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 went perfectly. The pain ds make everything feel distant and dreamy, like I'm watching soone 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 imdiately. Her eyes remain fixed on the screen where twenty two of the world's fastest cars navigate the narrow streets of Monte Carlo. Her replacent driver, so 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 mont, her body tense with the muscle mory of racing. Every ti 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 ti?" 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 before returning to the screen. "You've apologized approximately eight hundred tis since Tuesday. I've been counting."
I try to shift position, but the movent sends a dagger of pain through my right leg despite the dication. "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 cara 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 braver than I should be. "Staying with instead of going back for the race?"
Ivy's eyes narrow dangerously. "If you ask that one more ti, 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 . 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 dication.
"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 lt into it, the pain in my legs montarily forgotten as warmth spreads through my chest.
There's sothing different about the way she's kissing , a desperate tenderness that makes my heart ache. It tastes like forgiveness, like promise, like love distilled into its purest form. This text is hosted at novel·fiɾe·net
"YELLOW FLAG! YELLOW FLAG!" The announcer's voice cuts through our mont, suddenly urgent and alard.
Ivy pulls back slightly, both of us turning toward the screen. The cara 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 .
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 .
Ivy's hand finds mine, squeezing tight enough to hurt as we stare at the screen. The comntators 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 gentlen, 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 , 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 soone else live with killing them?"
A nurse appears in the doorway, alard 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 so privacy," she stamrs, 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 comntators speak in hushed, somber tones, filling ti 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 mont, unable to stop, knowing you're about to hit actual human beings...
"Poor Lana?" Ivy whirls on , 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 sothing technical, sothing that might calm her down.
She stops pacing for a mont, 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 . The morphine isn't strong enough to dull that particular pain.
"Ivy," I say, gathering my courage, "I want to talk about your retirent again."
Ivy's expression softens imdiately, the rage evaporating as she ets 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 dical equipnt attached to .
"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 . "Not because of . 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 dication.
"I know I told you I was retiring," she says, "but just give so ti, alright? I'm trying to see if I can work sothing out, okay? So just stop worrying about it."
Hope flickers in my chest like a tiny fla. "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 now makes the hospital room feel impossibly small. It's that look, the one that makes 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:
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