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 enhancent, 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 ti 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 ans to Ivy Hunt.
The champagne sprays in choreographed chaos, drenching the three won 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 chanical precision rather than joy.
I should have been better this morning. Should have given more of myself, should have found so 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 dia obligations. I consider slinking back to the trailer to prepare for the inevitable storm of her disappointnt, but sothing keeps rooted to the spot. I can’t abandon her now, not when she needs support most.
Fifteen excruciating minutes later, Ivy erges from the dia pen. Her race suit is unzipped to her waist, champagne-soaked fireproofs clinging to her athletic fra. Her eyes scan the crowd with predatory focus until they lock onto mine.
My heart stops.
She’s coming straight for , 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 mont she realizes I’m not worth keeping around.
“Ivy, I’m so…” I start to apologize as she reaches , 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 cara shutters clicking frantically around us, capturing this mont 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 sothing primal and fierce. Not anger or disappointnt 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 embarrassnt and arousal as I notice the small crowd that’s gathered around us, phones and caras 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, amusent dancing in her eyes. “Today was the most alive I’ve felt on track in years. Blair pushed 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 co 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 , Nick, she would have absolutely destroyed 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 caras click frantically around us.
“For those wondering who this is,” she announces to the gathered dia, her voice carrying across the crowd with commanding presence, “His na 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 ti together.
“Ivy,” I hiss through clenched teeth, “what are you doing?”
She ignores 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. Cara flashes blind 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 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 stamr 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 . The playful, possessive energy evaporates instantly, replaced by sothing 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 cara 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 , her expression softening just for a mont before hardening again as she faces the press. “And for the record, Nick Woods is the most loyal person I’ve ever t. 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 . 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. Cara 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?” cos another voice.
“Is it cold or hot?”
“Are you just using Ivy to stay relevant in F1?” asks soone from the back.
My head spins with the onslaught. I’ve stread for thousands of viewers on a few occasions, but sothing about these vultures picking apart my personal life makes my skin crawl. I open my mouth, but no sound erges.
Ivy’s hand finds mine, squeezing with reassuring strength. Her touch anchors , pulling 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 so paddock accessory for you to interrogate. He’s my partner.”
She pulls 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 , with nervous eyes that don’t quite et mine.
“Mr. Woods,” she begins, her voice steadier than her deanor suggests, “what’s it like dating soone who’s so... intense? Ivy Hunt is known for her ruthless determination. Is that what attracted you to her?”
The question catches off guard. Not another accusation or innuendo, but sothing 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 , hungry for so 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 , her shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. She presses her lips together, fighting to maintain her composure in front of the caras.
“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 away from the bewildered press corps, cutting through the crowd with the sa 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 amusent rather than reproach. “Now you’ve got space ssiah 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, rcifully 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 caras. 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 dia 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 doorfra. “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.”
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