someone as intense as the three-time world champion.

But now, knowing what I know, that she has him trapped, emotionally hostage after what she did to him, I’m thrilled I made the move. He needs someone to save him from that monster. He deserves someone gentle, someone kind. Someone who can love him for everything he is, not what he can provide.

Someone like me.

*****

[Nick’s POV]

There’s a strange calm that settles over a paddock after someone tries to murder your fiancée. The Bahrain air hangs heavy with unspoken questions as I fold Ivy’s racing underwear into neat squares, tucking them between layers of designer clothes in her suitcase. My engagement ring catches the light with every movement, the diamond still feeling foreign and excessive on my finger.

Three sharp knocks on our trailer door interrupt my packing rhythm. Ivy emerges from the bathroom, toothbrush hanging from her mouth, purple eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“I’ll get it,” I offer, setting down a half-folded purple Zenith team shirt.

When I slide the door open, Bridgette stands on the metal steps, tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. The team’s press officer looks exhausted, dark circles highlighting eyes that have clearly seen too many crisis management situations for one weekend.

“Hey Nick,” she says, offering a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Is Ivy available? The stewards have made their decision.”

“Come in,” I step aside, gesturing toward the interior where Ivy now leans against the kitchenette counter, arms crossed over her chest, toothbrush removed but her posture screaming defensive readiness.

Bridgette enters cautiously, like someone approaching a wild animal. “The stewards have reviewed all the telemetry data and onboard footage,” she begins without preamble. “They’ve decided to give Blair a ten-position grid penalty for the Saudi Arabia race for causing avoidable contact.”

“Ten positions?” I blurt out, unable to hide my surprise. “That’s it?”

Bridgette’s eyebrows rise slightly at my reaction. “It’s actually quite significant,” she explains, her tone professionally measured. “Blair has a completely clean record. No prior incidents in her entire Formula career.”

I glance at Ivy, expecting to see outrage matching my own, but her face remains carefully neutral, those purple eyes calculating something I can’t quite read.

“Fair enough,” I mutter, turning back to my packing. The punishment feels laughably inadequate for what I know was attempted murder, but I can hardly explain that to Bridgette without revealing Ivy’s pre-race mind games.

“The team will release a statement supporting the stewards’ decision,” Bridgette continues, tapping something on her tablet. “We’re framing it as an unfortunate racing incident between teammates. Victoria wants you both to present a united front at the Saudi press conference.”

Ivy, who’s been staring absently at her phone, barely glances up at Bridgette’s words. “Yeah, sounds fine,” she mumbles, clearly disinterested in the PR strategy.

Bridgette looks between us, seemingly waiting for more engagement, but when Ivy returns to scrolling through her phone, she sighs. “Right, well... I’ll leave you to finish packing then. Flight’s at nine tomorrow.”

The moment the trailer door clicks shut behind Bridgette, Ivy’s demeanor transforms. She tosses her phone onto the counter and grabs me by the waist, her fingers digging into my hips with sudden urgency.

“Come on,” she says, her voice low and determined. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Get what over with?” I ask, confused by her sudden intensity.

“Talking to Blair,” she replies, already pulling me toward the door. “Before she starts a fire we can’t stop.”

My stomach drops. “Wait, now? Shouldn’t we…”

But Ivy’s already dragging me outside, her grip firm enough that I have to scramble to keep pace with her determined strides. The evening air hits my face as we emerge, the paddock quieter now as teams pack up their equipment.

We reach Blair’s trailer in less than a minute, the identical purple Zenith logo gleaming under the artificial lights. Ivy knocks on her door.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, the door slides open, revealing Blair in team-issued loungewear, her electric blue hair damp from a recent shower. Her silver eyes widen when she sees us, first with surprise, then with something darker, fear, maybe, or determination.

Before Blair can speak, Ivy shoves me forward, pushing both of us into the trailer and slamming the door shut behind us. The sudden movement sends me stumbling into Blair’s kitchenette counter.

“What the hell?” Blair backs away. Her gaze darts between us, lingering on me with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. “Nick, are you okay?”

“He’s fine,” Ivy snaps, positioning herself between us. “We need to talk.”

The trailer feels impossibly small with the three of us inside, the air thick with tension. Blair’s silver eyes never leave mine, searching for something, a sign, a signal, anything to confirm whatever narrative she’s constructed in her mind.

“Nick,” Blair says softly, ignoring Ivy completely. “You don’t have to stay with her. Whatever she’s told you, whatever she’s threatened you with…”

“Stop!” I interrupt sharply, my voice cracking with emotion. The word hangs in the air between us, stopping Blair mid-sentence.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself against the counter. This has to end now.

“Ivy never raped me, Blair. She completely made that up to get in your head before the race.” The lie falls from my lips with surprising ease, my eyes fixed on Blair’s face, watching as confusion replaces her concern.

Blair blinks rapidly, her silver eyes darting between Ivy and me. “But she told me.”

“She told you what she thought would make you lose focus,” I continue, stepping forward. “It was a sick mind game, yes, but it wasn’t true. What happened between us was...” I swallow hard, forcing myself to maintain eye contact, “completely consensual.”

Ivy stands motionless beside me, her expression unreadable. I can feel her eyes on me but can’t bring myself to look at her.

Blair’s face crumples, the realization washing over her like a wave. She staggers backward until her legs hit the small sofa, sinking down onto it as though her body suddenly weighs too much to hold upright.

“You tried to kill me over a lie,” Ivy says, her voice eerily calm. “You could have died too, you know.”

Blair covers her face with her hands, her shoulders beginning to shake. “I thought…” she starts, her voice muffled. “I thought I was saving him.”

A strange mixture of emotions churns in my stomach, guilt for the lie, relief that we might defuse this situation, and a twisted gratitude toward Ivy for not contradicting me.

Ivy crosses her arms over her chest, her lips curling into that confident smile I’ve come to both love and fear. “So we’re good here, right, teammate? Misunderstanding cleared up, we can all move on.”

Blair’s head snaps up, her silver eyes suddenly ablaze with fury. “Who the fuck lies about something like that?” She stands so quickly the sofa scrapes against the floor. “You told me you sexually assaulted him just to mess with my head during a race?”

“I wanted to race against the best version of you,” Ivy shrugs, seemingly unbothered by Blair’s growing rage. “Not some mopey, depressed little thing barely keeping it together. I thought anger might light a fire under you.”

Blair lunges forward, her face contorted with rage. For a terrifying moment, I think she might actually strike Ivy, but instead she whirls toward me, silver eyes blazing.

“And you!” she shouts, jabbing a finger at my chest. “How can you just stand there? The Nick I knew would never tolerate someone using sexual assault as a mind game! What happened to you?”

Her words hit me like a physical blow. I take a step back, feeling the counter edge dig into my spine. The accusation in her voice makes my throat tighten, but as I glance at Ivy beside me, something hardens in my chest.

“People change, Blair,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected. “Maybe I’m not the pushover you remember.”

Ivy’s hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining. The diamond catches the light as I squeeze her hand.

“The Nick you knew?” I continue, feeling a strange surge of confidence. “That guy was constantly walking on eggshells, terrified of disappointing you. I don’t miss being him.”

“This isn’t you,” Blair insists, her voice cracking. “She’s turned you into something else. Something cruel.”

I laugh, the sound surprising even me. “No, she’s just the first person who’s ever truly seen me. Who appreciates me.” I pull Ivy closer, wrapping my arm around her waist. “I don’t expect you to understand what we have.”

Blair’s face crumples, disbelief and disgust battling across her features. “You’re defending her? After what she just admitted to doing?”

“Mind games are part of racing,” I reply with a shrug that mimics Ivy’s casual confidence. “Always have been. But trying to kill someone over them? That’s crossing a line I can’t even comprehend.”

Ivy leans into me, her warmth against my side feeling like validation. The way she looks at me now, with that mixture of surprise and approval, fills me with a satisfaction I’ve never known before.

“We’re done here,” I announce, turning toward the door. “Come on, Ivy.”

As we reach the door, Blair’s voice stops us, small and broken. “She’s going to destroy you, Nick.”

“No. I really don’t think she will.”

Chapter Text

The first thing that hits you about Boston in spring is the smell, not unpleasant, just distinctly urban coastal, like salt air wrestling with concrete and history.

Saudi Arabia came and went like a fever dream. Ivy won, Blair got second. The jet lag and emotional whiplash from Bahrain caught up with me hard, leaving me alternating between unconsciousness and Ivy’s arms for most of that race weekend. When I wasn’t passed out in our trailer, I was tangled up with my fiancée, discovering a gentleness in her I’d never experienced before. The woman who terrorized competitors on track handled me with such tender care it made my heart ache. I barely left our sanctuary except to watch her drive, content to exist in our private bubble.

Now we’re standing outside my mom’s apartment building in Boston, the place I called home whenever I wasn’t being dragged to racetracks during the second half of my childhood. The brick facade looks smaller than I remember, windows reflecting the late afternoon sun. My stomach twists itself into complicated knots as I stare up at the familiar structure.

Despite what I said a few weeks ago, Ivy said I’d regret not having my Mother at the wedding, so here we are.

“I wouldn’t peg you for a Boston guy,” Ivy says, squeezing my hand as she studies the building with curious purple eyes.

“That’s fair,” I reply, shifting my weight nervously.

The engagement ring feels suddenly heavier on my finger. We’re in Boston with a mission, to get married before Miami’s Grand Prix next week. The plan seemed perfect when we hatched it, a quick ceremony in America before heading to the race. But now, standing outside my childhood home with Ivy about to meet my Mother, I’m questioning every life choice that led me here.

Ivy glances at her watch for the third time in five minutes. “Your mom sure is taking her time to get ready.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “She’s just... difficult in general.”

Difficult is putting it mildly. Mom’s never been one for punctuality unless it benefits her directly. I remember all those mornings waiting for her to drive me to school, making me chronically late while Melissa somehow always managed to catch her bus on time.

My mind drifts to our dinner plans tonight. We’re meeting at Giacomo’s, that tiny North End restaurant with the perpetual line stretching down Hanover Street. The plan is simple but terrifying, tell Mom about the engagement before she discovers it online or, god forbid, at the actual ceremony tomorrow. At least the shock might be contained in a public setting where she can’t completely lose it.

“At least Melissa’s already in town,” I say, trying to focus on positives. “She flew in early just for us.”

Ivy smiles, that genuine one that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. “I still can’t believe she’s taking time away from Indy prep to see us get married.”

“Me neither,” I admit. “But she seemed excited on the phone.”

The venue Ivy’s mysterious assistant booked is some converted industrial space in Cambridge. I’ve never actually met this assistant, just heard Ivy mention her name, Cecilia, in passing. The woman’s efficiency borders on supernatural, securing us not only the venue but a justice of the peace on less than a week’s notice.

“My parents’ flight lands at Logan in a few hours,” Ivy says, scrolling through her phone. “They’re staying at the Four Seasons downtown.”

The mention of parents makes my stomach twist again. “I tried calling my dad again this morning. Still no answer.”

Ivy’s expression softens. “I’m sorry, Nick.”

“It’s fine,” I say, though it isn’t really. “Melissa says the last she heard, he’s just... partying. Living his best post-divorce life.”

A small, bitter laugh escapes me. “Which is kind of hilarious considering how conservative he was when raising us. No sleepovers, no dating until sixteen.” I shake my head. “Now he’s apparently having women half his age do body shots off him.”

Ivy raises an eyebrow. “People contain multitudes, I guess.”

“Or they’re just hypocrites,” I mutter.

The apartment building’s glass doors suddenly swing open with a mechanical whoosh, and there she is, my Mother, Kendal Woods, striding toward us with the purposeful gait of someone perpetually late for something more important.

My throat constricts instantly. Just the sight of her triggers that familiar tightening in my chest, the automatic response honed through years of disappointment and criticism. She looks exactly as I remember, impeccably tailored pantsuit, not a hair out of place in her sleek brown bob, sharp eyes already assessing and finding fault.

Ivy’s fingers intertwine with mine, her grip tightening protectively as she senses the change in my posture. The subtle support steadies me enough to find my voice.

“Hey, Mom,” I manage, the words coming out smaller than intended.

Mom’s eyes dart between us, lingering on our intertwined fingers with thinly veiled distaste. Instead of greeting me, she addresses Ivy directly, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.

“Miss Hunt, what an unexpected pleasure.” She extends a manicured hand. “I must say, I’m rather surprised to see my son has managed to capture the attention of someone of your... caliber.”

Ivy takes her hand with practiced grace, but I feel her fingers tighten around mine.

“I hope you realize what you’re getting yourself into,” Mom continues, her smile not reaching her eyes. “To think my Nicholas could somehow captivate a three-time world champion, it’s quite remarkable. He’s always been rather challenging to deal with. Problematic, even.”

The words slam into me like a physical blow. Heat rushes to my face as shame and anger battle for dominance. Twenty-one years old, engaged to be married, and she still manages to make me feel like an inadequate child within seconds of seeing me.

“Actually, Ms. Woods,” Ivy replies smoothly, her accent crisper than usual, “your son is the most genuine person I’ve ever met. Quite refreshing in my world of fake smiles and hidden agendas.”

Mom’s smile freezes, her eyes narrowing slightly. “How charming. Well, shall we?”

As she turns to lead the way, Ivy leans close to my ear. “I could actually murder her and make it look like an accident,” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin.

Despite everything, I have to stifle a laugh. “That’s my mom you’re threatening to kill.”

“I know exactly who she is,” Ivy replies, her voice hardening as she watches Mom hail a taxi with imperious efficiency. “And I already hate her.”

The taxi ride to the North End is excruciating. Mom dominates the conversation, peppering Ivy with questions about her career while completely ignoring my existence. Every now and then, she slips in a casual barb about my childhood failures or current shortcomings, each one presented as an endearing anecdote.

The taxi drops us at Hanover Street, and I feel like I’m walking to my execution. Mom strides ahead while Ivy and I follow, fingers still interlocked like we’re each other’s lifeline.

Giacomo’s hasn’t changed a bit, cramped tables, delicious aromas, and that perpetual line of tourists willing to wait hours for authentic Italian. Mom bypasses the queue with practiced entitlement, name-dropping someone I’ve never heard of to the host who immediately ushers us to a table.

“Why are there four place settings?” Mom asks, eyeing the extra chair with suspicion as we’re seated.

Before I can answer, a familiar voice calls out behind us. “Sorry I’m late!”

Melissa appears, weaving between tables with the grace she shows on track. Her practical brown bob is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a team Andretti jacket despite the warm spring evening.

Mom’s face transforms instantly, morphing from mild annoyance to something venomous. “You had your sister take time away from Indianapolis to watch you get married to a woman who’s clearly too good for you?” she hisses at me, not bothering to lower her voice.

I shrink in my seat, that old familiar feeling of inadequacy washing over me. Beside me, Ivy’s body has gone rigid, her knuckles white around her water glass. The murderous look in her purple eyes makes me genuinely concerned she might vault across the table at my Mother.

“Mom, please,” Melissa says, sliding into the empty seat. “Let’s just have a nice dinner.”

“Nice dinner?” Mom scoffs, reaching for her wine glass despite it being empty. “My daughter’s career is hanging by a thread, and she’s wasting precious practice time on... this.”

Melissa shoots me an apologetic look before turning to Mom. “My career is fine. Actually, I think you should know why I really wanted to be here tonight.”

Mom’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”

Melissa takes a deep breath, her green eyes meeting mine briefly before she continues. “Mom’s upset because she got kicked out of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway a few days ago for being drunk during my practice session.”

“For having ONE DRINK!” Mom interjects, slamming her palm on the table hard enough to make the silverware jump.

“Five drinks before noon,” Melissa corrects calmly. “And then you screamed at my engineer about tire pressures.”

“AND YOU FIRED ME TOO!” Mom’s voice rises to a pitch that turns heads at nearby tables.

Melissa straightens her shoulders, something steely entering her expression. “I think it’s time I stopped letting my Mother manage my career. Don’t you?”

I glance between my sister and Mother, a bizarre sense of pride swelling in my chest. The restaurant fades into background noise as I watch this unfold, Melissa finally standing up to our Mother after all these years.

Melissa and I lock eyes across the table, and twenty-one years of complicated history passes between us in that moment. Growing up, she was never what you’d call kind to me. She was the golden child, the racing prodigy, and I was just... there. The forgotten son who couldn’t drive worth a damn. She’d mock my attempts at gaming, call me weak when I’d cry after Mom’s brutal tirades. But somewhere beneath that rivalry, there was always something else.

When I left home at eighteen to move in with Blair, Melissa took it harder than anyone. I think that’s when she realized what she’d lost, her biggest cheerleader, the kid who’d sit for hours watching her practice laps, who’d defend her strategies to Mom even when I didn’t understand them myself. The buffer that absorbed Mom’s worst moods so they wouldn’t hit her full force.

The years since have transformed us. We’ve built something better, though it’s still fragile, maintained mostly through distance and carefully timed phone calls.

“Congratulations,” I say to Melissa, my voice surprisingly steady. “I know what a tough shadow Mom’s been to step out from under. That couldn’t have been easy.”

Mom scoffs, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. “Of course you’d support this betrayal. You’ve always undermined my authority.”

Ivy’s jaw clenches so tightly I can see the muscle twitching beneath her skin. Her smile is the most restrained I’ve ever witnessed, lips pressed into a thin line that barely qualifies as an expression of pleasure. When she speaks, it’s through gritted teeth, each word precisely measured.

“Please don’t speak to him that way,” she says, her voice dangerously soft.

Mom cuts her off with a dismissive wave. “Did you know Nick wanted to go to college when he graduated his online high school?” She lets out a sharp, mocking laugh that slices through the restaurant chatter.

I sigh, sinking lower in my chair as the familiar humiliation washes over me. Every family dinner, every holiday, the same stories dragged out like trophies of my inadequacy.

“I don’t understand,” Ivy says, genuine confusion flickering across her face.

Mom takes a sip of water, eyeing Ivy over the rim of her glass. “Why would I waste money for Nick to go find a wife? He sucks at cooking anyway.” She chuckles as if she’s delivered the punchline to a hilarious joke.

The table falls silent. Even the ambient restaurant noise seems to dim, as if the universe itself is holding its breath. Melissa’s eyes widen, darting between Mom and Ivy with growing alarm.

“I’m sorry,” Ivy says after a moment, her accent thickening with barely contained rage. “I think I misheard you. You denied your son an education because... cooking?”

Mom rolls her eyes. “Men go to college to find wives, everyone knows that. What was the point of sending him? It’s not like he was going to be an engineer or doctor.”

I don’t even see Ivy move. One moment she’s sitting beside me, rage simmering beneath her controlled expression, and the next she’s airborne, a purple blur launching across our table. Wine glasses topple, plates clatter to the floor, and suddenly my fiancée has my Mother by her expensive silk collar, yanking her halfway across the scattered remains of our bread basket.

“You worthless excuse for a parent!” Ivy roars, her first punch connecting with Mom’s jaw with a sickening crack.

The restaurant erupts in chaos. Patrons gasp and scream as Ivy rains down blow after merciless blow, her championship-trained muscles flexing with each impact. Mom’s head snaps back and forth like a ragdoll, her perfectly coiffed hair now a disheveled mess, blood trickling from her split lip.

“Ivy, no! There’s people here.” I cry out, my hands flying to my head in horror, fingers clutching my hair as I watch the violent spectacle unfold. My legs won’t move, body frozen between the instinct to intervene and the paralyzing shock of seeing my fiancée beating my Mother senseless.

The most disturbing part isn’t the violence, it’s Melissa’s reaction. My sister is laughing. Not nervous giggles or shocked gasps, but full-throated, delighted laughter as she watches our Mother being pummeled. I honestly would probably be laughing too if this place wasn’t so crowded.

“Oh my god,” Melissa wheezes between fits of laughter, making no move to stop the assault. “Someone’s finally doing it!”

Waiters and customers scatter around us, someone shouting about calling the police while others record the scene on their phones. I remain frozen, watching as Ivy’s fist connects with Mom’s cheekbone, the sickening sound of flesh meeting flesh punctuated by my Mother’s pained groans.

Melissa leans toward me, her eyes bright with a manic glee I’ve never seen before. “She really likes you,” she whispers conspiratorially as Mom’s groans grow weaker. “She doesn’t do this to you, though, right?”

“God, no!” I sputter, horrified by the implication.

“Based. Ivy fucking rules then.”

The fight: 

Chapter Text

There's something deeply unsettling about watching Boston's finest treat your mother like the neighborhood nuisance while your world-champion fiancée stands there without handcuffs. The night air carries that distinct spring chill as we huddle outside Giacomo's, the restaurant's warm glow now forbidden territory thanks to our impromptu boxing match.

Surprisingly, after the cops showed up and kicked us out, they didn't arrest Ivy. Not because they recognized her as Formula 1's reigning queen, which they didn’t, but because they knew my mother. The moment the first officer stepped out of her cruiser, her face lit up with recognition that had nothing to do with racing royalty.

"Ms. Woods," she'd sighed, like she was greeting an old friend at an intervention. "Again?"

Mom sits on a nearby bench now, holding an ice pack against her rapidly swelling face, her face smeared with blood and tears. Her expression is a masterpiece of indignation, as if she's the reasonable party in this entire fiasco.

"Boston is a fucking joke," she mutters, wincing as she adjusts the ice pack. "Those incompetent officers couldn't even arrest the woman who assaulted me in public."

Ivy leans against a streetlamp, looking impossibly cool despite having just committed battery. Her purple highlights catch the streetlight, giving her an almost supernatural glow as she smirks at my mother's complaints.

"Yeah, those cops really hated you," she laughs, examining her knuckles with casual interest. "That one officer actually thanked me when you weren't looking."

Melissa snorts beside me, her shoulders still occasionally shaking with residual giggles. She hasn't stopped smiling since we left the restaurant, like she's witnessed something magical rather than a public assault.

"Mom, maybe we should get you to a hospital," I suggest, my voice sounding strange and distant to my own ears.

"I don't need a hospital," Mom snaps, though her words slur slightly around what might be a loose tooth. "I need a lawyer. I'm pressing charges."

Ivy pushes off from the lamppost with elegant indifference. "Go ahead. I have excellent lawyers."

I watch Mom press the ice pack harder against her face, the blood now crusting at the corners of her mouth. A surge of frustration rises in my chest, not at Ivy's violence, but at the lifetime of small cruelties that led to this moment. Every dismissive comment, every comparison to Melissa, every dream she'd crushed with a casual word, all of it crashes over me like a wave.

"I assume you're not coming to the wedding tomorrow," I say, my voice surprisingly steady.

Mom lets out a harsh laugh that turns into a wince as it pulls at her split lip. She stands, tossing the ice pack onto the bench with theatrical disdain.

"If you marry that psychopath," she says as she starts to walk away, "you're no son of mine."

I expect pain at her words, that familiar ache of rejection that's followed me since childhood. Instead, a strange calmness washes over me, like I've finally surfaced after years underwater. The threat that once would have devastated me now feels hollow, almost laughable.

"I guess I'm cutting Mom off then," I say, turning to Ivy and Melissa with a shrug.

Melissa nods, adjusting her Andretti jacket. "It's weird you haven't yet, to be honest. Blair hated her too, you know."

"Yeah," I agree, remembering Blair's tense smiles during our few disastrous family dinners.

Ivy grimaces beside me, her purple eyes darting between me and Melissa. "We don't need to mention her, do we?" she asks, a hint of jealousy coloring her voice.

Melissa waves her hand dismissively, completely missing the jealous edge in Ivy's voice. "Blair's parents were pretty awful to Nick too, now that I think about it. Remember those Christmas dinners at their lake house? The way her mom would always ask you to fetch drinks while the 'adults' talked racing?"

"Enough about Blair," Ivy cuts in, her voice sharp with annoyance. The streetlight catches her eyes, turning them an almost luminous purple as her jaw tightens.

I can't help but smile at her obvious jealousy. I pull her close against me, feeling her body soften slightly at my touch.

"Relax," I murmur against her ear. "You're the only one I have eyes for. Always."

Melissa watches our interaction with obvious amusement, a small laugh escaping her. "You're really quirky, huh?" she says, gesturing between us. "This whole dynamic is... interesting."

Ivy's attention snaps to Melissa, her body tensing again beneath my arm. She extricates herself from my embrace and takes two deliberate steps toward my sister, pointing directly at her face.

"Listen, Woods," she says, her voice dropping to that dangerous register I've come to recognize. "I want to say this clearly so we never have to discuss it again. I have zero respect for you as a racer after watching your F2 season."

I hold my breath, waiting for Melissa's reaction. To my surprise, my sister just stands there, expression neutral, almost bored. The old Melissa would have exploded at such a direct insult, but this version, the one who just fired our mother as her manager, merely raises an eyebrow.

Ivy continues, her voice softening slightly. "But we're sisters now." She sighs, running a hand through her purple-highlighted hair. "So I guess that means going forward, I have your back."

She extends her hand toward Melissa, the gesture both peace offering and challenge. "But only for as long as Nick likes you."

Melissa stares at the outstretched hand for a moment before taking it, her grip firm as they shake. "Fair enough," she says with a shrug. "Though I should warn you, he's liked me since birth. Blood and all that."

"And yet you were awful to him," Ivy counters, not releasing Melissa's hand. "So don't test me."

The tension stretches between them, electric and dangerous, until Melissa finally cracks a smile. "I like her, Nick," she says, glancing my way without breaking the handshake. "She's exactly what you needed."

I can't help but smile, warmth spreading through my chest. "Thanks, Mel," I say, genuinely touched by her approval. It's a strange validation I didn't know I wanted until this moment.

My gaze shifts to Ivy, a sudden thought crossing my mind. "Hey, speaking of testing you... do you think people will figure out it was you if someone posts their video of that fight?" Several patrons had their phones out, capturing every moment of my mother's impromptu boxing lesson.

Ivy reaches for my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine as she gives me a look that's equal parts amusement and disbelief.

"Nick, of course people will figure it out," she says, squeezing my fingers. "I'm not exactly inconspicuous with these purple highlights. It's honestly a miracle Bridgette hasn't called yet."

Her laughter rings out in the cool night air, carefree and unconcerned, while my stomach performs an elaborate gymnastics routine.

"Oh boy."

Chapter Text

There’s a special kind of hell reserved for meeting your in-laws while ESPN broadcasts your fiancée assaulting your mother on national television. I’m living in that hell right now, perched on the edge of a pristine Four Seasons couch, clutching a porcelain teacup, watching my future spiral down the drain in high definition.

“Look at her face when I connect with that right hook,” Ivy cackles, pointing at the massive suite TV where ESPN is doing a frame-by-frame analysis of last night’s restaurant brawl. “Priceless!”

Her laughter bounces off the elegant hotel room walls like it’s searching for an escape route. I sink deeper into the couch, wishing I could dissolve into the expensive upholstery. Across from me, Mrs. and Mr. Hunt sit frozen in matching armchairs, their expressions a masterclass in controlled panic.

Mrs. Hunt, Elaine, as she insisted I call her with a trembling voice, is a willowy woman with black hair streaked with elegant silver, her posture rigid enough to make a ballet instructor proud. She hasn’t touched her breakfast, just keeps rearranging her fruit with a fork while darting nervous glances at her daughter.

Mr. Hunt, Richard, hasn’t spoken more than five words since we arrived. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, but somehow seems to shrink whenever Ivy moves suddenly. His eyes, the same striking purple as my fiancée’s, keep finding mine with what looks like sympathy, or possibly a warning.

“I’m so sorry about this,” I blurt out, the silence between ESPN segments becoming unbearable. “I never meant for my mother to cause this... inconvenience.”

Ivy snorts loudly from her perch on the bed. “Inconvenience? Nick, I beat the shit of your mom on camera. Let’s not sugarcoat it.”

“Ivy, darling,” Mrs. Hunt ventures, her voice as delicate as the teacup in my hands. “Perhaps we should... focus on the wedding? It’s today, after all.”

Ivy’s eyes narrow slightly, and I watch in fascination as both her parents physically recoil.

“Mother,” Ivy says, her voice dropping to that dangerous register I’ve come to recognize. “Are you suggesting I should be embarrassed about defending my fiancé?”

“N-no, of course not!” Mrs. Hunt stammers, her teacup rattling against its saucer. “I just meant…”

“What your mother means,” Mr. Hunt interjects, his first complete sentence of the morning, “is that we’re very happy you found someone worth fighting for.” His eyes dart to his wife, silently begging her to agree.

“Yes, absolutely!” Mrs. Hunt jumps in with such eagerness that tea sloshes over the rim of her cup. She dabs at the spill with frightened fingers, nodding vigorously. “We’re so proud of you standing up for Nick. Very proud. Such a... passionate display of affection.”

I stare at Ivy, my mouth slightly open, words failing me. This isn’t normal. The way her parents flinch at her movements, their desperate attempts to appease her, it’s like watching people interact with a bomb they’re afraid might detonate.

Ivy catches my expression and her face shifts from amusement to irritation. Her eyes narrow as the silence between us stretches uncomfortably. The ESPN commentator’s voice fades into background noise as we lock gazes across the hotel suite.

When she realizes I’m not going to speak, her bottom lip juts out in that pouty expression I usually find adorable. Today, it just highlights how strange this whole situation feels.

“It’s not my fault they’re afraid of me,” she finally mutters, crossing her arms defensively.

More silence follows. I glance at her parents, who seem to be trying their best to become invisible, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on anything but their daughter. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife.

Ivy shifts uncomfortably on the bed. She looks between me and her parents, seeming to realize for the first time that this dynamic might not be as normal as she thought.

“Relax,” she says them, her voice softer now. “I’m not going to blow up on you, alright?”

She stands suddenly, causing both her parents to flinch again, but instead of approaching them, she comes to me. In one fluid motion, she sits beside me on the couch and wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me against her with surprising gentleness.

“I’ve found salvation through Nicholas here,” she announces, pressing her cheek against mine. “He’s made me... better.”

The declaration hangs in the air, startling in its vulnerability. Her parents exchange a look that contains years of unspoken communication.

“We can see that, darling,” Mrs. Hunt says carefully, the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her brightening her face. “He seems to have a wonderful effect on you.”

Mr. Hunt clears his throat, nodding in agreement. “You seem... happier than we’ve seen you in a long time.”

I feel Ivy’s arms tighten around me, her breath warm against my ear. “See?” she whispers, for my ears only. “They approve of you.”

Mr. Hunt’s expression suddenly darkens, his purple eyes, so like his daughter’s, fixing on me with unexpected intensity. “She’s not... hurting you, is she, Nick?” His voice drops to barely above a whisper, laden with genuine concern.

“Dad!” Ivy snaps, her body tensing against mine.

I quickly place my hand over hers, squeezing gently. “Not at all,” I interject before Ivy can say anything else. “She handles me with nothing but gentleness. She’s always there for me, even when her racing schedule doesn’t really permit it.” I turn to look at Ivy, finding her eyes wide with surprise at my defense. “I’ve fallen completely, madly in love with your daughter, despite how short a time we’ve been together.”

The tension in Ivy’s shoulders eases slightly, but her father’s troubled expression remains.

“I’m not a bad woman, Dad,” Ivy protests, her voice carrying a rare note of vulnerability.

Mr. Hunt’s eyebrows rise skeptically. “You bragged to us about trying to drive your last partner to suicide, Ivy.”

My stomach drops. I turn to Ivy, realization dawning. “You told them about your relationship with Enza?”

A proud smile spreads across Ivy’s face, completely at odds with the gravity of the conversation. “Yeah! She quit F1 because of me.” Her eyes gleam with a disturbing satisfaction. “Do you know how thoroughly I ruined her?”

None of this is a surprise since Ivy already told me this.

“Did she ever bring Enza around to meet you both?” I ask Mr. Hunt directly, my voice steadier than I expected.

He looks startled by my question, then shakes his head emphatically. “God, no. We never met the poor woman.”

I nod, feeling an unexpected weight lift from my shoulders. Something about knowing Ivy kept Enza separate from her family life makes this easier to process. It confirms what I already suspected, what she had with Enza was nothing like what she has with me.

“I’m not going to break you, Nick!” Ivy suddenly exclaims, her voice rising with a desperate edge. She grabs my shoulders, turning me to face her directly. “I would never do that to you. You’re not my competition. You’re my...” she struggles, searching for words, “...my sanctuary.”

I look at her, really look at her, taking in the fierce purple eyes, the determined set of her jaw, the barely contained intensity that radiates from her like heat. She’s objectively terrifying. Possibly unhinged. Definitely dangerous.

And I love her with every fiber of my being.

“I know,” I tell her softly, the truth of it settling in my chest like a warm stone.

Her face crumples with relief as she pulls me into a tight embrace, burying her face against my neck. I feel her trembling slightly against me, a vulnerability she shows to no one else.

Mr. Hunt dabs at her eyes with a napkin while Mrs. Hunt watches us with cautious optimism, like someone witnessing a wild animal being successfully tamed.

Still holding Ivy, I remember the media firestorm undoubtedly brewing outside our bubble. “Before the wedding, we should probably call Bridgette. The PR team needs to get ahead of this restaurant situation.”

Ivy pulls back, her expression hardening instantly. “No. Absolutely not. We’re getting married today, and nothing is going to overshadow that. We’ll deal with the PR stuff after our wedding.”

“But…”

“After,” she repeats, her voice brooking no argument. Her fingers trace my jawline with feather-light touches.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

Sometimes, it's the simplest moments of perfection that hit you hardest, like watching the woman who nearly punched your mother unconscious become your wife under strings of Edison bulbs in a converted Cambridge warehouse.

The wedding couldn't have been more perfect if we'd planned it for years instead of days. The industrial space transformed into something magical with minimal decoration, just white flowers, those warm glowing lights, and the three people who actually mattered, Melissa and Ivy's parents. No mother to insult me, no Blair to complicate things, no press to document every moment. Just us.

The ceremony was beautifully brief. Ivy wore a sleek white jumpsuit that made her look like some otherworldly goddess, purple highlights framing her face as she recited vows that made even Melissa tear up. I stumbled through mine, hands trembling until Ivy steadied them with her own. When the justice of the peace pronounced us married, Ivy's kiss tasted like victory and possession.

Instead of a traditional reception, we had a quiet dinner at a restaurant whose name I've already forgotten because all I could focus on was the way Ivy kept touching me under the table, her hand creeping higher up my thigh with each course, her purple eyes promising things that made it impossible to concentrate on conversation.

Now we're in our hotel suite, the Boston skyline glittering beyond floor-to-ceiling windows that we didn't bother to close. Let the world see. Let them all see what happens when Ivy Hunt claims what's hers.

Our wedding clothes didn't survive the first thirty seconds through the door. My suit jacket caught on a lamp, her jumpsuit torn down the middle with a savagery that made me gasp. Now she's above me, gloriously naked, her powerful thighs bracketing my hips as she rides me with a feral intensity that borders on frightening.

"Mine," she growls, her voice barely human as she grinds down against me. "Say it."

"Yours," I gasp, the word punched out of me as she changes her angle, taking me impossibly deeper. "All yours, Ivy."

Her lips crash against mine, hungry and demanding. When she pulls back slightly, a thin strand of saliva connects us for a heartbeat before breaking. The sight of it, this primal, animal evidence of our connection, sends a bolt of heat straight through me.

My eyes literally cross from how good her pussy feels clenching around me, hot and tight and perfect. I've never felt anything like this, never known pleasures could border so closely on otherworldly, never understood how completely another person could own me.

I can't hold back any longer. The pressure builds at the base of my spine, electric and overwhelming. With a desperate groan, I wrap my arms around her, pulling her against my chest as waves of pleasure crash through me. I spill inside her, each pulse more intense than the last, filling her completely.

"I love you," I gasp against her lips, the words broken by ragged breaths and desperate kisses. "God, Ivy, I love you so much."

She swallows my declarations, her mouth devouring mine as her body milks every last drop from me. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling just hard enough to make me whimper as she keeps grinding against me, chasing her own release.

"Say it again," she demands, her voice a breathless command even as her thighs tremble around me.

"I love you," I repeat, the words flowing easier now, natural as breathing. "I love you, I love you."

Her body goes rigid above mine, back arching impossibly as she comes undone. The sight of her, head thrown back, purple highlights catching the city lights, mouth open in a silent scream, is something I'll remember until my dying day. She's transcendent in her pleasure, a goddess accepting worship.

When she collapses against me, we're both trembling, slick with sweat, and utterly spent. I hold her close, my arms locked around her like I'm afraid she might disappear if I let go. Her heartbeat thunders against my chest, gradually slowing as we drift down from our shared high.

"You're everything to me," Ivy whispers against my neck, her breath hot and damp. "Everything I never knew I needed. I love you."

Her words seep into me like sunlight through water, warming places I didn't know could feel cold. We lie tangled together, boundaries between our bodies blurring until I can't tell where I end and she begins. In this moment, we're a single organism, breathing in unison, hearts synchronized in their steady rhythm.

The harsh electronic chirp of her phone shatters our perfect bubble.

Ivy groans against my skin, her frustration vibrating through my chest. It's been ringing relentlessly all day, before the ceremony, during photos, throughout dinner, each time silenced and ignored with increasing irritation.

This time, though, something shifts in Ivy's demeanor. She untangles herself from me with surprising speed, lunging across the bed to snatch her phone from the nightstand.

"BRIDGETTE, WHAT IS IT?" she barks into the receiver, her voice razor-sharp with irritation.

I prop myself up on my elbows, watching as my wife's expression transforms from annoyance to something darker. Her jaw tightens, purple eyes narrowing to dangerous slits as she listens.

"How bad?" she asks, her voice dropping to that low, controlled register that sends chills down my spine.

I can't hear Bridgette's response, but whatever she's saying makes Ivy's knuckles go white around the phone. The muscles in her shoulders bunch beneath her skin, coiled and ready to strike.

"Right," she says after a long moment. "Send me the statement. I'll review it before you release anything."

She hangs up without saying goodbye, staring at the blank screen for several heartbeats before turning to me.

"What’s the damage?" I ask, my throat suddenly dry as I watch her expression darken.

She crawls back toward me, predatory and graceful, pressing her lips to my neck as she speaks. "The FIA wants to suspend me from the Miami race and sprint due to 'conduct unbecoming off track.'" Her teeth graze my skin, sending shivers down my spine despite the gravity of her words.

My heart plummets. The Miami Grand Prix, potentially gone because she defended me. "Ivy, I'm so…"

"Don't," she cuts me off, pressing a finger to my lips. Her purple eyes gleam with something that looks almost like amusement. "Even if they do suspend me for a race, it was worth it. Your mother needed to learn that lesson."

She shifts against me, her naked body still warm from our lovemaking. "Besides, Cecelia is on the case. I messaged her earlier to convince your mother to put out a statement taking responsibility."

"She would never do something like that," I say, unable to imagine my mother admitting fault for anything, let alone publicly.

Ivy laughs, the sound vibrating against my skin where her lips still linger. "Cecelia is as savage as me, baby. She'll figure it out." Her smile turns wicked. "That woman could blackmail the Pope if I asked her to."

I want to ask more questions, find out exactly what this mysterious Cecelia might do to my mother, but Ivy's hand is already sliding down my stomach, effectively short-circuiting my brain.

"Enough about racing politics," she purrs, her fingers wrapping around me with practiced skill. "I'm not done with my husband yet."

Chapter Text

There’s something surreal about watching your mother confess to crimes she didn’t commit on national television while you eat overpriced room service pancakes in your underwear. Yet here I am, fork suspended midway to my mouth, as ESPN broadcasts what can only be described as the most elaborate fiction since my eighth-grade book report on Catcher in the Rye

“In a stunning development,” the anchor announces with practiced gravity, “Kendal Woods, mother of Nick Hunt and Ex-manager of Formula E driver Melissa Woods, has released a statement taking full responsibility for the altercation with Formula 1 champion Ivy Hunt at a Boston restaurant last week.”

The screen cuts to footage of my mother, face still sporting impressive bruising in shades of purple and yellow that oddly complement Ivy’s signature hair highlights. She stands at a podium, expression wooden as she reads from a statement, her voice lacking its usual sharp edge.

“I deeply regret my behavior that evening,” she recites mechanically. “I had been drinking heavily and made threatening remarks toward my son that prompted Mrs. Hunt to defensively intervene. While her response was perhaps excessive, it was ultimately my inappropriate behavior that instigated the incident.”

I nearly choke on my pancake. In what universe would my mother ever admit to being wrong, let alone take responsibility for something like this?

“Holy shit,” I whisper, reaching for the remote to turn up the volume.

“Furthermore,” my mother continues, her eyes never quite meeting the camera, “I recognize that my past treatment of my son has been unacceptable. I apologize to Nick and acknowledge that Ivy Hunt was acting protectively toward her fiancé, now husband.”

The anchor reappears, eyebrows raised dramatically. “This statement comes just days after viral footage showed the three-time world champion physically assaulting Woods. The FIA had been considering disciplinary action against Hunt, including possible suspension from this weekend’s Miami Grand Prix. Sources now indicate they’re reconsidering in light of this new information.”

I mute the TV, staring blankly at my mother’s frozen face on the screen. Her left eye still swollen, a split in her lip barely concealed by makeup. The evidence of Ivy’s handiwork displayed for all to see, alongside a confession that rewrites history so thoroughly it borders on performance art.

“What did you do?” I turn to Ivy, who’s sprawled across our bed in nothing but a shirt, looking far too pleased with herself.

She shrugs with exaggerated innocence, then reaches out to grab my wrist, pulling me down beside her with that effortless strength that still catches me off guard. Her lips brush against my ear, breath warm and intimate.

“I have absolutely no idea what Cecilia did,” she whispers, her voice playful yet somehow cautious. “It’s better to stay at least one or two degrees separated from something like that, don’t you think?”

There’s a gleam in her purple eyes that sends a shiver down my spine, not fear exactly, but a stark reminder of the power she wields so casually.

“Are you telling me your assistant somehow... blackmailed my mother?”

Ivy’s laugh vibrates through her chest and into mine where our bodies press together. “I’m telling you, I don’t know anything specific,” she says, tracing my jawline with one finger. “I simply mentioned to Cecilia that it would be convenient if your mother took responsibility. The rest...” She waves her hand dismissively. “Creative problem-solving on Cecilia’s part, I assume.”

I glance back at the TV where they’re now showing split-screen footage, my mother’s confession alongside Ivy’s restaurant rampage. The juxtaposition is jarring.

“But what could she possibly have on my mother that would make her humiliate herself like this?” I wonder aloud, unable to imagine what leverage could make Kendal Woods publicly grovel.

“Everyone has secrets, Nick,” Ivy says, reaching for a strawberry from our breakfast tray. She bites into it slowly, deliberately, juice staining her lips a darker shade of pink. “Your mother more than most, I’d wager.”

I stare at her for a long moment, trying to process everything. Everything that’s happening within her orbit, it should terrify me, but instead I feel a strange sense of security.

“Well,” I say, setting my fork down decisively, “I think we should celebrate your miraculous salvation from FIA punishment.”

Ivy’s eyes light up, that predatory smile spreading across her face as she licks the last of the strawberry juice from her fingers. “What did you have in mind, husband?”

“Let’s go out somewhere nice for dinner,” I suggest, reaching for her hand. “Show Miami that Mrs. Hunt isn’t hiding from anyone.”

“I’d love that,” she purrs, intertwining her fingers with mine. “Somewhere very public, with plenty of cameras. Let them see exactly how not-suspended I am.”

*****

The restaurant Ivy chooses is exactly what I should have expected, obscenely expensive, impossibly exclusive, and situated directly on the water with a clear view of the Miami skyline. The hostess practically bows when we arrive, ushering us to a prominently placed table that might as well have a spotlight on it.

“Is this subtle enough for you?” Ivy asks with a wink as we’re seated, the surrounding diners already sneaking not-so-discreet photos with their phones.

“Perfect,” I laugh, reaching for her hand across the table. “Nothing says ‘my wife isn’t suspended’ like dropping a thousand dollars on seafood.”

The waiter appears with champagne we didn’t order, courtesy of the owner who is “honored to host the champion.”

Ivy takes the bottle from the waiter with a gracious smile. As soon as he’s out of earshot, she pours the champagne generously into both flutes, then slides them both across the white tablecloth toward me. There’s something mischievous in her expression, a predatory glint that makes my pulse quicken.

“Sorry, darling,” she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You must have noticed by now that I don’t usually drink during race season.”

“I figured as much,” I reply, eyeing the twin glasses now stationed in front of me.

She leans forward, those purple eyes dancing with wicked intent. “So you’ll need to drink for both of us tonight.”

“If you’d rather, I don’t mind being sober with…”

“I want you drunk for me, husband,” she interrupts, her accent thickening slightly as she reaches across to trace my wrist with her fingertip. “I want to take advantage of you all night long.”

I grab the first glass and tip it back, the expensive champagne bubbling down my throat. The alcohol hits my empty stomach with a pleasant warmth as I drain the flute. Ivy immediately refills it, her eyes gleaming with approval.

“Good boy,” she purrs, sliding the second glass closer to me. “Keep going for mommy.”

I dutifully empty both glasses, already feeling a pleasant buzz spreading through my limbs. True to her word, Ivy tops off the flutes again, the bottle already half empty.

“By the way,” she says casually as I take another long sip, “the team messaged me while you were in the shower earlier.”

I pause mid-drink, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Apparently, they had no idea we’d gotten married.” Her lips curl into an amused smile. “Victoria was quite surprised to hear her star driver had a husband now.”

“Oh, right.” I chuckle, the champagne making everything seem funnier than it should be. “Famous people usually announce these things, don’t they? Press releases and exclusive photo shoots and all that.”

Ivy nods, watching with satisfaction as I drain another glass. “Precisely. I told her I’d have Cecilia put together something appropriate for release. Nothing too personal, just enough to make it official.”

The champagne is definitely working its magic now, my inhibitions melting away with each swallow. I lean forward, genuinely curious about this mysterious assistant.

“So Cecilia is your assistant, private soldier, and PR person all wrapped into one?” I ask, trying to keep my words from slurring slightly.

“And my manager, too,” Ivy adds, refilling my glasses yet again. “She handles all the boring contractual stuff.”

I blink in surprise, the alcohol making my thoughts move slower than usual. “You need a manager? You’re literally the best driver in the world.”

Ivy laughs, the sound rich and genuine. “I don’t want to have to interact with people outside of racing,” she explains, reaching across to brush her fingers against mine. “Someone has to negotiate the deals with EA for the video games, arrange the sponsorship appearances, all that tedious nonsense.”

“Makes sense,” I mumble, the room starting to tilt pleasantly around me as I finish another glass. “So she’s basically your fixer.”

Ivy leans forward, her purple eyes glinting in the restaurant’s dim lighting. “Yeah, that’s a good way to put it. Oh, and sometimes she’s my bodyguard.”

“Your bodyguard?” I blink, the champagne making my thoughts fuzzy around the edges. “But I’ve never seen her before. Not once since we’ve been together.”

A mysterious smile plays across Ivy’s lips as she takes a sip of her water. “That’s because she’s rather good at hiding in plain sight. It’s part of her charm.”

The alcohol emboldens me as I drain another glass. “Well, shouldn’t I meet her? She seems pretty important in your life.”

Ivy’s expression shifts, something possessive flickering across her features as she reaches across the table to take my hand. Her thumb traces circles against my palm, sending shivers up my arm.

“I’d rather you not go meeting any new women, husband,” she says, her voice dropping to that husky register that makes my stomach flip. “Especially not ones as competent as Cecilia.”

Heat rushes to my face, spreading down my neck as I realize what she’s implying. The blush only deepens when she brings my hand to her lips, pressing a kiss against my knuckles while maintaining eye contact.

“You’re really hot when you’re jealous,” I mumble, the champagne loosening my tongue.

“I’m not jealous,” Ivy counters, though her grip on my hand tightens slightly. “I’m protective. There’s a difference.”

Chapter Text

Miami mornings hit different when you’re married to the most dangerous woman in motorsport. The air is thick with humidity and possibility as Ivy’s fingers intertwine with mine, our wedding rings occasionally clinking together while we stroll along the track’s surface.

“This is where I’m going to destroy them tomorrow,” Ivy says, her purple eyes gleaming as she visualizes the racing line through Turn 7. The Miami International Autodrome stretches before us like a concrete ribbon, empty now except for track officials and the occasional team member doing early reconnaissance.

“You’ll crush them,” I agree, squeezing her hand. “After everything that’s happened, I can’t wait to see you take pole.”

Ivy stops suddenly, crouching to examine a section of curbing. “They’ve resurfaced this part since last year,” she murmurs, running her gloved fingers along the painted stripes. “Feels smoother. Could get more traction on exit.”

I love watching her work, the way her entire being sharpens with competitive focus. Most people never see this side of her, the meticulous professional beneath the purple highlights and fierce reputation.

“We should head back,” she says, rising gracefully. “Briefing starts in twenty.”

The paddock is already buzzing with activity as we approach the Zenith garage, teams preparing for the first practice session. Mechanics swarm like usual around the cars.

That’s when we see them.

Blair and a stunning male model wrapped around each other like they’re auditioning for a romance novel cover. He’s exactly what passes for high fashion in our world, impossibly long chestnut hair cascading past his shoulders, willowy frame draped in designer clothes that probably cost more than my old ensemble. His delicate features are almost ethereal as Blair’s fingers tangle in his silky locks.

They’re practically devouring each other against her purple Zenith car, completely oblivious to the bustling paddock around them. Or at least pretending to be.

I expected to feel something, jealousy, anger, maybe even a twinge of regret, but there’s nothing but mild amusement. If anything, I’m relieved she’s found someone else to fixate on. One less complication in my life.

Ivy’s hand tightens around mine, her body tensing like a coiled spring.

“Well, that’s certainly a statement,” she mutters, her purple eyes narrowing dangerously.

I squeeze her hand reassuringly. “Let’s just keep walking.”

But before we can move past, Blair detaches her lips from the model’s, turning her head deliberately in our direction. Our eyes meet, and there it is, that calculated stare, like she’s trying to communicate something important through sheer force of will. The guy remains oblivious, his lips now trailing down her neck as she maintains unblinking eye contact with me.

Is she trying to make me jealous? Prove she’s moved on? Whatever message she’s sending, it’s falling flat.

“Your teammate seems to be enjoying the Miami hospitality,” I comment lightly to Ivy, loud enough for Blair to hear.

Ivy’s lips curl into a predatory smile. “Good for her. Maybe getting laid will improve her driving.”

Blair’s expression falters for just a moment before she doubles down, pulling the model closer with exaggerated passion while still watching for my reaction.

“Come on,” Ivy says suddenly, tugging at my hand with unexpected urgency. “I want to fuck you before practice.”

Her voice rings out across the garage area, casual and matter-of-fact, like she’s suggesting we grab coffee. Several mechanics freeze mid-task, pretending they didn’t hear, while a nearby journalist fumbles her recorder.

I nearly choke on air, heat rushing to my face. The thing about Ivy is, I don’t think she even realizes how she sounds sometimes. There’s no performative quality to her bluntness, she just says exactly what she wants with the same directness she applies to everything else in her life.

Blair’s eyes widen to comical proportions. She leans in to whisper something in her model boyfriend’s ear, her hand cupping his cheek intimately. His perfectly sculpted face flushes pink, and he shakes his head slightly.

“It’s so early in the day though,” he murmurs, just loud enough for us to hear as we pass by.

*****

The garage is a symphony of mechanical noises and urgent voices as sprint qualifying begins. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my overworked muscles scream in protest. My shirt clings to my back, damp with sweat despite the air conditioning blasting through the team area.

Ivy wasn’t kidding about wanting me before practice. And after practice. And right before qualifying. My body feels thoroughly used in the most delicious way, but sitting here watching the monitors while still sticky and exhausted is less than ideal. I should have showered again, but there wasn’t time after our last... session.

“Hi, I’m Lucian Vale.”

The voice startles me. I look up to find Blair’s model boyfriend standing over me, one perfectly manicured hand extended. Up close, he’s even more striking, cheekbones that could cut glass, skin like porcelain. His chestnut hair cascades over his shoulders in waves that belong in a shampoo commercial.

“Hi,” I manage, shaking his hand briefly before letting go. His grip is surprisingly firm for someone who looks like he’d blow away in a strong breeze.

Lucian’s eyes travel over me with deliberate slowness, taking in my disheveled appearance. His perfectly sculpted lips twist into something between a smile and a smirk.

“Why are you so sweaty? It’s not even that hot in here.”

There’s a subtle edge to his question, a hint of condescension that makes me bristle despite myself. I shift again, wincing slightly as muscles I didn’t know I had protest the movement.

Lucian slides into the empty chair beside me, his movements as graceful as a cat settling into a sunbeam. The expensive fabric of his designer pants makes a soft whisper against the plastic seat.

“Is it really... appropriate for Ivy’s image to have you looking like this?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at my disheveled state. His voice carries that particular breed of concern that isn’t concern at all. “The cameras are everywhere, you know.”

I can’t help but laugh, the sound bursting out of me with genuine amusement. Lucian flinches slightly at my unexpected reaction, his perfect eyebrows drawing together.

“Ivy literally beat the shit out of my mother on national television last week,” I say, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. “You think she gives a single fuck what I look like right now?”

His eyes widen fractionally, that porcelain mask slipping to reveal something rawer underneath, dislike, maybe even jealousy. I can practically see him recalibrating, searching for a new angle of attack.

“Blair mentioned you were... different,” he says, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “I see what she means.”

“Did she now?” I lean back in my chair, suddenly unbothered by my sweaty state. “And what else did Blair tell you about me?”

Lucian’s perfectly manicured fingers tap against his knee, a rhythmic gesture that betrays his discomfort. “Just that you used to be sweeter. More... accommodating.”

“Accommodating,” I repeat, tasting the word. “Interesting.”

On the monitors above us, Ivy’s purple machine screams through the first sector, setting a blistering pace that puts her firmly in provisional pole. I feel a surge of pride watching her work, carving through Miami’s concrete canyon with surgical precision.

“You know, it’s unusual,” Lucian continues, his voice carrying that artificial lightness people use when they’re being deliberately cruel. “Most men in your position would at least try to look presentable. For their partner’s sake.”

I turn to face him fully. In another life, I might have found his disapproval crushing. Now, it just seems small.

“What exactly is my position, Lucian?” I ask, genuinely curious about how he sees me.

He smiles, all teeth and no warmth. “The accessory, of course. The pretty little thing on Ivy Hunt’s arm.”

I laugh again, the sound harsh and unexpected. I raise my left hand, twisting it so the massive diamond on my ring finger catches the light. Next to it, the gold wedding band gleams just as proudly.

“Accessory? I’m her husband, Lucian. My wife chose me.”

His perfect face twitches, a micro-expression of disgust flashing across those sculpted features.

“Well, she had to marry someone, didn’t she? Anyone to maintain the image. I’m just saying you could try harder to…”

“Shut the fuck up,” I cut him off, something snapping inside me. My eyes narrow, and I can feel the wild energy crackling behind them, the same manic intensity I’ve seen in Ivy’s gaze when she’s mad.

“You want to know why I’m such a sweaty, disgusting mess right now, Lucian? Because Ivy fucking Hunt, three-time world champion, dragged me into our trailer between sessions and fucked me until I could barely walk.” My voice is low but vibrating with intensity. “I am her mess. I look exactly how she wants me to look. If I showed up here all polished and perfect, she wouldn’t be able to do that.”

I jab my finger toward the monitor where Ivy’s purple machine is flying through the final sector, the timing graphics showing her a full half second ahead of Blair.

“See that? That’s what happens when my wife gets what she needs.”

Lucian’s porcelain complexion has gone even paler, his mouth hanging slightly open as he stares at me. For a brief moment, I catch something in his eyes, not just shock and revulsion, but a flash of raw envy.

“You don’t even deserve her,” he whispers, regaining his composure. “You’re nobody.”

“And yet, here I am.” I smile, feeling strangely powerful despite my disheveled state.

Lucian’s jaw clenches, the muscles working beneath his perfect skin as he rises from the chair in one fluid motion. His nostrils flare slightly, composure cracking like fine china under too much pressure.

“This conversation is beneath me,” he hisses, adjusting the cuffs of his designer shirt with trembling fingers. Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks away, his long chestnut hair swinging dramatically with each step.

I watch him go, a strange sense of satisfaction settling in my chest. A year ago, hell, even a few months ago, his judgment would have crushed me. I would have spiraled into self-doubt. But now, I am strong.

“Maybe Ivy is rubbing off on me.”

Chapter Text

Saturday blazed by in a purple-tinted blur, leaving me hollow as a discarded Red Bull can. My wife, God, that word still gives me butterflies, demolished the sprint race with her usual clinical precision. But something’s changed in the balance between her and Blair. The gap has narrowed to just 1.2 seconds, close enough for even the commentators to raise their eyebrows meaningfully at the cameras.

Now it’s Sunday, lap three of the Miami Grand Prix, and I’m slumped against the cool metal wall of the Zenith garage, trying to remember how breathing works. My legs feel like overcooked pasta, barely supporting my weight as I slide down to perch on an equipment case. The air conditioning blasts against my sweat-dampened shirt, but I still feel almost feverish in my exhaustion.

Ivy was... enthusiastic as usual before the race. “I need everything you’ve got,” she’d whispered, those purple eyes boring into mine with an intensity that bordered on desperation. “Every drop.”

She wasn’t exaggerating. I feel like she’s siphoned my soul straight out through my dick, leaving just enough life force for me to function as her cheerleader. Even my fingertips tingle with exhaustion.

On the massive screens above the pit wall, Ivy’s purple machine dances through Turn 7, Blair’s identical car shadowing her with unprecedented precision.

“They’re really pushing each other today,” murmurs a mechanic nearby, not bothering to look at me.

I nod weakly, not that he’s paying attention. The entire garage vibrates with tension, the air thick with concentration as team personnel monitor telemetry data scrolling across dozens of screens.

My gaze drifts across the garage, landing on Lucian’s lanky figure hovering near Blair’s side of operations. He’s been avoiding me since our confrontation Friday, keeping to the opposite end of any room we share. But I catch him stealing glances my way, his perfect features contorted with something between disgust and fascination. Those model-perfect eyes narrow whenever they meet mine, like he’s trying to solve some irritating puzzle.

I push myself upright with a groan, muscles protesting the movement. I need to head up to Paddock Club soon. I like to watch Ivy cross the finish line from the balcony. But first, I need a moment to collect myself, to transform from this hollowed-out husk into something resembling a functioning human being.

I take a step toward the exit, desperate for some air, when I collide with someone rounding the corner fast. Papers scatter across the floor as I stumble backward, my exhausted legs nearly giving out beneath me.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where…” The voice cuts off abruptly. “Nick?”

I blink, focusing on the woman standing before me. Tessa Keller stares back, her brown eyes wide behind wire-rimmed glasses, her neat braided ponytail slightly askew from our collision. Most surprisingly, she’s wearing a purple Zenith polo instead of the papaya orange I remember from earlier this season.

“Tessa?” I manage, stooping to help gather her fallen papers despite my protesting muscles. “You work for us now?”

She nods, a nervous smile flickering across her face as she adjusts her glasses. “Yeah, just started a few weeks ago. Mostly just spending my time training in Cambridge. The timing worked out perfectly with Miami being my first race on site.”

Her eyes narrow as she studies me, professional demeanor shifting to something more personal. “Hey Nick, are you feeling okay? You seem like you’re having some trouble.”

I straighten up, handing her the collected papers, but she barely glances at them. Instead, she presses the back of her hand against my forehead, the gesture so unexpectedly familiar it leaves me momentarily speechless. Her cool palm feels like heaven against my hot skin.

“You’re flushed, and you’re sweating,” she continues, concern etching lines between her eyebrows. “Maybe you should sit down.”

I step back, embarrassed by her mothering. We’ve known each other since we were kids, thanks to our sisters’ racing careers intertwining, but this level of concern feels oddly intimate.

“No, no, I’m totally fine,” I insist, forcing a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “I was just working out with Ivy before the race.” Technically, it’s not a lie.

Tessa’s eyes flicker at my mention of Ivy, something shifting in her gaze that I can’t quite identify. She tucks the papers under her arm and takes a half-step closer, lowering her voice.

“Pre-race workout, huh?” Her tone is carefully neutral, but her eyes scan my face with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. “That’s... quite dedicated of you both.”

“Yeah, well, championship lifestyle and all that,” I laugh weakly, trying to sidestep her, but she moves slightly to block my path.

“Nick,” she begins, then hesitates, chewing her bottom lip. “I just want you to know that if you ever need anything, anything at all, I’m here for you. No questions asked.”

The sudden earnestness in her voice catches me off guard. “Thanks? But I’m good, really.”

She doesn’t seem convinced. Her fingers fidget with the edge of her papers, and she keeps glancing over her shoulder like she’s afraid someone might overhear us.

“I know we haven’t really kept in touch since we were kids, but...” She takes a deep breath. “I care about your well-being. If things ever get... overwhelming, or if you need space, or just someone to talk to who isn’t...” She trails off, not completing the thought.

Something warm blooms in my chest as I look at Tessa. It’s comforting to see her concerned face, the same expression she wore when I fell off my bike as a kid. After all these years, she still sees herself as my protector, that motherly older sister-figure who’d patch me up when my own family was too busy for me.

“That’s really sweet of you, Tess,” I say, genuinely touched. “It’s nice to know some things never change. You’ve always looked out for me.”

Her smile falters slightly, something flickering behind her glasses that I can’t quite read. She opens her mouth to respond, but the words seem to catch in her throat.

“I…” she starts, then shakes her head. “It’s not exactly…”

A thunderous cheer erupts from the nearby monitors. I glance up to see Ivy’s purple machine setting a blistering pace through sector one. The sight of my wife winning sends a renewed surge of energy through my depleted body.

Tessa’s gaze shifts to the screen, her expression changing as she watches Blair’s car trailing Ivy’s.

“Wow, your ex has really closed the gap this season, hasn’t she?” she says, adjusting her glasses as she studies the timing data. “Look at that, only 1.4 seconds behind. Almost within DRS range.”

I follow her gaze, genuinely surprised by how close Blair is keeping pace. “You’re right. That’s... actually impressive.”

“You sound surprised,” Tessa notes, a hint of something unreadable in her voice.

I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “I guess I’ve been so focused on Ivy lately I haven’t really been tracking Blair’s progress.”

The screens show Blair taking the next corner aggressively, shaving another tenth off Ivy’s lead. There’s a hunger in her driving I haven’t seen before.

“I wonder how she did it,” I mutter, more to myself than to Tessa.

Tessa’s fingers fidget with her tablet as she responds. “She’s spending all her downtime in the simulator, trying different setups. I’ve seen her there at all hours.” She hesitates, then adds, “You dated her through F3 and F2, right? Her results always showed she was adaptable.”

Something in her tone makes me glance at her. There’s a tightness around her eyes, a careful neutrality in her expression that seems forced.

“Yeah, she was always quick to adjust,” I agree, my mind connecting dots I hadn’t considered before. I’ve also been monopolizing Ivy’s time since our relationship began, especially this week with the wedding. All those hours she might have spent in the simulator, we’ve spent tangled together instead.

“It’s almost like she’s driving with a new purpose,” Tessa observes quietly, her eyes still fixed on the screen rather than me. “Something’s lit a fire under her.”

I wonder what that purpose might be.

“Maybe,” I say, not wanting to dive deeper into Blair’s motivations with Tessa.

An awkward silence stretches between us, filled only by the distant roar of engines and the beeping of equipment. Tessa shifts her weight from one foot to the other, still not quite meeting my eyes.

“Sorry, Tessa,” I say affectionately. “I should get up to Paddock Club before Ivy finishes. I know I said it before, but let’s catch up properly sometime, yeah? I’d love to hear how you ended up at Zenith.”

She nods, but her eyes have that same strange intensity. “Sure, Nick. We should definitely... talk.”

As I turn to leave, she calls after me: “Nick? Just... be careful, okay?”

“Of course.”

Tessa:

Chapter Text

Guilt sits in my stomach like a lead weight, even as I plaster on my congratulatory smile. The Miami podium looms behind me, champagne puddles still glistening on the platform where my wife just collected another trophy for her ever-expanding collection.

The race went well enough, I suppose. Ivy beat Blair by a clean two seconds, with Olivia Piastri surprisingly close behind despite driving what everyone knows is an inferior machine. I should be ecstatic, my wife dominated again, finally getting the lead in the championship over Blair by 1 point. But all I can think about is how my special sauce seems to be losing its edge for Ivy.

I shift uncomfortably against the barrier separating fans from team personnel. The crowd’s energy has barely diminished since the checkered flag, the Miami atmosphere electric with wealth and excitement.

The office doors swing open, and they emerge one by one, the top three finishers fresh from their mandatory weigh-in. Blair first, her silver eyes fixed straight ahead, deliberately avoiding my gaze as she strides toward the Zenith Area. Olivia follows.

Then Ivy appears, purple highlights catching the afternoon sun as her eyes scan the crowd with predatory focus. The moment she spots me, her entire demeanor transforms. The calculated champion melts away, replaced by something I still can’t quite believe is meant for me, pure, unfiltered joy.

“Nick!” she shouts, breaking into a sprint that sends nearby photographers scrambling for their cameras.

Before I can react, she barrels into me with the force of an F1 car at full throttle. Her arms wrap around my waist and suddenly my feet leave the ground as she hoists me into the air with effortless strength. My body spins in a dizzying arc as she twirls me, her powerful muscles flexing beneath her racing suit.

“Did you watch me out there?” she purrs, her accent thicker with post-race adrenaline. “Was I sexy destroying the competition?”

I can’t help but laugh, partly from the ridiculous display of strength I’ve grown to cherish, partly from the sheer joy radiating from her. My hands find her shoulders to steady myself as she holds me aloft like I weigh nothing.

“The sexiest,” I confirm, acutely aware of the dozens of phones capturing this moment.

She finally sets me down but keeps me pressed against her, one arm snaked possessively around my waist. The scent of champagne and sweat clings to her skin, intoxicating in its familiarity.

Her eyes find mine, and something shifts in her expression, a desperate hunger that makes my breath catch. There’s a rawness there, something primal that sends electricity racing down my spine.

“I need you,” she whispers, just loud enough for me to hear.

I barely have time to process her words before she’s closing the distance between us. My lips part instinctively, tongue darting out to meet hers as she claims my mouth with bruising intensity. The kiss is immediate and filthy, all tongue, teeth, and hopelessly needy. I melt against her, my body responding with a hunger that matches her own.

Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling just hard enough to make me gasp into her mouth. I don’t care that we’re surrounded by cameras, that tomorrow this will be splashed across every sports website and social media platform. All I care about is being closer to her, feeling more of her, drowning in the heat of her.

The world narrows to just us, the taste of champagne on her tongue, the firmness of her body against mine, the soft moan she breathes into my mouth. I’d give her anything in this moment. My body, my soul, whatever she needs.

“Let the man breathe! He’s gonna pass out!” A voice cuts through the moment, followed by scattered laughter from the crowd.

Without breaking our kiss, Ivy’s middle finger shoots up defiantly toward the voice. Her other hand slides down my back, finding my ass and squeezing possessively, pulling me even tighter against her. The crowd whoops and hollers at her brazen response, but she doesn’t care. If anything, the audience only fuels her further.

I should be embarrassed. I should want to pull away, create some distance between us in this very public space. Instead, I press closer, my body responding with a traitorous enthusiasm that surprises even me. I feel myself hardening against her, a warm wetness beginning to form at my tip, my body completely betraying any sense of public decency.

God help me, am I actually enjoying this? The realization hits me like a physical blow, I’m getting off on this, on being claimed so thoroughly in front of everyone. I try not to unpack that thought any further.

When we finally break apart, I’m gasping for air, my face scorching hot. Ivy’s eyes are dark with desire, pupils blown wide as she studies my flushed face.

Her expression shifts subtly, eyes narrowing as they search mine. Something in my face must betray me because her hands move to cup my cheeks, thumbs stroking my flushed skin.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, voice dropping to a concerned whisper that feels jarringly intimate amid the crowd’s noise. “You look... troubled.”

I swallow hard, the guilt churning inside me like a living thing. This isn’t the place, surrounded by fans, team personnel, and what feels like a hundred cameras.

“Later,” I manage, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “When we’re alone.”

Something annoyed flashes across her face. Without another word, she grabs my wrist, her grip firm but not painful. She turns, cutting through the crowd with such purpose that people instinctively part before her. I stumble along behind her, mumbling half-formed apologies to those we brush past.

The walk to our trailer feels both endless and too quick. Ivy doesn’t speak, doesn’t look back, just marches forward with the same single-minded focus she applies to everything in her life. Her fingers remain locked around my wrist like she’s afraid I might bolt if given the chance.

We reach the trailer in record time. Ivy yanks the door open, pushes me inside, and slams it shut behind us with enough force to rattle the windows. Before I can catch my balance, her hands are on my shoulders, guiding me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed.

“Sit,” she commands, her accent thicker than usual.

I comply without thinking, sinking onto the mattress as she drops to her knees before me. Her fingers make quick work of my belt, then my zipper, tugging my pants down with practiced efficiency. The cool air of the trailer hits my exposed skin, making me shiver.

“Now,” she says, looking up at me through her lashes, “talk.”

Before I can formulate a response, she leans forward and takes me fully into her mouth in one fluid motion. Her soft wet mouth engulfs my cock completely, stealing the breath from my lungs. A pathetic sound escapes me, half whimper, half moan, as pleasure crashes through my system.

“I… I can’t think when you do that,” I gasp, my fingers tangling in her hair reflexively.

She pulls back just enough to speak, her breath hot against my sensitive skin. “That’s the point. No overthinking. Just truth.”

Her mouth descends again, taking me deeper than before. I feel the back of her throat constrict around my tip as she pushes past her comfort zone, eyes watering slightly as she forces herself to swallow more of me. My hips buck involuntarily, driving me even deeper into her willing throat.

“Jesus Christ, Ivy,” I moan, watching her purple-tinged head bob between my trembling thighs.

She gags audibly, her throat spasming around me, yet she doesn’t pull back. Instead, she doubles down until her nose presses against my stomach. The wet, obscene sounds filling our trailer fuel my arousal.

I try to sit up straighter to maintain some semblance of control, but her relentless assault makes it difficult. My arms shake as I attempt to prop myself up, only to collapse back onto my elbows when she hollows her cheeks and sucks hard enough to make my vision blur.

“Fuck,” I pant, watching her through half-lidded eyes. “I think I’m becoming too much of a distraction for you. The gap between you and Blair... it’s getting shorter.”

She pulls back with a vulgar, wet pop, saliva connecting her swollen lips to my glistening cock. Her purple eyes flash dangerously.

“What did you just say?” she demands, her voice raspy from the abuse her throat just endured.

“I just…” My words catch in my throat as she presses her lips to my tip, planting soft, deliberate kisses that somehow feel more intimate than when she’d taken all of me. Each press of her mouth sends shivers radiating through my body, her eyes never leaving mine.

“You think you’re distracting me?” she asks between kisses, her tongue darting out to trace the sensitive ridge. “That Blair’s catching up because of you?”

I swallow hard, watching her worship me with those plush lips. “She’s closing the distance, Ivy. And all those hours we spend together…”

She cuts me off by swallowing me whole again, taking me so deep I feel her throat close around me. My thoughts scatter like startled birds, coherence dissolving into pure sensation as she works me with devastating precision.

When she finally releases me, I’m trembling, barely able to form words. “I think... I think I’m taking up too much of your time,” I manage, my voice breaking. “You should be in the simulator more, studying telemetry, not wasting energy on me.”

Her expression darkens as she takes me back into the wet heaven of her mouth, this time with a gentleness that makes tears spring to my eyes. The contrast between her fierce personality and this tender act of devotion undoes me completely.

“I don’t want to spend less time with you,” I whisper, my fingers caressing her hair as she continues her loving ministrations. “I just don’t want to be the reason you lose.”

She swallows me down with renewed hunger, her pace quickening to something almost punishing. The gurgiling sounds of her throat working around me fill our trailer, drowning out the distant celebrations outside. Her purple-tinged hair becomes a blur as she bobs faster, more desperately, like she’s trying to physically pull the doubt from my body through sheer force.

“Oh god,” I groan, my back arching off the bed. “Ivy, I’m close… I can’t hold…”

Her eyes lock with mine, fierce and commanding even from her position between my legs. Those purple irises burn with such intensity it steals my breath. No words pass her lips, but the message in her gaze is unmistakable, an order, a demand, a challenge.

My entire body shakes as pleasure tears through me like lightning. “Ivy!” I cry out her name as I erupt, flooding her eager mouth with pulse after pulse of hot release. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, just keeps those mesmerizing eyes locked on mine as she swallows everything I have to give her.

When the last tremor subsides, she slowly pulls away, licking her lips with deliberate showmanship. A single pearly drop escapes the corner of her mouth, and she catches it with her thumb before sucking it clean.

She rises from her knees, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she settles beside me on the bed. The mattress dips under her weight, and I feel the heat radiating from her body even through her racing suit.

“You’re right,” she says quietly, her voice still raspy from her efforts. “I have been slacking a bit lately.”

My heart sinks at her admission, but she continues before I can respond.

“But you know what? Blair’s also just a better driver than I initially gave her credit for. It’s not just any one thing.” She takes my hand, her thumb tracing circles on my palm. “And even if you are distracting me, I’ve been a champion before.” Her purple eyes soften. “But I’ve never been in love before. That’s a worthwhile pursuit too, don’t you think?”

The sincerity in her voice makes my chest ache. “I don’t want you to regret this in the future,” I whisper, squeezing her hand. “I’m not going anywhere, Ivy. You don’t have to choose between me and racing. You can have both.”

A smile spreads across her face, transforming her features from fierce to almost vulnerable. “I don’t live with regrets, Nick. I’m impulsive, yes, but I’m also committed. When I decide something matters, it matters forever.” She brings my hand to her lips, kissing my knuckles with surprising tenderness. “I love loving you. I love it far more than I love racing.”

Heat rushes to my face, and I duck my head, overwhelmed by her declaration.

“Still,” I persist, unable to let it go completely, “you said you had the triple crown dream, and you need to win this year for…”

She cuts me off with another deep kiss, her lips silencing my concerns more effectively than any words could. When she pulls back, there’s a mixture of amusement and exasperation in her eyes.

“Stop overthinking everything, Nick. I’m an adult. I’m four years older than you, for God’s sake. You’re not making me choose.” Her smile returns, softer now, almost vulnerable. “Even if I lose, I have you. So I’m still a winner.”

My throat tightens with emotion. I’ve never been someone’s prize before, never been valued above ambition and career. The weight of her declaration settles over me like a warm blanket.

“I love you so much,” I whisper, my voice cracking with emotion.

“I love you too.”

Chapter Text

There’s a unique kind of loneliness that comes from missing someone who’s only a few hundred feet away. I wake with a start, blinking against the afternoon sunlight streaming through our Cambridge room window. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 12:17 PM, I’ve been out for nearly three hours.

The bed feels too big without Ivy beside me. Her scent lingers on the pillow, that intoxicating mixture of expensive shampoo and something uniquely her, but the sheets have long gone cold. I run my hand over the empty space, a hollow ache spreading through my chest.

It’s been like this since Miami. Since that moment of weakness when I voiced my fears about being a distraction. Ivy took my concerns and transformed them into a mission with the same terrifying focus she applies to everything in her life.

“If my husband wants to see me win,” she’d declared, those purple eyes gleaming with determination, “then I’ll show my husband a winner.”

I stretch, wincing as my muscles protest. Despite the plush comfort of our bed in the Zenith headquarters apartment, my body feels strangely unrested. The silence of the room presses against my ears, broken only by the distant hum of the building’s ventilation system.

We still spend our nights together, her body curled protectively around mine as we sleep. We share meals, moments of tenderness squeezed between her relentless training schedule. But the rest of her waking hours belong to the simulator now, to telemetry data and race strategies.

I miss her. It’s ridiculous, pathetic even. She’s literally down the hall, but I miss her like she’s on another continent. I do spend all my free time watching her and napping, though.

Sliding out of bed, I shuffle to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The mirror reflects a man I’m still getting used to, Nick Hunt, husband to the most dangerous woman in motorsport. My hair sticks up at odd angles, and there are pillow creases marking my cheek. Not exactly the image of a champion’s spouse.

With Imola just over a week away, I know this separation will only intensify. The Italian circuit is notoriously challenging, demanding absolute precision and focus. If Ivy wants to extend her championship lead over Blair, she’ll need every advantage she can get.

I drag myself out of bed and pull on a Zenith team t-shirt, deciding to seek out my wife rather than wallow in her absence. The polished corridors of the Cambridge facility gleam under harsh fluorescent lighting as I make my way toward the simulation center, the heart of Zenith’s technical operations.

Even before I reach the doorway, I hear Ivy’s voice echoing down the hallway, each word sharp enough to cut glass.

“That’s not what I fucking asked for!” she roars, her accent thickening with rage. “The rear end is still washing out in Acque Minerali. Fix it, or I swear to God I’ll design the fucking suspension myself!”

I pause at the threshold, taking in the scene. The simulation room is dominated by the massive structure in its center, a marvel of engineering that can rotate in any direction to perfectly mimic g-forces. Inside that monster sits my wife, strapped into a perfect replica of her race car, surrounded by screens projecting Imola’s historic track.

Tessa stands nearby, tablet clutched to her chest, methodically noting every profanity-laced demand from Ivy. Her neat ponytail is slightly frazzled, but her expression remains professionally neutral as she types with impressive speed.

What surprises me most is Blair’s presence in the viewing area. She’s perched on a stool, absently munching cereal straight from the box as she studies Ivy’s driving style with narrowed eyes.

I step fully into the room, and Tessa immediately notices me. Her face brightens with a warm smile that reaches her eyes.

“Hey, Nick,” she says, genuinely pleased to see me. “Sleep well?”

Blair’s head turns at my name, and our eyes meet briefly. She gives me a small nod of acknowledgment before returning her attention to the screens. It’s not much, but compared to the icy glares I’ve received since Bahrain, it feels like a peace offering.

Inside the simulator, Ivy’s cursing reaches new creative heights.

“I don’t give a shit about theoretical performance! The fucking car needs to be stable under braking or I’ll…” she cuts herself off mid-tirade, her voice suddenly dropping to a dangerous whisper that somehow carries perfectly through the room. “If I don’t see my fucking husband soon, I’m going to murder someone with my bare hands. I need a break.”

A technician hurriedly begins shutting down the simulation as Ivy yanks off her racing gloves. The massive structure whirs to a stop, hydraulics hissing as it settles into its neutral position.

The simulator pod’s door hisses open, and Ivy emerges like a storm contained in human form. Her racing suit clings to her athletic frame. Purple-tinged hair sticks to her forehead, and her jaw remains clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.

Then she sees me.

The transformation is instantaneous and complete. Like someone flipped a switch, her entire being softens. The murderous glare melts into warm affection, her rigid posture relaxes, and the scowl curves upward into that smile she reserves exclusively for me. If I hadn’t witnessed this metamorphosis countless times before, it would be downright alarming.

“Nick!” she exclaims, voice honey-sweet where seconds ago it had been razor-sharp. She practically bounds toward me, ignoring the bewildered technicians and Tessa’s raised eyebrows.

Everyone in the room watches with a mixture of fascination and mild terror as their fearsome champion transforms into an entirely different person. I catch Blair’s eye for a split second, her spoon hangs suspended between the cereal box and her mouth, momentarily forgotten.

Ivy’s arms encircle my waist, pulling me against her with that effortless strength that still makes my stomach flip.

“Hey baby,” she says, pressing a kiss to my temple. “How was your nap? You looked so peaceful I couldn’t bear to wake you earlier.”

The genuine concern in her voice makes my chest tighten with emotion. This is the real miracle, not her racing prowess or championship titles, but this capacity for tenderness that she shows to no one but me.

“It was good,” I reply, leaning into her touch. “Lonely, though.”

Ivy’s gaze suddenly shifts over my shoulder, her attention landing on Blair who’s still frozen mid-cereal bite.

“So,” Ivy says, her arm remaining possessively around my waist, “you’re pretty much always around when I’m in the sim lately. What’s up with that?”

The question hangs in the air, deceptively casual but laced with that competitive edge I’ve come to recognize. The room grows quieter, technicians suddenly very interested in their screens.

Blair lowers her spoon, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “I’m trying to steal your driving style,” she admits without a trace of shame.

To my surprise, Ivy’s face lights up. The irritation I expected never materializes. Instead, she looks almost... impressed?

“Smart,” she says, nodding with genuine approval. “I did the same to Enza.”

The name drops like a stone into still water, creating ripples of reaction throughout the room. Everyone knows about Enza Venturi, the Italian racing prodigy who’d abruptly quit F1 three years ago at the height of her career. What most don’t know is the role Ivy played in that departure.

Blair’s eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting this response. “You did?”

“Of course,” Ivy replies, her fingers absently tracing patterns against my hip. “Best way to learn is from someone better than you. I spent hours analyzing her braking points, her lines through complex corners.” Her smile turns slightly predatory. “Then I used it all against her.”

There’s something almost respectful in the way they’re looking at each other now, two apex predators acknowledging each other’s hunting skills.

“Though,” Ivy adds, her voice dropping to that dangerous purr, “I hope you understand the difference between our situations.”

Ivy narrows her eyes, a dangerous glint flashing within those purple depths. “I doubt you have my drive to destroy people, West.”

Blair meets her gaze unflinchingly, silver eyes cool and collected. “I don’t need mind games to beat you, Hunt.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as Ivy’s expression darkens. She leans forward slightly, still keeping me tucked against her side.

“If you don’t destroy your rivals to the point where they’re broken shells of their former selves,” she says with genuine confusion in her voice, “what the fuck is even the point of racing them?”

Blair shrugs, remarkably unbothered by Ivy’s intensity. “To be the best,” she answers simply, tossing another handful of cereal into her mouth.

Ivy rolls her eyes dramatically. “The difference between you and me is simple, Blair.” Her grip on my waist tightens possessively. “You probably saw Nick’s mom belittle him a thousand times and did jack shit. I saw her do it once, and I almost put her in the ground.”

An unexpected silence falls over the room. I feel heat rising to my cheeks, embarrassed to be the center of this particular conversation, yet strangely touched by Ivy’s fierce protectiveness.

Blair nods slowly, a flicker of something, guilt, perhaps? Crossing her features. “Kendall really is a bitch,” she agrees quietly.

“Amen to that,” I mutter, surprising myself with my own boldness.

“Amen,” Tessa echoes from her position by the monitors, her voice soft but firm.

Ivy’s head whips around, eyes narrowing as they land on Tessa. “And who the fuck are you?” she demands, as if noticing her for the first time despite Tessa having been in the room all along.

Blair actually laughs, the sound breaking some of the tension. “She grew up with Nick and me,” she explains, gesturing between us with her cereal spoon. “Her sister Britney was a racer.”

Tessa steps forward, extending her hand toward Ivy with remarkable composure. “Tessa Keller, junior engineer. I transferred from McLaren last month.”

Ivy stares at the offered hand for a long, uncomfortable moment before finally accepting it with visible reluctance. “Right,” she says, her voice flat. “A new hire.”

The handshake lasts precisely two seconds before Ivy drops Tessa’s hand like it’s contaminated.

“Tessa’s actually an old friend of mine,” I interject, trying to ease the sudden tension. “She was always there for me growing up, especially when my own family wasn’t. Like this one time after a particularly awful weekend with my mom…”

The temperature in the room plummets even further as Ivy’s entire demeanor transforms. Her eyes narrow to dangerous slits, the purple of her irises darkening like storm clouds. The arm around my waist drops away as she takes a deliberate step toward Tessa.

“Oh?” Ivy’s voice is deceptively soft, almost gentle, but I recognize the deadly undercurrent. “You have a history with my husband?”

Tessa’s eyes widen behind her glasses, a flash of alarm crossing her features as Ivy advances. The space between them shrinks rapidly, Ivy’s body language screaming predator as she invades Tessa’s personal space with practiced intimidation.

“Ivy, no! What are you doing?” I lunge forward, grabbing her arm and pulling her back. To my surprise, she doesn’t resist, allowing herself to be guided away from Tessa’s increasingly pale face.

Her body remains tense under my touch, but she makes no move to break free. Instead, her purple eyes stay locked on Tessa, assessing, calculating, like a lioness deciding whether a particular gazelle is worth the energy to chase.

“It’s not that kind of history,” Tessa stammers, clutching her tablet against her chest like a shield. “We were kids. Our sisters raced together. That’s all.”

Blair watches the scene unfold with undisguised fascination, cereal temporarily forgotten as she observes this new dynamic with analytical interest.

“Ivy,” I murmur, keeping my voice low and soothing. “Tessa’s friendship was one of the few good things I had growing up. She’d help me with homework when Melissa was too busy. She was like... a protective older sister.”

Ivy’s expression shifts in an instant, her features arranging into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s the same smile I’ve seen her give to reporters she despises or Lana Norris, a perfect, practiced curve of lips that contains absolutely no warmth.

“How wonderful,” she says, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she extends her hand toward Tessa again. “I’m simply thrilled to meet someone who cares so deeply about my husband’s wellbeing. What a rare gift.” Her fingers tighten visibly around Tessa’s hand. “Though I should mention, he’s quite occupied these days keeping pace with his rather demanding wife. Perhaps give us some space?”

I feel my face flush hot with embarrassment. “Ivy, please…”

“What?” She releases Tessa’s hand and turns to me with wide-eyed innocence. “I’m just being friendly.”

Blair snorts from her perch, shoving another handful of cereal into her mouth. “About as friendly as a shark.”

The technicians around us have gone completely still, pretending to be absorbed in their screens while clearly straining to catch every word. Tessa takes a small step backward, her complexion pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.

“I should get back to work,” she says quietly, adjusting her glasses with slightly trembling fingers. “The suspension modifications you requested need to be implemented before your next session.”

Ivy’s smile doesn’t falter. “Excellent idea. The sooner I crush Blair at Imola, the happier everyone will be.”

As Tessa retreats to her workstation, I grab Ivy’s arm and tug her toward the door. “We need to talk,” I whisper urgently.

She allows herself to be led from the room, but not before shooting one final warning glance at Tessa over her shoulder. The moment we’re in the hallway, I round on her.

“What was that about?” I demand, keeping my voice low despite my frustration.

Ivy shrugs, completely unrepentant. “Just establishing boundaries with your... friend.” The way she says ‘friend’ makes it sound like an accusation.

“She’s not a threat to you,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “She’s just someone who was kind to me when not many people were.”

“Everyone is a threat until proven otherwise,” Ivy replies, her expression suddenly serious. “You’re too trusting, Nick. You always have been.”

I let out a sharp laugh, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. “What?”

Ivy’s eyebrows shoot up, clearly not expecting this response.

“I’m not some naive kid, Ivy,” I continue, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m actually incredibly wary of new people. Always have been. Tessa is literally one of maybe five people outside my family I’ve ever truly trusted, and that’s only because she was consistently there for me when everyone else was busy with their own lives.”

Ivy’s expression softens slightly, but there’s still something guarded in her purple eyes. “She gave you a look, Nick.”

“A look?” I repeat, incredulous.

“Yes, a look.” Ivy steps closer, her voice dropping to a whisper despite the empty hallway. “Like she’s watching a baby deer being stalked by a lioness and she’s just waiting for the right moment to intervene. To save you.” She gestures toward herself with a sweep of her hand. “From me.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “You’re projecting.”

The words slip out before I can soften them, and I immediately regret my tone. Ivy’s eyes narrow dangerously, that championship-winning glare focused entirely on me.

I meet her gaze steadily with my own glare, refusing to back down. We stand like that for several heartbeats, locked in a silent battle of wills in the sterile Cambridge hallway.

Then, like a sudden change in weather, Ivy’s expression crumples. The fierce competitor dissolves, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable than most would believe possible. Her bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout that somehow manages to be both ridiculous and endearing.

“No, don’t get mad at me,” she whines, reaching for my hands. “I’m serious, Nick. I really think she wants to steal you from me.”

The abrupt shift from intimidating champion to insecure wife still gives me emotional whiplash sometimes. I can’t help but smile at the absurdity of it all, this woman who terrorizes competitors on track, who literally assaulted my mother without hesitation, is worried about losing me to a childhood friend.

“No one,” I say, taking her face between my hands, “is ever going to steal me from you. I promise.”

Her purple eyes search mine, looking for any hint of deception. Finding none, she leans into my touch, her shoulders relaxing visibly.

“Good,” she murmurs, turning her head to press a kiss against my palm. “Because I’d have to kill her, and then Victoria would be upset about losing another engineer.”

“We don’t joke about killing people, Ivy.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Please stop being mad at me.”

Chapter Text

There’s something primal about the taste of your wife that makes you forget your own name. I’m drowning in sensation as Ivy hovers above me, her powerful thighs bracketing my hips, her mouth suspended over mine as she deliberately lets a long strand of her saliva fall between my parted lips. On paper, it should be disgusting, this exchange of fluids beyond the standard coupling, but with Ivy, even the filthiest acts feel like sacred ceremonies.

“Fuck, I’m coming,” I gasp, the words barely coherent as my hips buck upward. My entire body tenses as I empty myself deep inside her, each pulse sending electric currents through my nervous system. Her purple eyes never leave mine, watching with predatory satisfaction as she reduces me to trembling surrender.

She swallows my moans with a deep kiss, her tongue claiming my mouth as thoroughly as her body claims everything else. When she finally pulls back, a wicked smile plays across her lips, her purple-highlighted hair framing her face like a halo designed in hell.

“Good boy,” she purrs, her accent thicker in these intimate moments. With the same athletic grace that makes her a three-time world champion, she lifts herself off me, my release already beginning to leak from her as she stands beside our bed.

I lie there panting, my chest heaving as I watch her move across our bedroom. Even in this unguarded moment, especially in this unguarded moment, she’s breathtaking. The late afternoon light filtering through our blinds catches on the sheen of sweat covering her athletic body, making her glow like some perfect goddess.

“Oh hey,” she says casually, as if she hadn’t just fucked my soul out of my body moments ago, “I got something from the team today I need your help with.”

I struggle to prop myself up on my elbows, still dizzy from our coupling. “Hmm?”

Ivy doesn’t bother cleaning herself, just pulls on a pair of gray sweatpants and a casual Zenith team shirt. The thought of my seed still inside her as she dresses sends an unexpected aftershock of pleasure through me. There’s something deeply satisfying about it, instinctual and possessive in a way I never knew I could feel.

She rummages through a bag by the dresser, her movements precise despite her disheveled state. When she turns back toward me, she’s holding a sleek black device that makes my brain short-circuit.

“Is that…” I can’t even finish the sentence, my jaw literally dropping open as I stare at what’s unmistakably a Nintendo Switch 2 in her hands.

“What the fuck?” I finally manage, sitting bolt upright. “That’s not out until next month!”

Ivy’s lips curve into a mischievous smile as she tosses the device onto the bed beside me. “Nintendo’s sponsoring Zenith for a few races this season,” she explains, running a hand through her tousled purple-highlighted hair. “They want me and Blair to do some promotional stuff with their new Peach Kart game. Problem is, I only play racing sims off season.”

I pick up the unreleased console, turning it over in my hands with a reverent awe that only comes with new generation. “Holy shit, this is sick.”

“Are you any good at Peach Kart?” Ivy sits on the edge of the bed, her weight creating a dip that pulls me slightly toward her.

“Actually, yeah,” I say, unable to hide my excitement. “Peach Kart 8 was one of my go-to games. I was pretty decent, had all the shortcuts memorized and everything.”

Something dangerous flashes across Ivy’s eyes, that competitive spark I’ve seen countless times before races. She leans forward, her face inches from mine, that predatory smile widening.

“Perfect,” she purrs, her accent making the word sound like a promise and a threat simultaneously. “Perhaps I can finally treat you like a proper competitor for once.”

My heart skips a beat. I wonder if I even want to be her rival.

I feel a knot forming in my stomach. The Switch 2 suddenly feels heavier in my hands, and I set it down carefully on the rumpled sheets between us.

“I’d love to play you, but...” I hesitate, studying her eager expression. “I’m not sure I want to end up like Enza just because we played a video game together.”

Ivy’s face transforms instantly, her competitive glint replaced by genuine confusion. Her eyebrows knit together as she reaches for my hand.

“Nick,” she says softly, “what are you talking about? You’re my husband, my lover, and my best friend first. Competitor comes dead last on that list.” She squeezes my fingers, her purple eyes intensely focused on mine. “I would never risk what we have for a few seconds’ advantage in anything, darling. Not even if you were being an insufferable winner about it.”

The sincerity in her voice makes my chest tighten. I launch forward, wrapping my arms around her solid frame, burying my face against her neck. She smells like sex and expensive shampoo and something uniquely Ivy that I can’t get enough of.

“Alright, let’s play then.”

*****

The afternoon dissolves into evening as we lose ourselves in the vibrant world of Peach Kart. We’ve migrated to the floor, sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet of our bedroom, shoulders occasionally bumping as we drive around. The competition is fierce but playful, each of us winning our fair share of races.

Until Moo Moo Farms.

“Yeah, Suck it!” Ivy taunts, her character pulling ahead in the final lap. Her entire body leans forward as if the physical motion might propel her kart faster. The intensity radiating from her is almost comical, the same laser focus she applies to Formula 1 now directed at Mario game in a different world.

I’m trailing in second place, accepting my inevitable defeat when the game’s iconic warning sound blares through the speakers.

“FUCK YES!” I shout as the blue shell appears on screen, hurtling toward Ivy’s character with merciless precision.

The explosion rocks her kart, sending it spinning off course just before the finish line. But fate isn’t done with her yet. As she recovers, a red shell, slams into her, knocking her back even further.

I zoom past, along with a slew of NPCs. By the time Ivy crosses the finish line, she’s in sixth place.

The silence that follows lasts approximately two seconds.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?” Ivy erupts, her face contorting with genuine rage. “What is the fucking POINT of being in first place the ENTIRE RACE if some BULLSHIT blue shell can just DESTROY YOU OUT OF NOWHERE?”

Before I can respond, she hurls her controller at the wall with championship-worthy force. It hits with a sickening crack, plastic fragments scattering across our bedroom floor like shrapnel.

“Ivy!” I yelp, scrambling to my feet. “I don’t think we can break these!”

She’s on her feet now too, pacing like a caged tiger, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. “That game is RIGGED! It’s designed to punish skill! What kind of sadistic developer creates a weapon that ONLY targets first place?”

I approach cautiously, retrieving the broken controller pieces. “It’s just a game mechanic to keep races close and exciting.”

“It’s BULLSHIT, is what it is,” she snarls, whirling toward me. “Can you imagine if Formula 1 worked that way? If they just SLOWED DOWN the leader because they were too far ahead? ‘Oh, Ivy Hunt is winning by too much, let’s throw a fucking BLUE SHELL at her car!’”

I can’t help it, the mental image of an actual blue shell chasing Ivy’s purple F1 car around Monza makes me burst into laughter.

My laughter dies in my throat as Ivy’s eyes lock onto mine, blazing with fury. There’s something about the way her jaw clenches, the tightness in her shoulders, that sends a different kind of heat coursing through me.

“You think this is funny?” she growls, stalking toward me like a predator. “You’re enjoying seeing me like this?”

A flush creeps up my neck, spreading across my cheeks as I realize with startling clarity that yes, I do enjoy it. “Maybe a little,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her expression shifts, anger giving way to something darker, more hungry. Without warning, she lunges forward, grabbing my shoulders and shoving me backward. I hit our mattress with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs, bouncing slightly on impact.

“You like when I’m angry?” she purrs, her accent thickening dangerously. “When I lose control?”

I spread my arms wide in invitation, already feeling myself hardening despite our recent activities. “Come here,” I breathe.

The transformation is immediate. As she crawls onto the bed and into my embrace, the tension melts from her body. She collapses against my chest, burying her face in the crook of my neck, her breath hot against my skin.

“You’re insane,” she murmurs, but there’s no bite to her words. Her arms snake around me, holding me with surprising delicateness. “Absolutely crazy.”

I run my fingers through her purple-streaked hair, savoring the weight of her against me. “I know.”

“I can’t believe you’re turned on by me being angry,” she says, pressing a soft kiss to my collarbone. “That’s so fucked up.”

“Says the woman who just threw a controller at the wall over a blue shell.”

She nips at my skin in retaliation, the sharp sting making me gasp. “You’re lucky I love you so much,” she whispers, her hand sliding down my stomach. “Otherwise I’d make you pay for that comment.”

“Maybe I want to pay for it,” I suggest, my hips rising to meet her wandering fingers.

Ivy’s lips curve into a wicked smile as her hand wraps around me. “You’re turning into a little brat, aren’t you?” she purrs, giving me a squeeze that makes my toes curl. “Where’s that sweet boy I married?”

I meet her gaze with newfound boldness, heart hammering against my ribs. “Don’t you want me to fight back a little?” The words come out huskier than intended, betraying how much I’m enjoying this shift in our dynamic.

She straddles me in one fluid motion, her powerful thighs caging my hips as she studies my face with predatory fascination. “I want you to be happy,” she says, grinding against me with deliberate slowness. Her purple eyes darken with desire as she adds, “But yes, it is fun when you show a little fight.”

Her fingers trace my jawline, then slip lower to dance across my collarbone. She leans down until her lips brush against my ear, her breath hot and intimate. “You know,” she whispers, voice dropping to that velvet register that makes my skin prickle with goosebumps, “I was thinking about that bet we made a few races ago... the one I lost.”

My body responds instantly to the memory, blood rushing south so fast I feel lightheaded.

“But maybe,” she continues, teeth grazing my earlobe, “I’ve earned a little skirt action after winning Saudi Arabia and Miami back-to-back.” Her hand slides between us, fingers wrapping around my hardness with possessive certainty. “What do you think, husband?”

Heat floods my face, spreading down my neck and chest in a visible wave of crimson. The image of myself in a skirt, vulnerable and exposed for her pleasure, sends a jolt of electricity straight through me. “Alright, fine,” I manage, my voice barely audible. “I’ll wear a skirt for you on race day.”

The look that crosses Ivy’s face can only be described as unholy. Her pupils dilate so completely that the purple of her irises is reduced to thin rings around bottomless black. She crashes her mouth against mine with bruising force, her tongue demanding entrance as her body presses me deeper into the mattress.

When she finally pulls back, we’re both gasping for air, her lipstick smeared across my mouth, my chest heaving against hers. The intensity in her eyes makes my entire body tremble with anticipation.

“You better fucking win if they’re going to take pictures of us kissing while I’m in that skirt,” I pant.

Her lips curl into that predatory smile that makes my heart race. “Of course I’ll win,” she purrs, her accent thick with arousal. “I always perform best when properly motivated.” Her fingers trace down my chest, nails dragging lightly against my skin. “And the thought of you in a skirt, waiting for me at the podium... that’s more than enough motivation.”

Chapter Text

There’s something uniquely humiliating about standing in a Formula 1 garage wearing a skirt that could double as a Catholic school uniform while your world-champion wife battles for first place. I watch from my spot near the pit wall as Ivy’s car screams out of the pit lane, fresh hard compound tires gleaming under the Imola sun. The strategists around me tense as the timing screens update, she’s dropped behind Blair thanks to the pit stop, though it’s a temporary setback since Blair still needs to make her own tire change.

“Car looks stable on the hards,” Someone comments beside me, their eyes never leaving the bank of monitors. “She should be able to push through sector two now.”

I nod absently, tugging at the hem of my skirt for what must be the hundredth time today. When Ivy and I made our bet, I’d imagined something scandalous, one of those tiny, barely-there numbers that fashionable men in this world wear to clubs. You know, something that would actually justify my embarrassment.

Instead, I’m drowning in navy blue pleated wool that falls nearly to my ankles. It’s less “seductive husband” and more “19th-century schoolboy.” The first time I saw it hanging in our closet this morning, I actually laughed, thinking it was Ivy’s idea of a joke.

“Is this for real?” I’d asked as she lounged on our bed, watching me with predatory amusement.

“Absolutely,” she’d replied, those purple eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You’re going to look adorable.”

When I questioned the excessive length, her response was immediate and possessive, “The goods are only for me, Nick. No one else gets to see what’s mine.”

Which, admittedly, made my heart do that ridiculous flutter thing it always does when she gets territorial. But still, what’s the point of sacrificing my dignity if I’m not even properly conforming to this world’s reversed gender expectations?

The headset crackles with Ivy’s voice, sharp and focused as she navigates the track. “Tires feel good. How’s the gap to Blair?”

“She’s pushing hard in sector one,” her race engineer responds. “Looks like she might try to overcut.”

I shift my weight, the heavy wool of the skirt swishing around my legs. The one silver lining in this whole situation, it’s surprisingly comfortable. The freedom of movement is actually kind of nice.

“Your wife’s flying,” Tessa remarks, appearing at my side with a tablet clutched to her chest. She’s kept a polite distance since Ivy’s jealous display in Cambridge, but her natural friendliness seems to be gradually overcoming her caution.

“Yeah, she’s really something special out there,” I agree, eyes tracking Ivy’s purple machine as it devours another sector. The familiar pride swells in my chest, watching her work with such precision.

Tessa shifts beside me, her gaze dropping to my outfit. “That skirt actually looks stunning on you, Nick,” she says, a soft blush creeping across her cheeks. “It suits you perfectly.”

I laugh awkwardly, tugging at the hem again. “Thanks.”

“I’ve just never seen you in anything like this before,” she continues, her voice taking on a nostalgic quality. “Even when we were kids, I don’t think I ever saw you in traditional men’s clothes.”

“My dad tried his best to get me into ‘proper boyish’ outfits,” I explain, making air quotes with my fingers. “But he always caved whenever I complained. Total pushover in the end.”

Tessa’s tablet suddenly emits a series of urgent beeps. Her eyes widen as she glances down at the screen, fingers quickly swiping through whatever data has just appeared.

“Shoot, I’ve got to run,” she says, already backing away. “The telemetry’s showing some anomalies in the rear suspension that I need to check immediately.”

“No worries,” I reply with an encouraging smile. “Keep crushing it with that engineering magic.”

She returns my smile, a quick flash of warmth before her professional focus takes over. With a small wave, she hurries across the garage, already calling out instructions to a nearby technician.

As I watch Tessa disappear into the maze of engineers and equipment, I feel a presence materialize beside me. The unmistakable scent of overpriced perfume announces Lucian’s arrival before I even turn to look at him.

“Well, well,” he drawls, sidling up next to me with that model’s strut of his. His perfect chestnut hair cascades over his shoulders as he gestures dramatically toward the timing screens. “Look at that! Blair’s in the lead. Your precious champion is losing.”

There’s something so smugly victorious in his tone that I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Instead, I raise an eyebrow and offer a casual, “Oh?”

“Yes, ‘oh,’” he mimics, leaning closer like he’s sharing insider information. “She’s a full twenty seconds ahead now. I guess we know who the real talent is in this team.”

I can’t help the smile that creeps across my face. “Buddy, Blair hasn’t pitted yet.”

His perfectly sculpted features freeze mid-smirk. “What?”

“Blair hasn’t made her pit stop,” I explain slowly, as if talking to a child. “She still needs to change tires. That’s why she’s temporarily ahead.”

The confidence drains from his face like air from a punctured balloon. His mouth opens and closes several times, reminding me of a particularly well-dressed goldfish gasping for air.

“But... but she’s in the lead,” he stammers, his eyes darting frantically between me and the timing screens.

I gesture toward the pit wall where the strategists are already preparing for Blair’s imminent stop. “Give it one lap. Your girlfriend is going to come out behind Ivy, and then she’ll be chasing for the rest of the race.”

Lucian’s porcelain complexion flushes an interesting shade of pink. He adjusts his designer shirt with trembling fingers, clearly searching for a way to save face.

“You don’t understand racing strategy,” he finally declares, drawing himself up to his full height. “Blair’s trying to build a gap so that when she pits, she’ll still be ahead.”

Lucian lets out a long, dramatic sigh that seems to deflate his entire body.

“This is so tedious,” he mutters, waving his hand dismissively. “I don’t even know why I bother.”

He turns on his heel and strides away, his perfect hair bouncing with each step. It’s almost comical how quickly he abandons the conversation the moment he realizes he can’t wound me with his comments. Without the prospect of drawing blood, I’m apparently not worth his time.

As I’m watching Lucian’s dramatic exit suddenly Ivy’s voice blasts through the garage speakers, panicked and breathless.

“Shit! Fuck! Something’s leaking out of me!”

The entire garage freezes. Her race engineer’s confused voice crackles back, “Can you clarify? Is it hydraulic fluid?”

“No, it’s Nick! His seed is dripping out of me onto the floor of the car! Fuck, I’m losing it all! I Can’t fucking win like this!”

My mouth drops open as her words echo through the completely silent garage. Every head swivels toward me in perfect unison, eyes wide with shock. Even the mechanics who were previously absorbed in their tasks are now staring directly at my crimson face.

But strangely, I don’t feel embarrassed. Instead, a wave of irritation washes over me as I realize my wife is genuinely distressed about this while racing at 200 mph.

“Well? Help her!” I snap at the stunned faces around me. “She’s clearly concerned! Can we block her up?”

Her race engineer blinks rapidly, her mouth opening and closing several times before he finally presses his radio button. “Ivy, I’m... I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do about that particular situation from here. Please just maintain your pace and focus on the race.”

Tessa rushes over, her face ghost-white as she clutches her tablet. “Oh my god, Nick,” she whispers urgently. “The broadcast just picked her entire exchange. It went out live to everyone!”

It hits me like a freight train, millions of viewers worldwide just heard about my bodily fluids leaking out of my wife during a Grand Prix. The thought should mortify me, but instead, a strange calm settles over me as I turn to Tessa.

“Wait, is it against regulations to race with cum inside you?” I ask, surprisingly practical despite the circumstances.

The team members exchange bewildered glances. Tessa adjusts her glasses nervously, her cheeks flushed crimson.

“I don’t believe there’s any specific rule about... bodily fluids,” she manages, scrolling frantically through her tablet. “No, nothing in the technical regulations covers this particular situation.”

“Then who cares?” I shrug, watching the timing screens where Ivy’s sector times are slipping by hundredths of seconds. “If it’s not illegal, it’s not a problem.”

Tessa stares at me in disbelief. “Aren’t you mortified? The entire world just heard about your... intimate details!”

I run a hand through my hair, watching Ivy’s purple car weaving slightly on the track. “Look, Ivy genuinely believes it makes her faster, something about making her the messiah. She’s very particular about her pre-race rituals.”

The absurdity of defending my wife’s superstitions while dressed in this ridiculous skirt suddenly irritates me. I march over to Ivy’s race engineer, a stern-faced woman whose name I’ve embarrassingly never bothered to learn despite months of marriage to Ivy.

“Let me on the radio,” I demand, holding out my hand for her headset.

She recoils like I’ve asked to drive the car myself. “Absolutely not. Team communications only.”

I level my gaze at her, channeling a bit of Ivy’s intimidating energy. “I can fix this. She’s losing time worrying about something only I can address.”

Her eyes narrow, calculating the competitive disadvantage of Ivy’s distraction against the protocol breach.

“Fine,” she relents with a sigh, passing me the headset. “But keep it brief and professional.”

I slip the headset over my ears, heart pounding as I press the talk button. “Ivy? It’s Nick.”

The response is immediate. “Nick? They let you on comms?” Her voice sounds both surprised and relieved.

“Yes, it’s me.” I take a deep breath, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this whole situation is. “Listen, Ivy. If what’s inside you is overflowing, it only means there’s an abundance there, plenty to spare. You’ve got more than enough to make it through this race, okay?”

There’s a moment of silence on the line, and I can almost picture her face softening from panic to understanding.

“You’re right,” she responds, her voice noticeably calmer. “Of course. That makes perfect sense.” Her breathing steadies through the headset. “Thank you, Nick.”

“Good luck, baby,” I say softly. “Bring it home.”

I hand the headphones back to the engineer, whose expression has transformed from mortification to cautious optimism. “That should fix it,” I tell her with more confidence than I feel.

On the screens above us, Blair’s car finally dives into pit lane, her tires visibly degraded after pushing so hard. Almost simultaneously, Ivy’s purple machine rockets past the, her lap time dropping by nearly three-tenths.

“Her pace is back,” the engineer confirms, shoulders relaxing as she studies the telemetry. “Whatever you said worked.”

“Thank God.”

Chapter Text

There's something surreal about sitting in the FIA stewards' office with your wife while officials in another room analyze your splooge. The stark fluorescent lighting makes the plain white walls almost painfully bright as Ivy and I wait, shoulder to shoulder, on uncomfortable plastic chairs.

"Mrs. and Mr. Hunt," the chief steward had said with painful formality before leaving us alone, "please remain here while we conduct our investigation."

Now we're just... waiting. Ivy's leg bounces with restless energy beside mine, her purple racing suit still damp with champagne from the podium celebration. She keeps pressing her lips together in that specific way she does when she's trying desperately not to laugh. I'm not doing much better, a persistent bubble of hysteria threatening to escape my throat every time our eyes meet.

"Do you think they have a special testing protocol for this?" I whisper, my voice cracking slightly with suppressed laughter. "Like, did they have to call in a specialist?"

Ivy snorts, her shoulders shaking with silent giggles. "Imagine the poor lab technician's face when they explained what needed testing."

The mental image sends us both into another fit of barely contained laughter. I have to bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

"This is ridiculous," Ivy finally manages, wiping at the corner of her eye. "They're actually treating this like some form of performance enhancement."

"Would doping even make a difference in F1?" I ask, genuinely curious. "I mean, it's not like cycling where it's all about endurance."

Ivy shrugs, her championship ring catching the light as she runs a hand through her purple-streaked hair. "I don't have a clue, honestly. The physical demands are different. Reaction time, G-force resistance..." She trails off, considering it seriously for a moment before her face cracks into another smile. "But I'm pretty sure your bodily fluids aren't on any banned substance lists."

"I nod, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "I mean, you're innocent regardless."

"Of course I am," she replies with mock indignation. "Unless loving my husband too much before races is suddenly against regulation."

The door swings open abruptly, revealing three stern-faced officials carrying tablets and looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. The middle one, a severe woman with graying hair pulled back in a tight bun, clears her throat uncomfortably.

"Mrs. Hunt, after thorough analysis, we've determined that while your... communication was highly inappropriate for broadcast, there is no technical violation of any performance-enhancing substance rules."

Ivy leans forward in her chair, those purple eyes glinting with mischief as she meets the steward's gaze directly.

"So, just to clarify," she says, her voice carrying that deliberate innocence that makes my stomach drop. "It's alright for my husband to blast as much of his godly cum into my aching pussy before a race, right? Because for me, if I'm not bursting at the seams with Nick's seed, I'm not sure I can race."

The steward's face goes through an impressive spectrum of emotions, shock, disgust, embarrassment, and finally resignation. Behind her, one of the male officials actually turns away, his shoulders shaking with what might be suppressed laughter or a nervous breakdown.

"Mrs. Hunt," the woman says, her voice strained to breaking point, "we are not here to... to approve your pre-race rituals. We are simply stating that no technical regulations were violated."

I sink lower in my chair, feeling heat flood my face. "Ivy, please," I whisper, but my protest lacks conviction. Part of me, a much larger part than I'd like to admit, is enjoying this spectacle.

"I'm just being thorough," Ivy replies, giving my thigh a reassuring squeeze. "These things need to be clear for future reference. I don't want any surprises next race."

The steward closes her eyes briefly, as if praying for strength. "This conversation is over. You're free to go."

As we step out of the sterile confines of the stewards' office, we're immediately bombarded by a wall of flashing cameras and shouting journalists. The paddock press corps has materialized like vultures sensing fresh carrion, microphones thrust forward and recorders blinking red.

Ivy's hand tightens around mine as her lips curl into that smile I've come to recognize, the one that means she's about to cause absolute chaos. She leans in close, her breath warm against my ear.

"How explicit can I be about our little situation?" she whispers, purple eyes gleaming with mischievous intent. "What's your comfort level here?"

I swallow hard, acutely aware of the dozens of lenses capturing our every move. "I mean, it already aired on international television," I reply, resignation mixing with a strange thrill. "Might as well own it at this point."

Her grin widens to predatory proportions as she straightens, squaring her shoulders with championship confidence. She raises one hand, and the shouting instantly diminishes as the press corps collectively holds its breath.

"I'll take a few questions," she announces, her accent crisp and commanding.

"Mrs. Hunt!" A journalist from Autosport lunges forward. "Can you explain what happened in the car during the race?"

Ivy's smile doesn't falter as she launches into her response with the same precision she applies to hairpin turns.

"Well, as I think everyone with a television now knows, my husband and I have certain pre-race rituals that we find help me race." She wraps her arm possessively around my waist. "Unfortunately, today there was a slight... containment issue."

The assembled journalists erupt in nervous laughter, pens scribbling frantically as they capture every word.

"Mrs. Hunt!" A voice calls out from the back of the press scrum. "What exactly about Nick's... fluids helps you race better?"

The question hangs in the air for a beat. I feel my face burning hot, but Ivy's expression transforms completely. Her usual media-trained smile melts away, replaced by something I've only seen in private.

"That's actually a fascinating question," she replies, her voice dropping to an earnest, almost hushed tone. Her eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm as she leans into the microphone. "I believe there's something almost transcendent happening. Like I'm absorbing Nick's essence into my very being."

My jaw slackens as she continues, completely unfiltered.

"When we're intimate before a race, I believe our life forces merge in a very profound way." She places her hand against her stomach, her expression dreamy and distant. "Having Nick sloshing around inside of my womb, feeling that warmth deep within, it creates this incredible connection that goes beyond the physical."

The journalists have gone completely silent, pens frozen mid-air, cameras whirring steadily as they capture every word of this unexpected dissertation.

"During today's race, when I felt him still there, still part of me..." She closes her eyes briefly, lost in the memory. "It's like I go beyond my normal limitations. I'm no longer just operating the car, I become one with the machine. The barrier between driver and vehicle dissolves completely."

Someone coughs awkwardly in the silence that follows. Despite the embarrassment, I stand proudly with my lover.

"That's why I was so concerned when I felt it... leaving me," she concludes, opening her eyes. "I thought I was losing that connection to my husband, that perfect harmony."

The press corps explodes like a dam breaking, a tidal wave of questions flooding toward us with terrifying intensity. Journalists who moments ago were stunned into silence now shove microphones forward with renewed fervor, their professional composure completely abandoned.

"Nick! NICK!" They call my name like I'm some rare exotic animal they've spotted in the wild. "How do you feel about your wife's comments?"

"Is this ritual something you've done with previous partners?"

"Do you believe in the spiritual connection Mrs. Hunt describes?"

The questions come so fast they blur together, a cacophony of intrusive curiosity. A woman from F1TV practically climbs over her colleagues, thrusting her microphone dangerously close to my face.

"As a man, do you feel objectified by your wife's public comments about your bodily fluids?"

I meet the reporter's eyes directly, a strange confidence flowing through me.

"No, I don't think anything Ivy said was sexist or objectifying," I reply, my voice surprisingly steady. "Not at all. She's expressing her truth about our relationship."

I step closer to Ivy, wrapping my arm around her waist. She responds immediately, pulling me even tighter against her side, her fingers digging possessively into my hip. The warmth of her body against mine grounds me, gives me courage to continue.

"Ivy loves me," I state simply, looking at the sea of cameras rather than any particular journalist. "What you're all witnessing is just one facet of that love."

A voice cuts through the momentary silence, sharp and provocative from somewhere in the back of the press scrum.

"Ivy! Do you only love your husband because you believe his fluids help you win races?"

The temperature seems to drop several degrees as Ivy's body goes rigid beside me. Her purple eyes narrow dangerously, scanning the crowd for the source of the question. When she speaks, her voice has that deadly quiet quality that makes even veteran journalists take an instinctive step backward.

"Let me make something absolutely clear," she says, each word precise and cutting. "If Nick asked me to retire from racing right now, this very second, I would hand in my helmet and never look back."

A nervous laugh escapes me before I can stop it, the idea so completely contrary to everything I know about racing and champions. Ivy's hand slides up my back, coming to rest at the nape of my neck, where her fingers gently massage the tension she finds there.

"I love Nick more than racing," she continues, her voice softening as she turns to look at me rather than the press. "Racing is what I do. Nick is who I live for."

The sincerity in her eyes makes my throat tighten with emotion. For a moment, it's just us, the cameras and microphones fading into background noise.

Another journalist breaks the spell, her voice cutting through our private moment. "But Ivy, you went on record just last year saying love was overrated and a distraction from true achievement. Have your feelings changed?"

Ivy's gaze lingers on mine for another heartbeat before she turns back to the press corps. Her lips curve into a small, enigmatic smile.

"Yes," she says simply, offering nothing more.

The journalists wait expectantly, pens poised for elaboration that doesn't come. The silence stretches uncomfortably until Ivy gives a curt nod to the assembled press and takes my hand.

"That's all for today," she announces with finality.

Chapter Text

There’s something surreal about having your world-champion wife jerk you off under the desk while fifteen thousand people watch you play video games. Not that they can see what’s happening below the camera frame, thank God, but the knowledge alone has me sweating bullets as I navigate the digital curves of Dragon Trail on the brand-new PlayStation 5 Ivy got me.

“Guys, I’m so sorry about that last corner,” I stammer, trying to keep my voice steady as Ivy’s fingers work their magic beneath the table. “Still getting used to the steering sensitivity on this setup.”

The chat explodes with comments, scrolling too fast to read properly, though I catch snippets about my driving form being “absolute trash” and how I should “stick to being pretty.” Typical stream banter that normally wouldn’t faze me, but tonight everything feels amplified.

Ivy leans into frame, her purple-highlighted hair cascading over my shoulder as she pretends to study the race. Her free hand reaches for the mouse, scrolling through the chat with practiced nonchalance while her other hand continues its torturous ministrations below.

“You’re all being very rude to my husband,” she announces to the camera, her accent thickening with deliberate menace. “I’ve banned three people already. Don’t make me get serious.”

The chat immediately shifts tone, flooding with apologetic messages and heart emojis. It’s remarkable how quickly fifteen thousand people can pivot from mockery to adoration with one stern word from Ivy Hunt.

“Baby, you missed that apex,” she says, pointing at the screen with her free hand while the other squeezes me just hard enough to make my car swerve dangerously on track. “Focus.”

“I’m trying,” I grit through clenched teeth, painfully aware that my face must be flushed crimson. “It’s just... challenging right now.”

Her lips curve into a wicked smile just visible at the edge of the camera frame. “Life is full of challenges, husband.”

The chat continues its relentless scroll, dominated now by reactions to our earlier press conference disaster. The cum incident, as it’s being called online, has somehow transformed from a potential career-ending scandal to viral marketing gold in the span of twenty-four hours. Zenith’s social media engagement is up 400%, and my humble racing stream has suddenly become the hottest ticket on Twitch.

“NicksMechanic donated fifty dollars,” I read aloud, grateful for the distraction. “Says, ‘How are you guys handling the separation tomorrow? First time apart since you got together, right?’”

Ivy’s hand stills momentarily beneath the table, her expression softening as she turns to face me. There’s a vulnerability in her purple eyes that the camera can’t quite capture, a flicker of genuine concern beneath her confident exterior.

“We’ll manage,” she says, her voice carrying a forced lightness. “It’s only for a week. Nick’s sister needs him for her Indy run, and I’ve got Monaco to prepare for.”

What she doesn’t say, what the viewers can’t possibly understand, is how this separation has been looming over us like a storm cloud for days.

“It’ll go by quick,” I add, reaching to squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. “Before you know it, I’ll be back annoying you in no time.”

A notification pops up on my screen, NickIsMyHusbando has just gifted twenty subscriptions to the channel. My longest-serving moderator has been suspiciously quiet tonight, barely chiming in despite usually being the most active presence in my streams.

“Oh look, your number one fan is feeling generous tonight,” Ivy remarks, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studies the username. Her hand resumes its previous activity with renewed vigor, making me gasp mid-corner and send my digital car careening into the gravel.

“Jesus, Ivy!” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

The chat erupts again, viewers speculating wildly about what just happened. Ivy laughs, the sound both musical and slightly menacing as she leans closer to the microphone.

“What my husband means to say,” Ivy purrs into the microphone, “is that he’s finding it difficult to concentrate because he’s thinking about our separation.”

I try not to whimper as I clutch my Fanatec wheel tighter, desperately trying to get my car back on track. The chat is moving so fast I can barely keep up, but a message from Bluelightning_69 catches my eye, standing out against the blur of text.

“I think it’s fucked up Ivy exposed your private business like that on international TV,” they write. “That was between you two. Aren’t you mortified she did that to you? I bet Blair would have shown more respect for your privacy.”

My breath catches in my throat. The comment hits differently than the others, more personal somehow. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

“Ignore them,” Ivy whispers in my ear, just quiet enough that the microphone doesn’t pick it up. Her hand moves faster beneath the desk, making it nearly impossible to focus on driving, let alone addressing the chat.

NickIsMyHusbando’s message appears next, highlighted in mod colors: “Nick, blink twice if you need help. You don’t have to do this stream if you’re uncomfortable.”

Something about the message feels oddly protective, almost maternal. It’s strange, they’ve been my main moderator for years, always looking out for me during streams, but tonight there’s an intensity to their concern that feels different.

“Your mod seems very invested in your well-being,” Ivy remarks, her voice deceptively casual as her eyes track the username across the screen. Her grip tightens beneath the desk, making me gasp audibly.

“They’re just being supportive,” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady.

“How sweet,” Ivy says, but there’s a dangerous edge to her tone that makes me nervous.

I force my attention back to the game, somehow managing to keep my car on track despite the mounting pressure, both from the race and from what’s happening beneath my desk. The chat continues to scroll by in a blur of colors and emotes, but I can’t focus on any of it.

I feel the pressure building, that familiar tightening at the base of my spine signaling I’m dangerously close to the edge. My fingers fumble on the wheel as I lean close to Ivy’s ear.

“You need to stop,” I whisper urgently. “I’m about to bust. I can’t do that on stream.”

Instead of slowing, her pace increases, her skilled fingers working me with merciless precision. The gleam in her eyes tells me everything I need to know, she has no intention of stopping.

“NickIsMyHusbando just donated another hundred dollars,” Ivy announces to the stream, her voice honey-sweet even as her hand becomes ruthlessly efficient. “They say they’re worried about you, Nick. Isn’t that adorable?”

She leans closer to the camera, her purple eyes narrowing with predatory focus. “Listen, Husbando,” she purrs, the word dripping with venom despite her smile. “Nick is no husbando of yours. He’s my husband. Mine alone.”

I bite my lip hard enough to hurt, desperately trying to maintain my composure as the first wave hits me. It’s too late, I’m coming undone right here, right now, with fifteen thousand people watching my face. My body surrenders completely as I drop my hands from the wheel, blowing my load out of sight.

“See this face?” Ivy’s free hand grabs my chin, forcing me to look directly into the camera while her other hand continues its relentless movements. “This is mine.”

She pulls my hair without warning, yanking my head back to expose my throat. A pathetic whimper escapes me, a sound that no one could possibly mistake for anything but what it is, pure, desperate pleasure.

The chat explodes with activity, but one message stands out in mod green: “STOP IT! You’re hurting him! Nick, end the stream now!”

Ivy responds by pulling harder, causing me to moan louder involuntarily. The sound seems to echo in our trailer, hanging in the air like a confession.

I should be mortified. I should be scrambling to end the stream, to salvage what’s left of my dignity. Instead, I find myself arching into her touch, my body betraying just how much I’m enjoying this public claiming. The realization hits me with startling clarity, I like this. I like being watched. I like being claimed. It seems I’m becoming an exhibitionist.

When did this happen? When did Ivy’s possessive public displays start turning me on instead of embarrassing me? This fetish that’s been building since we got together has apparently reached its peak, right here on my gaming stream.

When I finally glance down, the evidence of my pleasure is splattered across the desk, a sticky mess glistening under the harsh streaming lights. A groan escapes me, equal parts satisfaction and mortification, as the reality of what just happened crashes over me.

“Oh god,” I murmur, reaching blindly for something to clean up with.

The chat moves at lightning speed now, comments flying by almost too fast to read, but certain phrases jump out at me:

“Why is he moaning?”

“WTF just happened”

“Blair fumbled so badly. Imagine if she went ultra instinct instead”

“SUCH A GOOD BOY FOR MOMMY IVY”

“omg he’s like a puppy 🐶”

“so obedient and cute when he submits”

“the way he WHIMPERED when he gets his hair pulled tho”

My face burns hotter than the streaming lights above us. I should be ashamed, horrified even, but there’s an undeniable thrill coursing through me, a strange pride in being so thoroughly claimed.

Bluelightning_69’s message cuts through the noise, highlighted in bold text. “This doesn’t seem healthy at all. Nick, you look uncomfortable. Is this really what you signed up for?”

Something about the message makes my chest tighten. The concern feels genuine, almost personal.

“No, no, we’re happy together,” I stammer, surprised by my own defensive tone. “This is just... us. How we are.”

NickIsMyHusbando’s response appears instantly, green mod text standing out against the scrolling chaos: “She looks more like your owner than your wife, Nick. Are you safe?”

The words hang there, accusatory and sharp. I open my mouth to defend Ivy, to explain how wrong they are about our relationship, how this dynamic works for us in ways outsiders couldn’t possibly understand.

Before I can form the words, Ivy’s hand settles on my shoulder, her grip firm but gentle. Her purple eyes meet mine, something unreadable flickering in their depths.

“I think this is a good place to end today’s stream,” she announces, her voice smooth as silk but brooking no argument. Her free hand moves toward the keyboard, hovering over the end stream button. “Thank you all for watching.”

With a decisive click, the stream cuts to black. The sudden silence in our streaming room feels almost physical, a tangible presence between us.

“Your mod has quite the attitude,” Ivy remarks, casually licking her fingers as she leans back in her chair.

I stare at her in disbelief, my body still tingling with aftershocks as reality crashes over me. “You can’t just... do that to me on stream, Ivy! What if we get in trouble? That was way over the line.”

My voice comes out higher than intended, panic rising as I grab tissues and frantically wipe at the mess on the desk. Fifteen thousand people just watched me blow my load on camera. Sure, they couldn’t see below the desk, but my face told the whole story.

Ivy tilts her head, studying me with those intense purple eyes that seem to see straight through me. “Trouble? From who exactly? It’s your stream, Nick.”

“From Twitch! They have community guidelines about sexual content.” I run my hands through my hair, still sticky with sweat. “We could get banned.”

Her expression shifts, something almost like hurt flickering across her features before she masks it with casual indifference. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself at the time.” She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Or was I misreading those pretty little sounds you were making?”

Heat floods my face again. She’s not wrong, I did enjoy it.

Before I can overthink it, I cross the small space between us and capture her lips with mine. The kiss is deep and desperate, an apology and confession rolled into one. She responds immediately, her fingers tangling in my hair as she pulls me closer.

When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against hers. “I just don’t want to cause problems for you,” I whisper. “You’ve already got enough media scrutiny without adding a Twitch ban to the mix.”

Ivy’s eyes soften as she wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a fierce embrace that feels like coming home. Her lips brush against my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

“Nick,” she murmurs, her accent thickening with emotion, “you’d be worth any scandal. Every headline, every fine, every controversy, I’d weather it all gladly if it meant keeping you.”

Chapter Text

The private jet’s leather seat creaks beneath me as I shift uncomfortably, the emptiness beside me more suffocating than the recycled cabin air. Ivy chartered this sleek metal bird to fly me directly from Italy to Indianapolis, and now I’m stuck in this luxurious prison with nothing but my thoughts and the growing hollow sensation in my chest.

I stare out the window at the tarmac, watching ground crew scurry around like ants, each with purpose and direction while I feel utterly adrift. My reflection stares back at me, lost and pathetic. The wedding ring on my finger catches the sunlight, sending little prisms dancing across the cabin.

The sound of footsteps draws my attention to the cabin door just as a woman steps aboard. She moves with military-like precision, her posture perfect and eyes constantly scanning. Her tailored charcoal suit looks expensive yet practical, and the subtle bulge beneath her jacket suggests she’s carrying. She could pass for Secret Service or high-end private security, the kind of person who can kill you eighteen different ways but will politely ask which method you’d prefer.

She approaches with measured steps and sits in the leather seat across from me, extending her hand. “Hello, Nick. I’m Cecilia Blackwood.”

I shake her hand, surprised by the firmness of her grip. “You’re the one who convinced my mom not to push the whole Ivy-beating-her-up scandal? How am I only just meeting you now?”

A small, controlled smile appears on her face, not quite reaching her eyes. “Ivy prefers I stay in the background. Less complicated that way.” She crosses her legs, somehow making the casual movement look calculated. “She wants me to be your bodyguard for this trip.”

I stare at her, trying to process what she’s just said. A bodyguard? For me?

“Wait, I don’t understand,” I say, leaning forward in my seat. “Why would I need protection? I’m not the one racing in Monaco.”

Cecilia’s expression doesn’t change, but something in her eyes shifts slightly.

“Ivy has concerns about your safety while traveling alone,” she explains, her voice measured and professional. “Especially given recent media attention.”

My chest tightens as I think about Ivy, alone in the Monaco paddock, while I’m flying in the opposite direction. The thought of her navigating that circus without me makes my stomach knot.

“What about Ivy?” I ask, unable to keep the worry from my voice. “Monaco is always a media nightmare, and after everything that’s happened... She’ll be facing all that alone while I’m off being a nobody in Indianapolis.”

Cecilia’s eyebrow arches slightly, the first genuine reaction I’ve seen from her.

“You’ve seen your wife, Mr. Hunt,” she says, her tone softening almost imperceptibly. “Ivy will be perfectly fine handling Monaco. She’s quite capable of managing herself in high-pressure situations.”

There’s something almost like amusement in her voice, and I can’t help but feel slightly foolish. Of course Ivy will be fine, she’s Ivy Hunt, three-time world champion and force of nature.

“I suppose you’re right,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. “It’s just... we haven’t been apart since China. Not even for a day.”

Cecilia nods once, acknowledging my concern without judgment. “Your separation anxiety is understandable but unnecessary. My job is to ensure your trip goes smoothly so that Ivy can focus on her race without dying of worry over you.”

“Does she worry about me that much?” I ask, surprised by the thought.

A ghost of a smile passes across Cecilia’s face. “Mr. Hunt, I’ve worked for Ivy for four years. In that time, I’ve arranged multiple... situations to be handled discreetly. I’ve negotiated contracts worth millions. I’ve made problems disappear.” She pauses, her eyes meeting mine directly. “But I have never seen her as concerned about anything as she is about your wellbeing.”

The admission catches me off guard. There’s something oddly comforting about hearing this from someone who clearly knows Ivy in a different context than I do.

“And what exactly does bodyguarding entail in this case?” I ask, wondering what Ivy thinks I need protection from.

Cecilia adjusts her sleeve, revealing a glimpse of what looks like a tactical watch. “Primarily, I’m here to ensure no one inappropriately approaches or touches you.” Her voice remains clinical, matter-of-fact. “Ivy specifically mentioned her concerns about unwanted physical contact. She believes you might be, in her words, ‘prime meat for public gropers.’”

I feel heat rise to my cheeks, embarrassment mingling with a strange validation. “Oh.”

The truth is, she’s not entirely wrong. I’ve never mentioned it to Ivy, but back when I was younger, those situations did happen occasionally. In this world where gender roles are flipped, being a softer-featured guy sometimes made you a target. I remember being described as “defenseless” more than once, a label that still stings when I think about it.

“I’m perfectly capable of handling myself now,” I say, trying to sound confident.

“I’m sure you are,” Cecilia responds, her tone neither patronizing nor particularly believing. “Nevertheless, I’ll be accompanying you throughout your stay in Indianapolis.”

The plane engines roar to life, vibrating through the cabin. I look out the window again, watching Italy grow smaller beneath us, taking Ivy further away with each passing second.

“How does this work?” I ask, turning back to Cecilia. “Will you be, like, hovering three feet behind me at all times?”

“I’ll maintain appropriate distance based on the situation,” she answers, already checking something on her phone. “In controlled environments, I’ll give you space. In crowds or public settings, I’ll stay closer.” She looks up, her expression unchanged. “You’ll hardly notice I’m there unless needed.”

“And if someone does try to grope me?” I can’t help asking, curious about her protocols.

Something dangerous flickers in Cecilia’s eyes, there and gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it. “Then I’ll intervene in whatever manner the situation requires.”

The way she says it makes me believe she’s perfectly capable of breaking arms if necessary. There’s something reassuring about that, even if I still think Ivy is overreacting.

“Ivy mentioned you were quite effective in handling my mother,” I say, changing the subject. “I never got the full story on that.”

Cecilia stares at me, her expression hardening into something unreadable. “I’m not at liberty to discuss those particulars, Mr. Hunt.”

“Oh come on,” I press, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. “I’m family. Whatever dirt you have on my mother, I’d love to know. Consider it therapeutic for my childhood trauma.”

A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth, the scar there making it look slightly menacing. “Ivy specifically instructed me that you two should remain... clean in this matter. Some knowledge is better left buried.”

“Is it really that bad?” I ask, my imagination running wild with possibilities.

She shrugs, adjusting her cufflinks with practiced precision. “Not catastrophic, but certainly not something you’d want associated with your new family name, especially given your wife’s public profile.”

I sink back into my seat, exhaling slowly. “Will my mother at least survive this whole ordeal? Professionally, I mean.”

Cecilia nods once, decisive and certain. “She will, though perhaps with a slightly lower profile for a while.”

“Fair enough,” I concede, oddly satisfied with that outcome.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, interrupting the quiet cabin atmosphere. I pull it out to see a series of notifications flooding my screen now that since I connected to the onboard Wi-Fi.

“What the hell?” I mutter, scrolling through the alerts. Twitch has banned my account for three days due to “simulating sexual activity on stream.” My stomach drops as I remember Ivy’s possessive display during last nights broadcast.

Great. Just great. While I wasn’t planning to stream from Indianapolis anyway, the ban feels like one more complication in an already stressful situation. What if this creates negative press for Ivy right before Monaco?

I glance up at Cecilia, who’s watching me with that unnerving stillness of hers. “Can I call Ivy?” I ask, suddenly desperate to hear her voice.

Cecilia’s expression softens marginally. “You don’t have to ask my permission to call your wife, Mr. Hunt.”

Something about her tone makes me feel foolish, but I’m already dialing Ivy’s number. She picks up almost immediately.

“Hey baby,” her voice purrs through the speaker, warm and intimate. “Miss me already?”

Just hearing her makes the knot in my chest loosen slightly. “You got me banned from Twitch,” I say, unable to keep the smile from my voice despite my attempt at sounding annoyed.

“What?” Ivy sounds genuinely surprised. “How did I manage that?”

“Apparently, jerking your husband off under the desk qualifies as ‘simulating sexual activity.’ Who knew?” I keep my voice low, though Cecilia is pretending to be absorbed in something on her tablet.

Ivy’s laugh fills my ear, rich and unrepentant. “Worth it. You made the prettiest sounds, husband.”

I feel heat rising to my cheeks. “It’s just for three days, so not a big deal. But I was worried it might cause problems for you before Monaco.”

“The only problem I have right now is that you’re not here,” she says, her voice dropping to that register that makes my stomach flip. “Our bed feels enormous without you.”

“I’ve been gone for like two hours,” I point out, trying to ignore how pathetically happy her words make me.

“Two hours too long,” she counters. “How’s Cecilia treating you? Is she being nice?”

I glance at Cecilia, who continues to pretend she’s not listening to every word. “She’s... professional.”

“The best in the business,” Ivy declares through the phone, her voice brimming with that signature confidence. “Cecilia’s saved my ass more times than I can count. You’re in good hands.”

“Speaking of my new ban,” I say, lowering my voice even though Cecilia can definitely still hear me, “do you think the press will notice?”

“I doubt it,” Ivy says dismissively. “Gaming journalists and F1 media don’t exactly run in the same circles. Nobody’s going to care about a three-day Twitch suspension.”

As if the universe itself wants to prove her wrong, my phone vibrates with another notification. I pull it away from my ear to check. It’s a Google Alert I set up to track mentions of my Twitch channel, something I’m now deeply regretting.

The headline from Polygon stares back at me accusingly:.” Did Ivy Hunt Jerk Her Husband Off During Live Twitch Stream?”

I let out a long, defeated sigh.

“What?” Ivy asks, concern edging into her voice.

“Polygon just published an article about us,” I mutter, scrolling through the notification. “The headline is pretty... explicit about what happened on stream.”

Across from me, I notice Cecilia’s eyes flick up momentarily before returning to her tablet, the only indication she’s paying attention.

“Let me see,” Ivy demands, and I can practically hear her sitting up straighter. “Send me the link.”

I tap the screen, forwarding the article link. The silence stretches between us for a few excruciating seconds as she reads.

“FUCK!” Ivy’s voice explodes through the speaker, making me wince and pull the phone away from my ear.

“What? You didn’t care about this stuff before,” I say, genuinely confused by her sudden intensity.

“It wouldn’t matter if you were with me,” she hisses, her voice tight with something that sounds like genuine fear. “But you’re away from me now. What if I made you a target? People are going to see you as even more vulnerable now.”

“No, they won’t,” I counter, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “It’s just another dumb internet scandal. It’ll blow over.”

“Look at the damn article, Nick,” Ivy demands. “They’re literally describing you as the ahegao king. They have screenshots.”

Sure enough, there’s a still image from my stream, my head thrown back from when Ivy pulled my hair, eyes half-crossed, mouth open in a silent moan. It’s unmistakably the face of someone mid-climax.

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, mortification washing over me in a hot wave.

“Promise me,” Ivy’s voice is deadly serious now, all playfulness gone, “promise me you won’t go anywhere without Cecilia. Not even to get coffee or use the bathroom. She stays with you at all times.”

I glance at Cecilia, who’s now watching me openly, her expression giving nothing away.

“I promise,” I say, the weight of the situation finally sinking in.

“Alright, good boy,” Ivy’s voice softens slightly, relief evident in her tone. “I’m sorry jerking you off on live stream made you go viral. That wasn’t what I intended.”

Despite everything, I find myself smiling again. “As long as you’re not mad at me, I don’t care.”

“I’d never be mad at you over something I did to you, Nick,” she says, her voice gentle. “That’s not how this works.”

“I love you,” I whisper into the phone. The hollow feeling in my chest subsides slightly just from saying it out loud.

“I love you too, Nick. With all my heart.”

Cecilia:

Chapter Text

The Indianapolis Motor Speedway looms around me like a concrete cathedral, massive and holy in ways I’d never fully grasped through a computer screen. Monday morning sunlight pours across the empty grandstands, casting long shadows that stretch across the legendary tarmac beneath my feet. My sneakers make soft scuffing sounds against the surface as I walk, each step a tiny desecration on hallowed ground.

“This is surreal,” I murmur, trailing my fingers along the wall as we walk the track. “I’ve driven this course hundreds of times in iRacing, but somehow despite your career we never crossed paths with it in real life until now.”

Melissa glances over at me, the morning light softening her usually sharp features. It’s strange seeing her without the ever-present tension that normally tightens her jaw. Here, on her turf, she seems almost... peaceful.

“Isn’t it great?” she asks, a genuine smile spreading across her face. It’s the kind of unguarded expression I rarely see from her these days.

“Yeah!” I nod enthusiastically, tilting my body as we round turn one. “The corners are more banked than I thought they’d be.”

“Nine degrees,” Melissa confirms, her hand instinctively tracing the air in the shape of the turn, muscle memory from thousands of laps. “Not the steepest, but enough to feel it.”

I whistle, imagining how it must feel at racing speed. “What’s Daytona’s banking again?”

“Thirty-one degrees,” she answers without hesitation. “And Talladega’s is thirty-three.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, leaning into the nine-degree slope beneath my feet. “Nine degrees on foot already feels so different, I can’t imagine how wild thirty degrees would feel.”

Cecilia shadows us a few paces back, her eyes constantly scanning our surroundings despite the emptiness of the speedway. I’ve grown used to her presence over the last twenty-four hours, the way she materializes whenever anyone approaches me, then fades back to a respectful distance when it’s just family.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, probably Ivy again. She’s texted me seventeen times since I landed in Indianapolis, each message more possessive than the last. Part of me finds it endearing, another part wonders if this separation anxiety might affect her performance in Monaco.

“So this is where you’ll be racing Sunday?” I ask, trying to focus on my sister instead of the hollow ache in my chest that’s been my constant companion since leaving Ivy.

“Yep. Five hundred miles of pure hell,” Melissa says, but she’s smiling as she says it.

“You seem a lot happier since you dumped Mom,” I observe, watching her face for any reaction. “More... yourself.”

Melissa’s smile turns sharp. “God, firing her was fucking amazing. Liberating.” She kicks at the track surface with her racing boot. “And then your wife beat the absolute shit out of her right in front of us, which was just...” She makes an exaggerated chef’s kiss gesture. “Cherry on top.”

“By the way,” Melissa says casually, her voice shifting to a deliberately neutral tone that immediately puts me on alert, “Mom’s here.”

I stop dead in my tracks, sneakers squeaking against the sacred racing surface. “You invited her? After everything?”

Melissa turns to face me, crossing her arms defensively. “Nick, I’m not a monster. Who doesn’t want their mother to watch them win the Indy 500?”

The confidence in her statement, the absolute certainty of victory, makes me shake my head with a mixture of disbelief and admiration.

“Oh, I see your ego’s back in full force,” I tease, nudging her shoulder. “What about Dad? Couldn’t make it?”

Melissa rolls her eyes, resuming our walk along the track. “Since the divorce, all I ever hear from Dad is about his latest party or his newest girlfriend. He’s ‘living his best life’ apparently, which means he’s too busy chasing twenty-somethings to watch his daughter race.”

“At least he returns your calls,” I mutter, feeling that familiar pang of disappointment. “So it’s just us and the monster, then?”

“And your terrifying shadow,” Melissa adds, nodding toward Cecilia who maintains her perfect distance behind us. “Seriously, does she ever blink?”

“I don’t think so,” I whisper loudly. “I’m pretty sure Ivy had her engineered in a lab somewhere. Half human, half Terminator.”

As we share a laugh about Cecilia’s robotic demeanor, movement catches my eye further down the track. A lone figure in a sleek tracksuit runs with practiced precision along the racing line, cutting through the morning haze like a knife. There’s something familiar about her vibe, the economical movement of someone who’s spent a lifetime optimizing every motion.

My stomach drops as recognition hits. Those elegant strides, that perfect posture, it’s unmistakable even from this distance.

The runner notices us and slows, removing her earbuds as she approaches. Dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, hazel eyes that still burn with competitive fire even in her F1 retirement, Enza Venturi stands before us, looking barely winded despite what must have been miles of running.

“Holy shit,” Melissa breathes beside me, her professional composure evaporating instantly. “You’re Enza Venturi.”

Enza’s laugh is warm and musical, tinged with that distinctive Italian accent that once dominated F1 press conferences. “That’s exactly how your brother introduced himself to me when we met,” she says, her eyes finding mine with uncomfortable intensity.

I feel a flash of irritation burn through me. The last time we spoke, she’d cornered me in the paddock club, desperately trying to “warn” me about Ivy. As if I needed saving.

“That was before I knew you were my opp,” I reply coolly, crossing my arms.

Enza’s smile doesn’t falter, but something shifts in those hazel eyes – pity, maybe, or resignation. “I was trying to help you get away from a devil with purple hair,” she says, shaking her head slightly. “And yet now you’ve married her.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I snap, unable to contain the surge of irritation. “You’re just mad she never loved you.”

The effect is immediate. Enza’s confident posture deflates, her shoulders slumping as the barb finds its mark. The legendary champion suddenly looks smaller, more human than the racing goddess depicted in all those posters.

“I just came over to say hello,” she says quietly, her accent thickening with emotion. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Melissa’s head whips between us, her eyes wide with confusion. “Wait, you actually know Enza Venturi? Personally?”

I lean closer to my sister, lowering my voice to a whisper. “She dated Ivy before I met her.”

Melissa freezes, her mouth dropping open in what would be comical disbelief if we were anywhere else. She stares at Enza like she’s seeing her for the first time, her entire worldview visibly crumbling.

“Enza Venturi, my childhood hero, is a lesbian?” Melissa hisses, her voice pitched high with shock. “No way. She’s literally the most womanly woman alive! The epitome of femininity in motorsport!”

Enza’s laugh cuts through the tension, rich and genuine despite the awkwardness. “Ferrari didn’t want a scandal,” she explains with a casual shrug. “But I’ve always just gone after what looks beautiful to me. Men, women, I really don’t care.”

I watch my sister process this information, her expression cycling through shock, confusion, and something that looks suspiciously like disappointment. She’s taking this harder than I expected, her racing idol suddenly revealed as something different than the image she’d constructed.

“Look,” I interject, “I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention this to the press. I don’t want people knowing about Ivy’s... past relationships.”

Melissa’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re embarrassed your wife is bi? Seriously, Nick?”

“No!” I protest, heat rising to my face. “I just don’t want to hear about Ivy’s exes in the news. I’m her husband.” I straighten my shoulders, voice dropping lower. “I’m her lover.”

Melissa’s eyes narrow as she studies my face, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her lips. “Well, well, look at you, Mr. Possessive,” she teases, nudging my shoulder. “Never thought I’d see my little brother getting all territorial.”

“God forbid a boy loves his wife,” I mutter, crossing my arms defensively. The words come out more heated than I intended, but there’s no taking them back now.

Melissa bursts into laughter, her head tilting back as the sound echoes across the empty speedway. When she recovers, she raises her hands in mock surrender.

“Relax, Nick. I’m not going to attack you, especially not to the press.” Her eyebrows narrow suddenly, a mischievous glint appearing in her eyes. “But speaking of the press... did Ivy really jerk you off during your Twitch stream? It’s all over racing Twitter.”

I feel my face flush hot enough to melt asphalt. “Of course not,” I scoff, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

Melissa studies my face for a long moment, her lips twitching as she struggles to contain her laughter. Finally, she shakes her head in amazement.

“You’ve changed, little bro,” she says, wonder coloring her voice. “Everyone in the paddock kept asking if you were ‘that type,’ and I kept saying ‘no way, not my sweet innocent brother.’” She punches my arm playfully, the gesture familiar from a thousand childhood interactions. “Maybe I was wrong about you.”

I rub my arm, more out of habit than actual pain. “People change,” I mutter, unsure whether to be embarrassed or proud of this new perception.

Enza clears her throat awkwardly, reminding us of her presence. “I should continue my run,” she says, already backing away from our family moment. “It was... interesting seeing you again, Nick. And lovely meeting you, Melissa.”

As she jogs away, Melissa turns to me with wide eyes. “Did I just make things weird with my childhood hero?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, watching Enza’s retreating figure. “Ivy tried to get her to kill herself.”

“What the fuck?”

Chapter Text

Mom walks three steps behind us like she's been demoted from family to entourage. It's Tuesday morning in Indianapolis, the air thick with that midwestern humidity that makes everything feel slightly damp, including my mood. The speedway looms ahead, a concrete colosseum where my sister will soon battle for glory while I play the role of supportive brother.

"God, I've missed this place," Melissa breathes beside me, her face lighting up as we approach the main entrance. She's practically bouncing with each step, more animated than I've seen her in years.

I glance back at Mom, who trails behind us with uncharacteristic meekness. Her usual imperious stride has been replaced by something almost... submissive. Every time her eyes meet Cecilia's, she seems to shrink further into herself, shoulders hunching slightly as if expecting a blow.

"You okay back there, Mom?" I call out, unable to resist poking the bear, even a wounded one.

She forces a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Perfect, Nicholas. Just taking in the atmosphere."

Cecilia, maintaining her perfect three-pace distance behind me, says nothing. Her face remains professionally blank, but something in her eyes suggests she's enjoying Mom's discomfort immensely.

"So," Melissa says, looping her arm through mine as we pass through security, "I have a surprise for you."

My stomach immediately knots. In my experience, surprises from my sister rarely end well for me. The last "surprise" involved me being volunteered to give a speech at her racing academy fundraiser with zero preparation.

"I don't love the sound of that," I admit, eyeing her suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

Her smile widens, taking on that mischievous quality that's haunted me since childhood. "Just give it a minute. You'll see." She squeezes my arm once before breaking away. "I need to check something in the garage. Meet me there in five?"

Before I can protest, she's off, racing boots clicking against the concrete as she disappears around a corner. I'm left standing awkwardly between my subdued mother and Ivy's terrifying assistant-slash-bodyguard.

"Any idea what she's planning?" I ask Mom, more to break the uncomfortable silence than anything else.

She shakes her head, eyes darting nervously to Cecilia before settling back on me. "Melissa doesn't confide in me much these days."

"I see," I say, though I'm not sure I do.

Mom pulls out her phone, immediately absorbed in whatever's on the screen. Probably checking racing news or looking for ways to worm her way back into Melissa's good graces. I don't particularly care which.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, we make our way to the Andretti garage. The walk feels longer than it should, each step weighted with anticipation and dread. What exactly has Melissa planned?

The garage comes into view, and immediately I spot my sister practically vibrating with excitement near something covered by a tarp. Her grin is infectious despite my apprehension.

"Nick! Hey, check this out!" Melissa waves me over frantically, bouncing on her toes like a kid on Christmas morning.

I approach cautiously, Cecilia's shadow falling across my shoulder as she maintains her protective distance. Mom hangs back even further, still glued to her phone.

Melissa yanks the tarp away with dramatic flair, revealing what lies beneath. My breath catches in my throat.

It's an older IndyCar, the distinctive shape screaming early-to-mid nineties design. The paint is slightly faded but well-maintained, the curves and angles speaking to a different era of racing. Something from the CART series, maybe? The raw mechanical beauty of it makes my heart skip.

"This baby's still blazingly fast," Melissa says, running her hand lovingly along the sidepod. "Guess who pulled some strings to get their little brother some laps at his favorite track?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. Laps. She's offering me actual laps. At Indianapolis. In a real IndyCar.

My body floods with contradictory sensations, pure, unadulterated excitement that makes my hands shake, immediately followed by cold panic that settles in my gut like lead. The two emotions war inside me, creating a dizzying cocktail of adrenaline and terror.

"You're joking," I manage, my voice coming out higher than intended. "Me? Actually drive this thing?"

"Dead serious," Melissa confirms, her eyes sparkling with genuine happiness. "You’ve driven here how many times in iRacing? Figured it was time you experienced the real thing."

I stare at the car, then at my sister, then back at the car. My palms are already sweating. This is everything I've ever wanted and everything I'm terrified of in equal measure.

"Absolutely not!" Mom's voice cracks across the garage like a whip, sharp and panicked. She drops her phone, the device clattering against the concrete as she lurches forward. "Nicholas, you are NOT getting in that death trap!"

I turn to face her, surprised by the genuine terror in her eyes. Her face has gone pale, almost gray, and her hands are trembling as she reaches toward me like she's trying to physically stop me from approaching the car.

"Mom, I…"

"No!" She cuts me off, her voice rising to something close to hysteria. "Melissa, what were you thinking? He could die! Men don't have the reflexes for this kind of thing. They're not built for it!"

Melissa's expression hardens instantly, her earlier joy evaporating. "Are you serious right now?"

"I'm protecting my son!" Mom snaps, positioning herself between me and the car like a human shield. "Boys aren't meant for racing, Melissa. You know this. Their reaction times, their spatial awareness, it's all wrong for this kind of speed." Her eyes find mine, wild with fear. "Nick, please. You'll kill yourself. You don't have the natural ability for this."

The words land like physical blows, each one a familiar echo from childhood. How many times did I hear variations of this? Boys can't race. Boys don't have what it takes. Boys are too fragile, too slow, too fundamentally wrong for motorsport.

"That's complete bullshit," Melissa growls, stepping forward with clenched fists. "Nick's driven simulators for years. I be he knows the breaking zones better than half the grid."

"Simulators!" Mom practically spits the word. "That's not real, Melissa. Real racing requires instincts that men simply don't possess. It's biology, not prejudice." She turns back to me, her expression shifting to something almost pleading.

Something inside me snaps. Maybe it's the years of accumulated dismissal, maybe it's the distance from Ivy making me feel untethered, or maybe I'm just fucking tired of hearing this shit.

"You know what, Mom?" My voice comes out harder than I expect, sharp enough that even Cecilia's eyebrows raise slightly. "You've never really supported me. Not once."

Mom's mouth opens, but I'm not done.

"Every time I showed interest in racing, you shut me down. Every time I wanted to try, you found a reason why I couldn't. Why I shouldn't." Heat floods through my chest, spreading outward until my hands are shaking. "And you know what? I'm done listening to you tell me what I can't do."

The garage has gone completely silent. Even the distant sounds of other teams seem to fade away.

"I'm going to drive this car," I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds despite the adrenaline coursing through me. "That's the end of it."

Mom's face cycles through shock, hurt, and then anger. "Nicholas, I forbid…"

"You don't get to forbid me anything anymore," I interrupt, feeling strangely powerful. "I'm a grown man. I'm married. I make my own choices now."

Melissa's grin spreads across her face like sunrise, pride radiating from every pore. Mom looks like I've physically struck her, her mouth working soundlessly.

Before the standoff can escalate further, Cecilia materializes at my elbow with that unnerving speed of hers. She leans in close, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but do you mind speaking with me alone?"

The formality of it throws me off balance. She's never called me sir before. There's something urgent in her tone, something that cuts through my rebellious high.

"Uhh, sure," I manage, still riding the wave of adrenaline from confronting Mom.

Cecilia's hand barely touches my elbow as she guides me away from the group, past the race car and toward a quieter corner of the garage. Her expression remains professionally neutral.

We stop near a stack of tires, far enough from the others that our conversation won't carry. Mom's still standing frozen where I left her, Melissa hovering protectively near the IndyCar like she's afraid someone might try to take it away.

Cecilia leans in closer, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Look, I'm sorry to say this, but Ivy gave me explicit instructions to stop you from driving a car on this track if the option came up."

The words hit me like cold water, dousing the fire of my rebellion instantly. My mouth opens, then closes. The adrenaline still coursing through my veins suddenly has nowhere to go, leaving me feeling jittery and unmoored.

"Because she doesn't think men can drive?" The words come out bitter, defensive.

Cecilia shakes her head, something almost sympathetic flickering across her usually stoic features. "No. Because she loves her husband too much to chance something like this."

The explanation steals the breath from my lungs. Not because I'm not good enough. Not because I'm a man. Because Ivy loves me.

I let out a long, shaky sigh, running my hands through my hair. "I can't just let my mom win."

"Ivy will be very unhappy," Cecilia says, and there's a warning in her tone that makes my stomach clench.

My heart does that stupid flutter thing it always does when I think about Ivy's reaction to something. I can already picture the look on her face, that mixture of fear and fury and hurt. But something inside me refuses to bend.

"I adore my wife," I say quietly, meeting Cecilia's eyes. "But I have to do this for me."

Cecilia's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I really must suggest otherwise, Mr. Hunt."

"I hear you," I reply, already turning back toward the car.

Each step feels heavier than the last as I cross the garage floor. Mom's still frozen in place, her face a mask of horror. Melissa watches me approach with barely contained excitement, bouncing slightly on her toes.

"So?" Melissa asks, glancing between me and Cecilia's imposing figure behind me. "We doing this or what?"

I nod once, sharp and decisive, before I can talk myself out of it. "Yeah. Let's do this."

"YES!" Melissa pumps her fist in the air, already moving toward a rack of racing suits. "Oh my god, this is going to be so sick. I can't wait to see you out there."

Mom steps forward, and something in her movement makes me pause. The terror in her eyes hasn't diminished, if anything, it's intensified. Her hands reach out toward me, trembling so badly I can see them shaking from here.

"Nicholas, please." Her voice cracks on my name, stripped of all the usual authority and judgment. "Please don't do this."

I've never heard her beg before. Not once in my entire life. Kendal Woods doesn't beg, she commands, she criticizes, she controls. But the woman standing before me now looks smaller somehow, diminished by genuine fear.

"I'm serious," she continues, taking another step closer. "I know you think I'm just being controlling, but that's not what this is. You could die out there, Nick.”

Something twists in my chest. Part of me, the part that's been conditioned since childhood to seek her approval, wants to comfort her. Wants to tell her it's okay, that I won't do it, that I'll stay safe and small and exactly what she expects me to be.

But a larger part of me, the part that's been growing stronger since I met Ivy, refuses to bend.

“Fuck you Mom. I’m doing this.”

Chapter Text

Beeping machines drag me back to consciousness like a fish on a hook, unwilling and flopping. My eyelids feel weighted with cement as I force them open, the harsh fluorescent lights stabbing directly into my brain. Everything hurts. Not the dull ache of a hangover or the burn after a workout with Ivy, this is different. This is total, systemic rebellion from every cell in my body.

"Where...?" My voice emerges as a pathetic croak, throat sandpaper-dry. The word costs me more effort than it should.

"Oh fuck, he's awake," Melissa's voice, sharp with alarm.

As my vision clears, shapes materialize around me. Melissa hovering near the foot of the bed, her racing jacket rumpled like she's been wearing it for days. Cecilia standing ramrod-straight by the door, her perfect posture somehow making her look more dangerous than usual. And Mom, Jesus, Mom looks like she's aged ten years overnight, her normally immaculate appearance disheveled, eyes red-rimmed and hollow.

I try to move but my body refuses to cooperate. Looking down, I see why, bandages wrap around my torso like a mummy costume, my arms immobilized in some kind of medical contraption. An IV line snakes from my right hand up to a bag of clear fluid.

"Huh?" I manage, the confusion thick in my mouth along with whatever drugs they've pumped into me.

The three women exchange glances, a silent conversation happening above my head. Cecilia's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly before she steps forward.

"You were in a bad crash," she states, her voice clinical but somehow gentler than I've ever heard it.

The words trigger something in my brain, like a dam breaking. All at once, the memories flood back in a violent rush that makes me gasp aloud.

Turn 4. I remember now.

I took it way too hot, my foot buried on the throttle like an absolute idiot. I was flying, exhilarated by the raw power beneath me, drunk on speed and rebellion. Then it happened, that sickening moment when the rear tires broke loose, the grip vanishing before my brain could even register the danger. Pure instinct took over, and I yanked the wheel hard, trying desperately to catch the slide.

Too hard. Too late.

The car snapped violently in the opposite direction, and suddenly I was hurtling backwards at nearly two hundred miles an hour. I remember the surreal moment of clarity as I saw the wall rushing toward me, the strange calm that washed over me in that split second before impact.

There was a deafening crack, metal tearing into concrete, and then my body was just along for the ride, a helpless rag doll trapped in a disintegrating steel coffin. The world became a blur of sky, wall, track, spinning endlessly as pieces of the car tore away around me.

And then... nothing.

"Oh god," I choke out, my voice barely audible over the beeping machines. The memory makes me physically nauseous, bile rising in my throat. "How bad is it?"

Cecilia moves to my bedside, picking up the chart hanging from the foot of the bed. Her eyes scan the pages methodically, her expression revealing nothing as she flips through the documentation of my broken body.

"Well?" I rasp, desperate to know just how badly I've fucked up.

She sighs deeply, finally meeting my gaze. "Fractured tibia and fibula in both legs. Several metatarsals broken in your right foot. Six broken ribs." She pauses, her clinical tone softening almost imperceptibly. "Both wrists broken. And they're monitoring you for a concussion, which seems likely given the impact."

The inventory of injuries hits me like a second crash. I close my eyes, trying to absorb the reality of my situation.

"Does Ivy know?" The question escapes my lips before I can even process that I'm asking it. Even now, broken and hospitalized, she's my first thought.

Cecilia nods once, her posture straightening slightly. "I called her the moment you were secured in the ambulance. She's... not taking it well."

The image of Ivy receiving that call flashes through my mind, her face draining of color, that fierce protective instinct kicking into overdrive. I can almost hear her screaming at her team, demanding a jet, threatening anyone who stands in her way.

"Tell her she can't come here," I say, surprised by the firmness in my broken voice. "Tell her she needs to stay in Monaco."

Cecilia's laugh catches me off guard, a small chuckle that seems oddly out of place in this sterile hospital room.

"She wouldn't listen to anyone now," she says, her eyes softening slightly. "Not me, not Victoria Zenith, not even the FIA president herself."

"But she can't miss Monaco!" My voice cracks as panic surges through me. "Not because of my stupid fuck up! It's the most prestigious race of the season!"

Cecilia shakes her head, checking something on her phone before sliding it back into her jacket pocket. "Mr. Hunt, your wife is already on a private jet heading here. She commandeered the team plane about thirty seconds after I called her."

My heart sinks and soars simultaneously. The thought of Ivy dropping everything for me fills me with a warmth that even the pain medication can't replicate, but the knowledge that she's abandoning Monaco because of my recklessness makes me feel physically ill.

"How long until she gets here?" I ask, my voice small.

Cecilia's eyes flick to her watch.

"She's landing soon," she says quietly.

The room spins slightly as I process this information. I try to sit up straighter but my body screams in protest.

"How long was I out?" My voice still sounds like it's being dragged across gravel.

Cecilia checks her watch again. "About nine hours."

"Fuck," I breathe, letting my head fall back against the pillow. Nine hours. Nine hours of Ivy thinking I might be dying while she's trapped on a plane, unable to reach me.

"I told you," Mom's voice cuts through the room like glass breaking. "I told you this would happen, Nicholas. Men aren't built for…"

"Keep that up, Mom, and I'm sure my wife won't hesitate to beat the shit out of you again," I snap, the words coming out colder than I expected. "Even if you're right."

The room goes silent. Mom's face crumples, somewhere between shock and hurt. Melissa's eyes widen, and even Cecilia seems momentarily taken aback by my outburst.

The silence stretches between us like a rubber band pulled too tight, ready to snap. My body throbs with pain beneath the mountain of bandages and braces, but it's nothing compared to the ache in my chest when I think about Ivy abandoning Monaco because of me.

“I’m so fucking stupid.”

Chapter Text

Time drags like a broken leg across hospital linoleum. The pain meds make everything a bit softer, but my thoughts remain razor-sharp, cutting me open from the inside. Thirty minutes since my conversation with Cecilia, and the tension in the room has thickened to something you could slice with a scalpel.

Mom hasn't stopped pacing since the doctors left. Five steps toward the window, pivot, five steps back. Melissa slouches in the corner chair, thumbing through her phone but not really seeing it. Cecilia stands guard by the door, a perfect statue except for her eyes, which track Mom's every movement like she's calculating the exact force needed to neutralize her if necessary.

No one's speaking. What is there to say? I've broken myself in spectacular fashion, and now my wife is throwing away the Monaco Grand Prix because of it.

The door swings open without warning.

Ivy walks in like she's entering her own kingdom.

My breath catches in my throat. Even after all this time together, she still hits me like a physical force. Her purple-tinged hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, highlighting the sharp angles of her face. She's wearing her Zenith team jacket, the purple fabric making her eyes seem to glow in the harsh hospital lighting. Those eyes sweep the room with predatory assessment, cataloging every person, every potential threat.

But her expression... there's nothing there. No rage, no sorrow, no relief. Just a perfect, terrifying blankness that makes my stomach clench tighter than any of my broken bones.

I open my mouth, but fear steals my voice.

Melissa breaks first, rising from her chair with hands raised in placating surrender.

"Ivy, look, please don't be mad at Nick. This is my…"

"Everyone leave the room," Ivy cuts her off, voice flat as a frozen lake. “I’ll talk with you later, Melissa.”

For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then, like a spell has been cast, they all begin gathering their things. No arguments, no protests. Melissa catches my eye as she slips past Ivy, mouthing a silent "sorry" before disappearing through the doorway.

Cecilia follows next, exchanging a brief, meaningful look with Ivy that I can't decipher. Mom hesitates longest, her mouth opening like she might actually challenge Ivy's authority in this moment.

One look from those purple eyes changes her mind.

The door clicks shut behind them, leaving me alone with my wife.

The silence stretches between us like a chasm. I watch Ivy take one slow, deliberate step toward my bed, then another. Her face remains that perfect mask, but something in her eyes shifts as she takes in the full extent of my broken body, the casts, the bandages, the monitors tracking my vital signs.

She reaches the edge of my bed and just... stares. For a long, excruciating moment, she doesn't move, doesn't speak. Then I see it, a single tear escaping down her cheek, a lone betrayal of the emotion she's fighting to contain.

The sight of that tear breaks something inside me.

"Ivy," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I'm so sorry I fucked up Monaco for you."

Something changes in her expression, the mask slipping, cracking, shattering. Her purple eyes blaze with a fury I've never seen aimed at me before.

"YOU THINK I GIVE A FUCK ABOUT A RACE RIGHT NOW?" she roars, her voice echoing off the sterile hospital walls. The sudden explosion of emotion makes me flinch, sending fresh pain through my broken ribs.

Her hands hover above me, trembling. I can see the desperate need in her, to touch me, to hold me, to confirm I'm really here and alive, warring with the fear of causing more damage. Her fingers curl into fists, then release, then curl again, a physical manifestation of her internal struggle.

"I..." I don't know what to say as I watch her come completely undone before my eyes.

"YOU COULD HAVE DIED!" Her voice cracks on the last word, the sound echoing through the hospital room like shattered glass. "Do you understand that? DIED, NICK! They called me and said you were in critical condition!"

Her whole body is shaking now, tears streaming freely down her face. I've never seen her like this. This is Ivy stripped bare of all pretense, all control.

"I was in a plane for NINE FUCKING HOURS not knowing if you were even going to be alive when I landed!" She slams her fist against the wall, making the medical equipment rattle. "Do you have ANY IDEA what that was like? Sitting there, completely helpless, imagining my husband dead or brain-damaged while I'm trapped in a metal tube?"

Her chest heaves with ragged breaths as she paces frantically beside my bed, hands raking through her purple-streaked hair.

"I couldn't… I couldn't breathe," she stammers, voice dropping to something raw and vulnerable. "I kept seeing your body, broken and lifeless, over and over. I've never been so fucking terrified in my entire life."

She suddenly whirls toward me, jabbing a finger in my direction, her face contorted with grief and rage. "Cecilia told you I said NO!" she shouts, tears streaming down her cheeks. "She told you exactly what I asked of her!"

The sight of Ivy crying is tearing me apart inside, worse than any physical pain from the crash. Each tear feels like a knife twisting in my chest. I've never seen her like this, completely undone, vulnerable in a way I didn't think possible.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, my voice catching. "I just wanted to prove that I could…"

"PROVE WHAT?" she screams, cutting me off. "That you could die? That you could leave me? Your mother doesn't fucking matter, Nick! Do you understand that? Her opinions, her bullshit about what men can or can't do, none of that matters!"

She's pacing again, wiping furiously at her tears with the back of her hand. "The only thing that matters is you. Alive. Breathing. With me."

My throat tightens, making it hard to speak. "I didn't think…"

"No, you didn't think!" She stops abruptly, her voice dropping to something dangerously quiet. "You didn't think about what it would do to me if I lost you. You didn't think about how I would live with myself knowing you died trying to prove something while I wasn't there to protect you."

She moves closer, carefully sitting on the edge of the bed, mindful of my injuries. Her hand hovers over mine, trembling before finally settling on my fingertips, the only part of me not wrapped in bandages or connected to tubes.

The gentle pressure of her fingertips against mine feels like the only thing anchoring me to this world. Her tears continue to fall, no longer angry but something deeper.

"Nick," she whispers, her voice breaking completely, "I'm so in love with you. So fucking in love it terrifies me."

The raw emotion in her words steals my breath away. Before I can respond, she leans forward, pressing her lips against mine with desperate intensity. It's not a gentle kiss, it's hungry, desperate, almost painful in its need. Her fingers trace up my arm, carefully avoiding the IV line, until they reach my face. She cups my cheek like I'm made of the most fragile porcelain, even as her mouth claims mine with fierce possession.

"Does this hurt?" she murmurs against my lips, her thumb brushing across my cheekbone.

"No," I breathe, lost in the storm of her.

Her tears fall onto my face, mingling with my own as we kiss again, deeper this time. I taste the salt of her fear, her relief, her love, all of it washing over me in waves that make my broken body feel whole again.

When she finally pulls back, her purple eyes are rimmed with red, but something has settled in them. The wild panic has receded, replaced by a fierce, focused determination that I recognize all too well.

"You're never going near a race car again," she declares, her voice hoarse but steady. "Not even a go-kart. Not a fucking bumper car at a carnival. I can't..." She swallows hard. "I can't survive this again."

I want to argue, to assert some independence, but the memory of those nine hours she spent not knowing if I was alive or dead stops me cold. What right do I have to put her through that again?

"Okay," I whisper, reaching up with trembling fingers to brush a strand of purple hair from her face. The movement sends pain shooting through my wrist, but I don't care. "I promise."

She captures my hand gently, bringing it back down to rest on the bed. "Don't move. You'll hurt yourself worse."

I lie back against the pillows, trying to absorb everything.

"When do you think you'll go to Spain?" I ask quietly, wondering about the race after Monaco. It seems like a lifetime away, but the F1 calendar marches on relentlessly.

Ivy's expression shifts, something guarded replacing her earlier vulnerability. She strokes my fingertips gently, not meeting my eyes.

"I'm not going to Spain, Nick."

"What?"

She sighs, finally looking up at me. "I talked to Cecilia about your recovery. You're going to be in a wheelchair for a while, and you'll need extensive physical therapy." Her voice softens. "You won't be fully recovered for at least six months. The doctors said it could take as long as eight, even longer if there are complications."

The room seems to tilt around me. Six months? Eight? My stomach churns violently as the implications hit me like another crash. Not just Monaco, but the entire season. Every race, every point, every chance at another championship, gone.

"You can't just pull out for the season," I manage, panic rising in my chest. "Your career... the triple crown... everything you've worked for..."

Ivy shakes her head, reaching out to stroke my cheek with a gentleness that contrasts her fierce words moments before.

"I'm already a three-time world champion, Nick," she says softly, her purple eyes meeting mine. "The triple crown is still firmly within my grasp."

My heart sinks as the reality of what she's saying hits me. "You can't…"

"I'm retiring from Formula 1 this year instead of next," she continues, her voice steady with conviction. "This way, I can get a jump on IndyCar preparations." A small smile plays at her lips. "Hell, maybe I can negotiate my way onto a team while we're in town."

The medication must be making me slow because it takes me several seconds to process what she's saying. She's giving up everything, her championship lead, her contract, her entire F1 career, for me.

"What about the deal you made with Victoria?" I ask, remembering Victoria promised to build her a car for Le Mans only if she gave them four wins.

Something dark flashes across Ivy's face. She shakes her head, and I can tell there's a lot she doesn't want to say about Victoria right now.

"Let it go, Nick," she says, her tone making it clear this particular topic is off-limits. "We can talk more about this later."

I want to press further, but the exhaustion is starting to pull at me again, dragging me back toward unconsciousness.

"You're throwing away everything you've worked for," I murmur, fighting to keep my eyes open. "Because of me."

Ivy's fingers thread gently through my hair. "No," she whispers, leaning close until her forehead rests against mine. "I'm choosing what matters most. I'm choosing us."

I try to argue, to tell her she doesn't have to do this, that I'll recover just fine without her sacrificing her career. But the words won't form properly, slipping away like water through my fingers as the medication pulls me deeper.

The last thing I see before darkness claims me is Ivy's face, beautiful and determined, watching over me like a guardian angel with purple eyes.

Ivy: 

Chapter Text

[Melissa’s POV]

I pace the sterile hospital corridor, my racing boots clicking against the linoleum floor in an anxious rhythm. The plastic visitor's chair had become unbearable since we were banished, now I'm burning nervous energy while my brother lies broken in that room with his terrifying wife.

The hospital's antiseptic smell burns my nostrils. It's not unlike the paddock, chemicals, rubber, and stress, but without any of the excitement. Just dread. I've been in my fair share of hospitals after crashes, but it hits differently when it's your little brother in there.

Nick shouldn't have been in that car. The weight of that truth sits heavy on my chest. I pushed him into it, dangled his childhood dream in front of him like bait, all because I wanted to see him happy. Because I wanted to be the one to give him something Mom never would.

And now he's paying the price for my stupidity.

The door to Nick's room swings open abruptly. Ivy emerges, her face a mask of terrifying calm that doesn't match the redness around her eyes. She takes a deep breath, filling her lungs like she's preparing to dive underwater.

She marches directly toward Cecilia, who straightens from her position against the wall.

"Next time I tell you to do something," Ivy says, her voice low and dangerous, "I expect you to do it."

Cecilia doesn't flinch or lower her gaze. Her posture remains perfect as she meets Ivy's glare head-on.

"I warned him as thoroughly as possible," Cecilia responds coolly. "Any further action I could have taken would have been illegal."

My eyebrows shoot up. Did she just stand up to Ivy Hunt? The woman who reportedly made Enza Venturi quit racing? The same woman who beat the shit out of my mother?

"Illegal?" Ivy scoffs, stepping closer until they're almost nose to nose. "Since when has that stopped you before?"

"Physically restraining your husband against his will crosses a line."

Ivy's jaw tightens, and for a terrifying moment, I think she might actually lunge for Cecilia's throat. Instead, she draws in a slow breath through her nose, her knuckles white as she clenches her fists at her sides. After what feels like an eternity, she gives a curt nod.

Then her gaze swings toward me like a sniper finding its target.

"You," she says, the single word carrying more venom than a pit of vipers.

My heart hammers against my ribs. "I'm so sorry, Ivy," I stammer, my voice sounding pathetically small in the sterile corridor. "I just wanted to make Nick happy. I was such a bad sister growing…"

"You let him get inside a fucking deathtrap because you felt guilty about your childhood?" Ivy cuts me off. She steps toward me, and I instinctively back against the wall. "Your brother is lying in there with both legs shattered, six broken ribs, and a concussion because you wanted to ease your conscience?"

I swallow hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. "He loves Indianapolis," I manage, meeting Ivy's furious gaze. "Wouldn't you do anything to make him smile?"

Her eyes narrow, purple irises blazing with barely contained rage. "If I was going to help him achieve that goal, I would have trained him MYSELF, PROPERLY." She steps closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Not just thrown him into a car he wasn't ready for."

My spine straightens against the wall. I've faced down opponents on track going 200 mph; I can face this woman. "Lots of people do a test lap with no problems," I counter, gaining confidence. "And Nick's driven this circuit on the simulator way more than they have. He knows every inch of that track."

"WELL THOSE PEOPLE WEREN'T FUCKING WIRED UP BY YOUR MOTHER, WERE THEY?" Ivy roars, her voice thickening with fury as she gestures wildly toward Mom, who's been cowering nearby.

Mom steps forward, wringing her hands. "I'm on your side, Ivy," she says, her voice uncharacteristically meek. "I begged him not to get in that car."

Ivy whirls toward her, her expression morphing into something so cold it makes my blood freeze. "You," she says, pointing a finger at Mom's chest, "are the worst of the bunch."

The corridor falls silent. Even the distant hospital sounds seem to fade away as Ivy's accusation hangs in the air.

"Me?" Mom's voice rises an octave. "I tried to stop him! I was protecting him!"

"After spending his entire life telling him he wasn't good enough," Ivy spits back. "After making him believe he was fundamentally incapable. You didn't protect him, you broke him. And you," she turns back to me, "gave him a chance to prove his worth in the most dangerous way possible."

"I didn't know," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I just thought... he's always been so good on the sim. I thought he'd be fine."

"He's not fine," Ivy says, her voice suddenly quiet. "He's broken in ways that will take months to heal."

Cecilia clears her throat. "Ivy, we should discuss the press statement. They're already reporting your withdrawal from Monaco."

Ivy's eyes flash with a dangerous fire as she rounds on Cecilia. "I don't give a shit about the press right now!" she snaps.

Then her gaze locks back onto me, burning with such intensity I have to resist the urge to step back. "You need to get going," she says, each word clipped and final.

"What?" I blurt out, completely stunned. "You can't seriously expect me to just leave. My brother is lying in there with…"

"Nick already blames himself for me missing Monaco," Ivy interrupts, her voice dropping to something raw and vulnerable. "If you miss the Indy 500 because of this, it'll destroy him."

The truth of her words hits me like a physical blow. Nick would blame himself. He'd carry that guilt along with everything else, because that's who he is, always shouldering everyone else's burdens. The realization makes my chest ache.

"I want to stay," I insist, but my voice lacks its earlier conviction. "He's my brother."

Ivy steps closer, her purple eyes glittering with that dangerous intensity that's made her famous on track. "I'm his wife. He doesn't need, or even want, anyone else here right now."

Her gaze shifts past me, landing on Mom with laser-like focus. "And you," she continues, her voice dropping to that terrifying whisper, "just stay the fuck away from me and my husband, or I swear to God..."

She doesn't finish the threat. She doesn't need to. The implication hangs in the air between them, heavy and unmistakable.

Mom raises her hands in surrender, all the fight gone from her posture. "Alright, alright," she mumbles, backing away several steps.

I watch my mother, the woman who terrorized us for two decades acting like a kicked dog before Ivy Hunt.

Ivy's intimidating display makes me feel both terrified and oddly proud. She's a force of nature defending my brother in a way I never could.

I take a deep breath and straighten my racing jacket.

"Alright," I say, making my decision. "I'll go back to training.”

Chapter Text

[Blair’s POV]

The Monaco skyline glitters outside my hotel window like a diamond necklace draped across the coastline. I've been staring at it for five minutes, trying to appreciate its beauty, but all I feel is bone-deep exhaustion. Today has been brutal, a morning meeting with my manager where she lectured me about "brand consistency" for two hours, followed by a workout session that left me trembling.

I push open the door to my suite, already kicking off my shoes. The familiar sound of Lucian's laughter hits me before I even see him. He's sprawled across my bed, not his own bed in his own room that I'm paying for, scrolling through his phone with that perfect chestnut hair fanned out around him like he's posing for a photoshoot even when no one's watching.

"Holy shit, this is unreal," he giggles, not even bothering to look up as I drop my gym bag on the floor. His long, elegant fingers swipe across his screen, his attention completely absorbed.

I stand there for a moment, studying him. The late afternoon light catches on his high cheekbones and pouty lips. Objectively beautiful, like a Renaissance painting come to life. But lately, all I see are the flaws beneath that perfect surface, the neediness, the self-absorption, the way he never asks about me.

He's perfect on the outside, empty on the inside. The realization hits me with unexpected force as I watch him continue to laugh at whatever's on his screen. It's been getting harder to ignore lately, the stark difference between what I have now and what I had before.

Nick was never like this. He'd have greeted me at the door, asked about my day, maybe offered to massage my shoulders after a brutal training session. The comparison is almost painful.

"Hey," I say, walking closer to the bed. "What're you looking at that's so funny?"

Lucian's eyes flicker up to me, a gleeful smile spreading across his face that makes my skin crawl.

"Your ex-boyfriend just got himself nearly killed," he announces, turning his phone toward me. "It's all over the racing news."

"What?" I step forward, snatching the phone from his hand.

The video plays automatically, aerial footage of an IndyCar slamming into a wall at Indianapolis, spinning violently before coming to rest in a mangled heap. The headline below it reads: "HUSBAND OF F1 CHAMPION IVY HUNT IN CRITICAL CONDITION AFTER INDIANAPOLIS TEST CRASH."

My stomach drops. Nick. The room suddenly feels too hot, too small. I watch the footage again, unable to tear my eyes away from the horrific impact. The car is barely recognizable afterward.

"It says he broke both legs, both wrists, multiple ribs..." Lucian recites the injuries like he's reading a shopping list. "And Ivy's pulled out of Monaco completely."

I scroll through the article, my hands shaking. There it is in black and white: "Zenith Racing confirms Ivy Hunt has withdrawn from the Monaco Grand Prix to be with her husband."

"Isn't this absolutely fantastic for you, babe?" Lucian sits up, actually clapping his hands together. "Ivy's out of Monaco! This is your chance to win! To really show everyone what you can do without her shadow over you."

I feel a white-hot rage surge through my entire body, something vicious that I've never experienced before. Without thinking, I fling his phone back at him, watching it bounce off his chest and onto the bed.

"You're laughing at this?" My voice comes out low and dangerous, barely recognizable as my own. "Nick could have died, and you think it's fantastic?"

Lucian's perfect face registers shock for a split second before morphing into that practiced pout he uses whenever he's called out on his bullshit.

"I just meant…"

"I know exactly what you meant," I cut him off, stalking toward the bed. "You're celebrating someone's horrific accident because it might benefit me professionally. Do you even hear yourself?"

He sits up straighter, flipping that perfect hair over his shoulder with practiced indignation. "Don't act all high and mighty, Blair. This is racing. People get hurt. It happens. And when it happens to your rivals, you capitalize on it."

"Nick isn't my rival!" I shout, the words ripping from my throat. "He was my friend. My best friend for years."

Lucian scoffs, rolling his eyes dramatically. "He didn't even make it a full lap, babe. And honestly, he always dressed like some kind of clown in the paddock."

His words hit me like a physical blow. Something deep inside me cracks open. Bridgette whispering in my ear about Nick's "unprofessional appearance" and how it would "damage my brand" if we stayed together. How his clothes weren't "polished enough" for someone dating a rising F1 star.

It was the final straw that broke us, back when I was at my most shallow and self-absorbed at the beginning of the season. When status and appearance meant more to me than substance.

Looking at Lucian now, with his perfect hair and empty soul, It’s once again clear as day what I threw away. If I had just treasured what I had, if I'd just seen through the superficial bullshit, I'd still be with Nick instead of this hollow shell of a human being who's celebrating someone's pain.

"Get out," I say, my voice eerily calm.

Lucian freezes, his perfect eyebrows arching in confusion. "What?"

"We're done." The words taste like freedom on my tongue. "Get out of my room. Get out of my life."

"Are you kidding me?" He sits up straighter, that practiced indignation flaring. "Over some comment about your ex's fashion choices? Don't be ridiculous, Blair."

I grab his designer jacket from the chair and throw it at him. "I'm not doing this shit."

He catches the jacket, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. For once, the perfect Lucian is at a loss for words.

"You can't just…"

"I can and I am." I march to the closet, pulling out the expensive suitcase I bought him last month. "Pack your things and go back to your own room. Tomorrow, you're on the first flight home."

"Blair, you're being completely irrational." He stands now, that dangerous flash of anger I've seen glimpses of before darkening his features. "You need me. The cameras love us together."

"I don't need you," I say, the truth of it washing over me like a wave. "I never did."

Chapter Text

[Ivy’s POV]

Dawn creeps through the hospital blinds, painting Nick's sleeping face in gentle stripes of gold. I adjust my position in the uncomfortable chair, my back protesting after hours of vigilance. The steady beep of his monitors has become a comforting rhythm, proof that despite everything, his heart still beats.

He looks so peaceful now, finally resting after yesterday's surgery. The doctors said it went well, the first of two procedures to repair the damage to his legs. His brown hair falls across his forehead, and I can't resist reaching out to brush it away with trembling fingers.

"You're doing so well, my love," I whisper, though I know he can't hear me.

Twenty-four hours since his crash, and every minute has been a battle against my own worst thoughts. Each time I close my eyes, I see that mangled car, his broken body being pulled from the wreckage. The memory makes my chest constrict, like someone's crushing my ribcage in a vise.

My phone vibrates again, Blair's fifth call this morning. I silence it without looking. Whatever she wants can wait. Nothing exists outside this room, outside the gentle rise and fall of Nick's chest.

Cecilia pokes her head in, her expression as controlled as ever despite the chaos she's managing. "The press statement's been released," she says quietly. "Reaction's been sympathetic so far."

I nod. The team, the championship, my career, it all seems so distant now, like someone else's life I vaguely remember living.

"Thank you," I finally manage. "For everything."

She gives me a rare smile before slipping back out, leaving us alone again.

I haven't told the team I'm retiring yet. The words sit on my tongue like a secret too precious to share. But every time I think about walking away, about closing that chapter of my life, a strange lightness fills my chest. Not grief or regret, relief. Pure, unexpected relief.

My fingers find Nick's, careful to avoid the IV lines. "Maybe this is a blessing in disguise," I murmur, surprised by my own thoughts. "Not your accident, never that, but this... pause."

For the first time in over ten years, I'm not thinking about the next race, the next championship, the next mountain to climb. I'm just here, present in this moment, with the only person who's ever made me feel like I'm enough without trophies or titles.

"I can just focus on loving you," I whisper, leaning closer to press my lips against his forehead. "Maybe that's all I ever needed to do."

His eyelids flutter at my touch, and for a moment I hold my breath, but he doesn't wake. The doctors said he needs rest, his body has a long recovery ahead.

My phone vibrates again in my pocket, the harsh buzzing more grating than the hospital machines. That's the sixth call from Blair in two hours. A hot surge of anger floods through me, rising from my gut and spreading like wildfire through my chest.

I glance at Nick's sleeping form, making sure he's still peaceful before I slip out into the hallway. The fluorescent lights sting my tired eyes as I pull the door closed behind me.

When the phone buzzes again, something snaps inside me. I yank it from my pocket and stab the answer button, pressing it to my ear.

"WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?" I snarl, my voice echoing down the empty corridor. A nurse at the station looks up, startled, but I don't care.

"Ivy, thank god…" Blair's voice trembles on the other end.

"I don't have time for your bullshit right now," I cut her off, pacing like a caged animal. "My husband is lying in there broken because I wasn't there to protect him. So unless the world is literally ending, I don't give a fuck about whatever you're calling about."

"I just wanted to know if Nick's okay," she says, her voice smaller than I've ever heard it. "The news reports are saying different things, and I was worried…"

"You're worried?" I laugh, the sound harsh and ugly even to my own ears. "That's rich. You didn't seem so worried about him when you were parading around with that walking Ken doll, did you?"

Silence hangs between us for a moment. I can hear her breathing, unsteady and shallow.

"Lucian's gone," Blair says, the words coming out in a rush. "I broke up with him."

"What, so you want…"

"I'm not trying to win Nick back," she cuts me off, her voice sharp with desperation. "I just... is he still in critical condition?"

I exhale slowly, the fight draining out of me as I lean against the sterile hospital wall. Through the small window in Nick's door, I can see his chest rising and falling in that steady rhythm that's become my lifeline.

"No," I finally answer, my voice softer than before. "He's safe. He's just... broken as can be. But the doctors say he should make a full recovery, given time and proper care."

Blair's sigh of relief is audible, a long exhale that carries months of tension with it. "Thank god," she whispers.

The silence stretches between us for a moment, not quite comfortable but no longer charged with hostility. I watch a nurse check something on her computer, the mundane normalcy of it almost surreal against the chaos of the past day.

"You're thinking of quitting, aren't you?" Blair asks suddenly.

The question catches me off guard, my body tensing instinctively. "Huh?"

"Formula 1," she clarifies, her voice taking on that analytical edge I know from our strategy meetings. "You're planning to walk away. I can hear it in your voice."

I pull away from the wall, pacing the narrow corridor as if I could physically escape her observation. How the hell did she know? I haven't told anyone except Nick, and even that conversation was brief, interrupted by his medication pulling him back under.

"What I do with my career isn't your concern," I snap, gripping the phone tighter. The fluorescent lights suddenly feel too bright, too invasive.

"You can't quit, Ivy," Blair says, her voice rising with unexpected passion. "Think about what you're throwing away…”

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do," I snarl, turning away from Nick's door so my voice doesn't disturb him. "My husband nearly died while I was chasing some stupid trophy on the other side of the world. Do you understand that? Nothing else matters."

"Nick will have this hanging over him forever," Blair says, her voice softening. "He's going to spend the rest of his life believing he robbed you of another championship. You know how he thinks, Ivy. He'll never forgive himself."

"Shut the…"

"Ivy, you're rich as fuck," Blair interrupts, her voice growing stronger through the phone. "You could easily hire a full-time physical therapist to travel with you for the rest of the season. Nick can still fly, can't he? Just put him in a wheelchair and bring him along."

I freeze in the sterile hallway, her words hitting me like a slap across the face. The simplicity of her solution makes me dizzy with possibilities I hadn't even considered in my panic.

"That's..." My voice trails off as my mind races ahead, calculating logistics, picturing Nick beside me at races instead of thousands of miles away.

"I'm not trying to meddle in your marriage," Blair continues, her tone gentler now. "But I know Nick. He'll blame himself forever if you throw away your F1 career for him. Is that the weight you want him carrying during his recovery?"

I press my forehead against the cool hospital wall, closing my eyes as the exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours crashes over me. The image of Nick's face when I told him I was retiring flashes behind my eyelids, the guilt, the shame, the quiet devastation he tried to hide.

"He'd hate himself," I whisper, the admission painful as it leaves my lips.

"Exactly," Blair says.

"Why do you even care?" I ask Blair, suspicion creeping back into my voice. "You'd have a better shot at the championship with me out of the way."

"I want to beat you," Blair's voice turns hard through the phone, "so Nick knows that sure, he might be happier with you, but I'm still the best racer he ever fucked."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My vision actually blurs at the edges, turning red with rage. My free hand clenches into a fist so tight I can feel my nails cutting into my palm.

I hang up without another word, hurling my phone against the wall with enough force that it shatters, pieces of plastic and glass skittering across the sterile hospital floor.

"THAT FUCKING BITCH!" I scream, the words tearing from my throat like jagged glass.

I pace the corridor, trying to contain the violent storm raging inside me. My chest heaves with each breath, my entire body trembling with the effort of not putting my fist through the nearest wall. How dare she.

But even as the fury courses through me, a tiny, rational voice in the back of my mind whispers that beneath Blair's disgusting comment, she made some valid points. Nic would carry that guilt forever, another weight on shoulders that are already bearing too much.

I glance through the window of his room. Even unconscious, his face looks troubled, eyebrows drawn slightly together like he's working through a difficult problem in his dreams.

“Fuck. I really thought I’d get to just finally relax for a long time.”

Chapter Text

Monaco looks different through a morphine haze and a hospital TV. The colors are too vivid, the cars too small, like watching the world's most expensive ant farm. I've been lying in this bed since Tuesday, my legs suspended in a complicated system of braces and wires after two surgeries that the doctors assure me went perfectly. The pain meds make everything feel distant and dreamy, like I'm watching someone else's life unfold.

"I'm really sorry, baby," I whisper, turning to look at Ivy as the race enters lap fifty-nine. The words feel inadequate, floating between us like sad, deflated balloons.

Ivy doesn't respond immediately. Her eyes remain fixed on the screen where twenty two of the world's fastest cars navigate the narrow streets of Monte Carlo. Her replacement driver, some hungry rookie I'd never heard of before this week, is running in a respectable fifth place. Not where Ivy would be, but not embarrassing the team either.

She's perched on the edge of my hospital bed like she might take flight at any moment, her body tense with the muscle memory of racing. Every time there's a gear change on screen, I can see her foot twitch slightly, phantom driving from three thousand miles away.

"What are you sorry for this time?" she finally asks, her accent thickening the way it does when she's trying to hide emotion. "For crashing? For your legs? For the fact that I'm sitting in Indianapolis instead of racing in Monaco?" Her purple eyes flick briefly to me before returning to the screen. "You've apologized approximately eight hundred times since Tuesday. I've been counting."

I try to shift position, but the movement sends a dagger of pain through my right leg despite the medication. "All of the above?" I offer with a weak smile.

Ivy sighs, reaching out to brush the hair from my forehead with unexpected tenderness. "Stop apologizing. What's done is done."

On screen, the camera cuts to the Zenith garage where Victoria paces with military precision, her face a mask of focused calculation. She looks exactly like she does when Ivy's racing, completely unaffected by the driver change. Business as usual.

"Do you regret it?" I ask, the drugs making me braver than I should be. "Staying with me instead of going back for the race?"

Ivy's eyes narrow dangerously. "If you ask me that one more time, I will break your arms to match your legs."

"That's fair," I concede, letting my head fall back against the pillow.

The corners of Ivy's mouth quirk up slightly, a ghost of that predatory smile I've fallen in love with. She shifts her weight on the bed, careful not to jostle my injuries as she leans toward me. Her eyes flick to the TV once more, then back to my face.

"You know what would help you stop apologizing?" she murmurs, her voice dropping to that velvet register that makes my skin tingle despite the medication.

"What's that?" I ask, my mouth suddenly dry.

Instead of answering, she closes the distance between us, her lips capturing mine with surprising gentleness. The kiss is soft at first, almost hesitant, like she's afraid I might shatter under her touch. I melt into it, the pain in my legs momentarily forgotten as warmth spreads through my chest.

There's something different about the way she's kissing me, a desperate tenderness that makes my heart ache. It tastes like forgiveness, like promise, like love distilled into its purest form.

"YELLOW FLAG! YELLOW FLAG!" The announcer's voice cuts through our moment, suddenly urgent and alarmed.

Ivy pulls back slightly, both of us turning toward the screen. The camera pans wildly across the track, the footage jerky and disoriented.

"We have a situation on track," the announcer continues, his professional composure cracking. "It appears that several individuals have... have actually entered the racing surface."

"What the hell?" Ivy breathes, her body going rigid beside me.

The broadcast shows three people in matching t-shirts sitting cross-legged on the racing line. The yellow flags wave frantically around the circuit as drivers swerve to avoid them.

Suddenly the feed cuts to static, then switches to a wide shot of the harbor, completely removing the track from view.

"What just happened?" I ask, trying to push myself up higher on my pillows and wincing at the pain that shoots through me.

Ivy's hand finds mine, squeezing tight enough to hurt as we stare at the screen. The commentators have gone completely silent. The only sound is the ambient noise from the track, distant engines and the murmur of the crowd.

When one of them finally speaks, his voice is hollow with shock.

"Oh my... Ladies and gentlemen, we... we're getting reports that..." The announcer falters, clearly receiving information through his earpiece. "It seems that Lana Norris's car has... has struck all three protesters in what appears to be a tragic accident."

"Jesus Christ," I whisper, my stomach lurching despite the painkillers.

Ivy leaps to her feet, her entire body a live wire of rage. "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE?" she screams, gesturing wildly at the television. "Who in their right mind sits on a fucking Formula 1 track while cars are coming at them at 200 miles per hour?!"

Her voice echoes off the sterile hospital walls as she paces frantically at the foot of my bed, hands raking through her purple-streaked hair. "Do they have ANY idea what they've just done? They've not only killed themselves, they just made a mockery out of the sport!"

I try to reach for her, but my immobilized arms make it impossible. "Ivy, please…"

"No!" She whirls on me, eyes wild with fury. "This is beyond comprehension! These absolute fucking morons thought what? That the cars would magically stop? That their little protest was worth DYING for? Worth making someone else live with killing them?"

A nurse appears in the doorway, alarmed by the commotion. "Is everything okay in here?"

"NO!" Ivy snaps, pointing at the television. "Everything is NOT okay! People just committed suicide-by-race-car on international television!"

The nurse's eyes widen as she glances at the screen, then back at us. "I... I'll give you some privacy," she stammers, quickly retreating.

The door closes behind the nurse as Ivy turns back to the television, her chest heaving. The broadcast has switched to an aerial view of the circuit, carefully avoiding any footage of the accident scene. The commentators speak in hushed, somber tones, filling time while officials sort through the chaos.

"And of course it's fucking Lana!" Ivy suddenly explodes, slamming her fist against the wall. "That pathetic worm!"

"Poor Lana," I murmur, imagining the horror the driver must be experiencing right now. To be behind the wheel in that moment, unable to stop, knowing you're about to hit actual human beings...

"Poor Lana?" Ivy whirls on me, her face contorted with rage. "Lana can't brake for shit! That stupid bitch probably didn't even try to avoid them until it was too late!"

I flinch at her venom, but stay quiet. This is Ivy processing trauma in the only way she knows how, with fury. She shakes her head violently, pacing the small hospital room like a caged animal.

"Do you think they'll count the race?" I ask, trying to redirect her energy toward something technical, something that might calm her down.

She stops pacing for a moment, her eyes flickering to the screen where race officials are huddled in deep discussion. "Yeah," she says after a pause, her voice slightly steadier. "Over seventy-five percent of the race is finished. It's full points."

A sigh escapes her lips as she sinks back down onto the edge of my bed. "Looks like Blair is taking twenty-five points today."

My heart aches at the thought. Twenty-five points that should have been Ivy's. Twenty-five points toward a championship she's walking away from because of me. The morphine isn't strong enough to dull that particular pain.

"Ivy," I say, gathering my courage, "I want to talk about your retirement again."

Ivy's expression softens immediately, the rage evaporating as she meets my gaze. She takes a deep breath, her shoulders dropping as she runs her fingers through her purple-streaked hair.

"Let's talk about it after the Indy 500," she says, her voice gentler than I expected. She moves closer, careful not to disturb any of the medical equipment attached to me.

"I really don't want you to quit for the season," I tell her, trying to keep my voice steady despite the emotion threatening to overwhelm me. "Not because of me. Not like this."

She takes my hand, tracing small circles on my palm with her thumb. The sensation sends tingles up my arm even through the fog of medication.

"I know I told you I was retiring," she says, "but just give me some time, alright? I'm trying to see if I can work something out, okay? So just stop worrying about it."

Hope flickers in my chest like a tiny flame. "You've changed your mind?"

Her purple eyes study my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "I don't know yet," she admits.

The way she's looking at me now makes the hospital room feel impossibly small. It's that look, the one that makes me feel like I'm the center of her universe, like nothing else matters beyond the space between us. Like I'm the most precious thing alive.

Lana Norris: 

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight streams through my hospital window, turning the sterile room into something almost beautiful. It's a stark contrast to the darkness that's settled over the racing world after what happened in Monaco a few hours ago. Three protesters dead on the track, a traumatized driver, and a Grand Prix that ended under red flags with Blair West claiming a hollow victory no one's celebrating.

I shift uncomfortably in my bed, the braces and wires suspending my broken legs catching the light like some macabre art installation. The TV drones on with pre-race coverage of the Indy 500, commentators trying to balance excitement for today's race with somber reflections on Monaco's tragedy. Melissa should be in her final preparations now, focused and ready despite knowing what happened across the ocean.

Ivy sits beside me, her attention divided between her phone and the television. She's been fielding calls all morning from her team, from the press, from other drivers seeking her perspective on the Monaco disaster. Each time her phone rings, her jaw tightens a little more.

"At least twenty-five people have asked me what I would have done if I'd been there," she mutters, tossing her phone onto the bedside table.

I watch her face, the way her purple eyes narrow when she's processing anger, how she presses her lips together to keep from saying something she might regret. Even exhausted and stressed, she's breathtaking.

The morphine they gave me this morning is making me feel oddly brave, disconnecting my thoughts from the filter that usually stops them from becoming words. I clear my throat, drawing her attention away from the TV.

"Uhh, hey," I begin, my voice sounding strange even to my own ears, "did you ask the doctor when we can, uhh... you know, fuck again?"

Ivy's head whips toward me, those purple eyes widening in surprise before a slow, predatory smile spreads across her face. "Nicholas Hunt," she purrs, leaning closer, "are you seriously thinking about sex right now? With both legs shattered and your arms in braces?"

Heat floods my face, but the drugs make me bolder than usual. "Can you blame me? It's been almost a week."

She laughs, the sound washing away some of the tension that's been hanging over us since Monaco. Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining carefully to avoid disturbing my IV.

"I did ask, actually," she admits, her voice dropping to that velvet register that makes my heart race despite the painkillers. "The doctor said not for at least six weeks, and even then we'd need to be extremely careful with your legs."

"Six weeks?" I nearly choke on the words, a sudden panic gripping me. "That's over a month!"

My mind races, the morphine making my thoughts tumble out uncensored. If Ivy goes back to racing, she'll be without the one thing she swears makes her faster. The thought sends a wave of anxiety through me that even the painkillers can't dull.

"Wait, but how will you race without my cum inside you?" The words burst out before I can stop them. "You always say it makes you faster, like it's your good luck charm or something."

Ivy's eyebrows shoot up, but that amused smile remains firmly in place. She leans closer, her purple-streaked hair falling forward to frame her face as she studies mine.

"If I go back to racing, we'll figure something out," she says, her voice low and reassuring. "There are ways around everything, Nick."

The casual confidence in her tone both calms and frustrates me. She makes it sound so simple when it feels like an insurmountable problem in my drug-addled brain.

"So not even like... a hand job?" I press, feeling oddly desperate. "That wouldn't hurt my legs, right?"

Ivy laughs, the sound rich and warm as she strokes my cheek with gentle fingers. "You're on blood thinners and heavy medication, baby. I'm not sure you could even get it up if you wanted to."

Her words land like a challenge, awakening something primal in me despite my broken body. As if responding directly to her doubt, I feel a familiar stirring beneath my hospital gown, my body betraying just how much her mere presence affects me, medication be damned.

I watch Ivy's eyes widen slightly as she notices the growing bulge tenting the thin fabric of my gown. Her purple gaze darkens with interest, that predatory smile spreading across her face.

"Well, well," she purrs, leaning back to appreciate the view. "Looks like someone's proving me wrong."

Ivy's gaze shifts from my face to the evidence of my arousal, her eyes narrowing with a hunger that makes my breath catch. She stares at me like I'm a succulent Chinese meal she's been denied for days, her tongue darting out to wet her lips in a gesture that's both predatory and considering.

"I really probably shouldn't..." she murmurs, her voice dropping to that dangerous purr that makes my heart race despite the medication. Her fingertips ghost over my hospital gown, barely touching the fabric. "Does it hurt at all?"

I smile flirtatiously, emboldened by the drugs flowing through my system and the way her eyes have darkened with desire. "It aches, Ivy," I whisper, the double meaning hanging between us like an invitation.

She glances toward the door, which stands slightly ajar, then back to me with mischief dancing in her purple eyes. In one fluid motion, she rises from her chair and pushes the door closed with a soft click, turning the lock before returning to my bedside.

The look in Ivy's eyes sends a shiver through me despite the warmth of the hospital room. She slides her hand beneath the thin fabric of my gown, her cool fingers wrapping around me with practiced precision. I gasp, the sensation more intense than I expected, my nerve endings hypersensitive from days of medication.

"Shhh," she whispers, her free hand pressing gently against my lips. "You'll get us both kicked out if you make too much noise."

I nod, swallowing hard as she begins to move her hand in slow, deliberate strokes. The Indy 500 pre-race coverage continues on the television, the commentators' voices creating a surreal soundtrack to what's happening beneath my hospital gown.

"God, I've missed touching you," Ivy murmurs, her purple eyes locked on my face, studying every minute reaction. She adjusts her rhythm, slowing just as I feel the first building waves of pleasure. "But we're going to take this nice and slow. We have all day, after all."

"Please," I whisper, already desperate for release.

Ivy just smiles that predatory smile of hers, continuing her maddeningly gentle pace. "The race is about to start, baby. We've got hours to go."

True to her word, as the cars line up on the starting grid at Indianapolis, Ivy settles into what can only be described as a campaign of sweet torture. She alternates between her hand and her mouth, bringing me right to the edge before pulling back each time, leaving me gasping and frustrated.

"Ivy, please," I beg after she's pulled away for the third time, leaving me throbbing and desperate. "I can't take much more."

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, those purple eyes dancing with wicked amusement. "Sure you can. We've barely started lap thirty." She nods toward the TV where the cars scream around the oval track. "You're doing so well, baby. Just like these drivers, it's all about endurance."

I groan, letting my head fall back against the pillow. "You're cruel."

"Mmmm," she hums, resuming her teasing strokes. "You love it though."

Time becomes meaningless as Ivy continues her exquisite torture. The race blurs in and out of my awareness, occasionally pulling my attention when Ivy deliberately slows her ministrations to force me to watch.

By lap 198, I've completely lost track of the race, drifting in and out of focus as Ivy continues her relentless teasing. A particularly loud cheer from the TV pulls me back to awareness, and I manage to focus my bleary eyes on the screen.

"Look," Ivy murmurs, her lips leaving me just long enough to speak. "Your sister's doing pretty well for her first time in the car. Fifth place."

I blink in confusion, trying to make sense of what she's saying through my pleasure-fogged brain. That's when I notice the standings on the screen, Enza Venturi is leading the race, her car screaming around the oval with commanding precision.

"If it was me out there," Ivy whispers between licks, "I'd be in first place, not Enza."

The combination of her words, the competitive edge in her voice, and the sensation of her tongue is too much. I feel the pressure building, unstoppable now.

"Ivy," I gasp, "I'm going to…"

She doesn't pull away this time. Instead, her mouth engulfs me completely as I come undone. Ivy doesn't miss a drop, swallowing greedily as if she's been starving for this, her eyes locked on mine with possessive intensity.

When she finally pulls away, a tiny burp escapes her lips, surprising us both. She covers her mouth, eyes wide with embarrassment.

"Oh my," she says, then dissolves into giggles that make her shoulders shake.

I can't help but join her, our laughter filling the sterile hospital room, transforming it into something warmer, more like home. The insanity of the moment, me broken in a hospital bed while Ivy Hunt, three-time world champion, delicately wipes her mouth after swallowing my load during the Indy 500, is not lost on me.

"That was so much, Nick," she says, her accent thickening as she catches her breath.

"It's the longest I've gone without cumming since we met," I admit, feeling oddly proud of this fact despite my broken body. "Nearly a week is like an eternity for us."

She smirks, that predatory smile that always makes my heart skip. "True. We usually can't make it through breakfast without…"

A sudden commotion from the TV interrupts us. The announcer's voice rises to a panicked shout as chaos erupts on screen. In turn two, with lap 200 nearing its end, the second-place car loses control, slamming violently into Enza Venturi's leading machine. The impact sends both cars spinning, debris scattering across the track like deadly confetti.

"Holy shit," Ivy breathes, her attention completely captured by the unfolding disaster.

Before the dust can even settle, the third and fourth place cars clip the wreckage, spinning into a less dramatic but equally race-ending crash. Through some miracle of timing and positioning, a car weaves through the carnage untouched, Melissa's car, suddenly catapulted from fifth to first in the blink of an eye.

"Oh my fucking god," I gasp, my body instinctively trying to sit up before pain reminds me of my limitations. "That's Melissa! She's in the lead!"

The yellow flags wave frantically around the track as safety crews rush to the accident scene. With only half a lap remaining and the track littered with wreckage, officials make the call, the race will finish under caution.

"She's going to win," I whisper, disbelief coloring every word. "Melissa's going to win the Indianapolis 500."

My eyes go wide as the realization fully hits me, and when I glance at Ivy, I see her expression mirrors mine, pure shock mixed with dawning excitement. Her purple eyes are huge, her mouth slightly open as we watch my sister take the white flag, then the checkered, leading the remaining cars at a controlled pace behind the safety vehicle.

"Your sister just won the fucking Indy 500," Ivy says, her voice filled with awe. "On her first attempt."

The euphoria of watching my sister win the Indy 500, combined with the lingering ecstasy from Ivy's ministrations and the cocktail of drugs flowing through my system, suddenly becomes too much for my body to handle. A strange warmth rushes up my throat without warning, no nausea, no retching, and before I can stop it, I've vomited a little bit down the front of my hospital gown.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry," I gasp, mortified as I stare down at the mess on my chest.

Ivy doesn't hesitate or recoil in disgust. She immediately grabs a handful of paper towels from the dispenser by the sink and returns to my side, her movements quick but gentle as she begins wiping my face.

"Don't be sorry, baby," she says, her voice surprisingly tender as she cleans me up. "The doctor said the drugs could make you sick." Her fingers brush my cheek with such care it makes my heart ache. "And you were probably so surprised by Melissa's win that your body just got a little confused."

I look up at the TV. Winning the Indy 500 is a huge achievement. "I really can't believe it." I whisper.

"Which part?" Ivy asks, a small smile playing at her lips as she finishes cleaning my face and starts gently tugging at my soiled hospital gown. "That your sister just became an Indy 500 champion, or that I made you throw up from pleasure?"

“Both, I guess.”