The private jet’s leather seat creaks beneath as I shift uncomfortably, the emptiness beside more suffocating than the recycled cabin air. Ivy chartered this sleek tal bird to fly 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 , 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 thod you’d prefer.
She approaches with asured steps and sits in the leather seat across from , 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 eting 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, sohow making the casual movent look calculated. “She wants to be your bodyguard for this trip.”
I stare at her, trying to process what she’s just said. A bodyguard? For ?
“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 sothing in her eyes shifts slightly.
“Ivy has concerns about your safety while traveling alone,” she explains, her voice asured and professional. “Especially given recent dia 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 makes my stomach knot.
“What about Ivy?” I ask, unable to keep the worry from my voice. “Monaco is always a dia 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 sothing almost like amusent in her voice, and I can’t help but feel slightly foolish. Of course Ivy will be fine, she’s Ivy Hunt, three-ti 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 judgnt. “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 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 ti, I’ve arranged multiple... situations to be handled discreetly. I’ve negotiated contracts worth millions. I’ve made problems disappear.” She pauses, her eyes eting mine directly. “But I have never seen her as concerned about anything as she is about your wellbeing.”
The admission catches off guard. There’s sothing oddly comforting about hearing this from soone 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 ntioned her concerns about unwanted physical contact. She believes you might be, in her words, ‘pri at for public gropers.’”
I feel heat rise to my cheeks, embarrassnt mingling with a strange validation. “Oh.”
The truth is, she’s not entirely wrong. I’ve never ntioned 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 sotis made you a target. I rember 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 at all tis?”
“I’ll maintain appropriate distance based on the situation,” she answers, already checking sothing on her phone. “In controlled environnts, 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 soone does try to grope ?” I can’t help asking, curious about her protocols.
Sothing 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 believe she’s perfectly capable of breaking arms if necessary. There’s sothing reassuring about that, even if I still think Ivy is overreacting.
“Ivy ntioned you were quite effective in handling my mother,” I say, changing the subject. “I never got the full story on that.”
Cecilia stares at , her expression hardening into sothing unreadable. “I’m not at liberty to discuss those particulars, Mr. Hunt.”
“Oh co 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 nacing. “Ivy specifically instructed that you two should remain... clean in this matter. So 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 sothing you’d want associated with your new family na, 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 an.”
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 outco.
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 rember 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 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.”
Sothing about her tone makes feel foolish, but I’m already dialing Ivy’s number. She picks up almost imdiately.
“Hey baby,” her voice purrs through the speaker, warm and intimate. “Miss already?”
Just hearing her makes the knot in my chest loosen slightly. “You got 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 sothing 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 .
“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 tis 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 , “do you think the press will notice?”
“I doubt it,” Ivy says dismissively. “Gaming journalists and F1 dia don’t exactly run in the sa 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 ntions of my Twitch channel, sothing I’m now deeply regretting.
The headline from Polygon stares back at 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 , I notice Cecilia’s eyes flick up montarily before returning to her tablet, the only indication she’s paying attention.
“Let see,” Ivy demands, and I can practically hear her sitting up straighter. “Send 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 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 ,” she hisses, her voice tight with sothing that sounds like genuine fear. “But you’re away from 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 soone mid-climax.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, mortification washing over in a hot wave.
“Promise ,” Ivy’s voice is deadly serious now, all playfulness gone, “promise you won’t go anywhere without Cecilia. Not even to get coffee or use the bathroom. She stays with you at all tis.”
I glance at Cecilia, who’s now watching 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 , I don’t care.”
“I’d never be mad at you over sothing 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:
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