The air tastes like money and fear, champagne and gasoline, with undertones of desperate prayer.
In all my years since lissa got into open wheel racing, every single starting grid stresses out. And Blair is far more aggressive than lissa ever was. I've watched my sister risk her life over a hundred tis, but sohow it's different with Blair. More terrifying.
The paddock club above the garage gives 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 mory 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 . Not that hating Ivy is difficult after how she treated , 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 , 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 chanical fury as twenty-two Formula 1 engines scream to life simultaneously. I physically recoil, wincing as the wall of sound hits 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 rcedes and the track limit with milliters to spare. My breath catches in my throat as she brakes impossibly late, sohow making the car stick while the rcedes ahead runs wide.
"Holy shit," I whisper, watching as Blair erges 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 hamring against my ribs as the cars disappear around Turn 3.
"Jesus Christ, she's insane," the man next to 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 cara 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 back from the railing with surprising strength.
"Nick, can I have a word?"
I turn to find Bridgette Lovely standing beside , 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 to follow.
With a reluctant glance at the screens, I trail after her as she leads away from the crowded viewing area toward a quieter corner of the paddock club. The race sounds beco slightly muffled here, though the comntator'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 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 soone 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 judgnt by normal standards."
The comparison sends a chill through 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 caras 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 embarrassnt 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 sothing almost maternal, which sohow makes it worse. "The team has invested heavily in Blair's image. We need her boyfriend to match that investnt."
"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 caras 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 so manufactured drama splashed across the world's most popular racing docuntary. "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 cara angles."
Before I can respond, Bridgette's phone chis. 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 caras find you."
She's gone in a flurry, leaving standing alone with my apparently inadequate clothes and bitchy face.
I stand there for a mont, 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 back to what actually matters. By the ti 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 helt 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 helt at the front, the three-ti 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 tal and carbon fiber disintegrating on impact. Debris explodes across the track like deadly confetti.
"Holy shit!" soone beside gasps.
My heart hamrs 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 cara, showing her skillfully navigating through the wreckage, weaving precisely between scattered car parts. She erges 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. Soone claps on the shoulder and yells sothing congratulatory that gets lost in the chaos of the mont. 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 mont when Norris and Ivy collided. Each impact looks worse than the last, the cars disintegrating against the barriers in spectacular fashion.
"dical team reporting both drivers conscious," the race comntator'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 co to despise Ivy in the span of a single morning, I'd never wish injury on anyone.
The cara 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 dical 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 helt.
And then I see Ivy.
She's already out of her car, sohow looking completely unruffled despite having just survived a 250 km/h impact. While the dical 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 so 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 dical staff hover uncertainly nearby, clearly torn between protocol and self-preservation. One brave paradic attempts to step between them, only to retreat when Ivy's purple glare turns on her with laser-like intensity.
"Jesus Christ," mutters soone beside . "She's going to eat that poor girl alive."
Lana Norris:
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