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CHAPTER SIX

QATAR GRAND PRIX | TUESDAY

Hamad International Airport in Doha, Qatar, is a gleaming monument to wealth and modernity — all soaring ceilings, sleek lines, and high-end retailers like Fendi and Tiffany.

I stumble off the plane, disoriented after twenty-three hours of travel, unsure what day or time it is and barely remembering my own name.

First class was lovely, I'll give them that.

I've never had a seat that turned into a bed before, or been handed hot towels by flight attendants who somehow make "Would you care for another glass of champagne, Mrs. Pritchard?

" sound like they're conferring a royal title.

Mrs. Pritchard. Right. That's who I am now, apparently.

Figuring I probably needed to know some shit before we landed, I’d researched F1 a little on board the long flight and learned a race weekend spans four days:

Thursday is media and sponsor day where the teams and drivers do tons of PR.

During Friday and Saturday the drivers have three Free Practice sessions on track — FP1, FP2, and FP3 — as well as qualifying sessions — aka qualies.

Then Sunday is race day. Every hour of it is brutal — physically and mentally — in the race to acquire the most points for drivers and teams in the Drivers’ and Constructors’ championships.

That was all fine and dandy, but when I got up the nerve to research my husband , shit went south real fast.

The internet informed me that Reece drives for PNW Nitro, and the team is based in England.

He’s been in Formula One for seven years, since he was twenty.

Which makes him three years older than me.

Okay, fine, no worries there. But the second video to pop up — some behind-the-scenes show called Paddock Access — captured him arriving at a racetrack in Japan with a statuesque blonde on his arm.

I saw that and realized I was not ready to dig deeper. Watching him smile at some rich, glamorous chick just pissed me off more. Especially when the show ID’d her as Peony Jones-Musgrove. I’d briefly considered prying the big fat diamond ring off my finger and dropping it into the nearest toilet.

Instead, I’d closed my laptop and taken a looong nap. Mental health for the win.

Now, I follow Branca through the terminal, using all my years of stagecraft to appear far more put together than I actually am.

In reality, my bones are concrete, my brain is dragging ass about three feet behind my body, and the airport lights pierce my eyes like tiny daggers.

I've never experienced this epic level of jet lag.

The farthest I've ever flown was New York City, and that felt like crossing town compared to this intercontinental odyssey.

Thank god for my massive ’80s sunglasses — the better to hide my bloodshot eyes from the press with, my dear. My mouth tastes like stale champagne and recycled air even though I brushed my teeth twice on the plane.

"Claudia is meeting us." Branca checks her phone with quick, efficient movements. Her gestures are crisp and alert, as if the concept of jet lag is something that happens to lesser mortals. "She'll manage the situation from here."

How is Branca so damned awake?

"Claudia?" I adjust my purse strap on my shoulder and am grateful for a suitcase with rollers. Unlike Reece’s manager, I wasn't prepared for international travel. Most of my wardrobe consists of hastily grabbed clothes that may or may not be appropriate for a Middle Eastern country.

"She’s the PR lead for PNW Nitro. She handles Reece and Petra Hayter's media."

PR manager. Great. Another person whose job is damage control for my husband's wild Vegas escapade.

I resent being someone's situation to manage . Still, I school my expression. I know how to control other people’s impressions of me.

I do it nightly on stage. This is just a different performance for a different audience.

We approach the customs area, but instead of lining up with the other passengers, Branca steers me toward a side entrance where a uniformed official and a woman in an elegant green dress wait.

The woman steps forward with an outstretched hand. "Maiken, welcome to Qatar. I'm Claudia Rossi." She’s Italian, maybe mid-thirties, with glossy dark hair and this kind of calm that makes me think she’s never encountered a shitstorm she couldn’t weather. Her handshake is firm but not aggressive.

I like her immediately, and that makes me suspicious of my own judgment. Which, I gotta admit, hasn’t been performing optimally for at least thirty hours.

"Thank you." I feel travel-rumpled next to her polished perfection.

Her smile seems genuine though. "We have expedited clearance. The car is waiting."

The customs official barely glances at my passport before waving us through. Must be nice to have this kind of access just because you're fast on four wheels.

Outside, the air is chillier than I expected, but it’s a desert and it’s late, so duh. I’m thankful for the sweater I packed. Looks like I’ll need it.

Another sleek black SUV waits at the curb. As we approach, I notice a few photographers lingering nearby and some people who must be fans, but they're keeping a respectful distance.

"We won't have the media circus here that you experienced in Las Vegas," Claudia explains as we slide into the back seat.

Branca takes the front passenger seat. "Qatar is more conservative. There are strict rules about public behavior, especially for women. The team will make sure you're briefed on local customs."

As we pull away, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the tinted window. I look exhausted and overwhelmed.

"Long flight?" Claudia sounds sympathetic.

"The longest." I twist the ring on my finger.

I've been fidgeting with it since this morning, but I haven't taken it off.

Part of me is back to feeling bitchy and wants to chuck it out the window.

A saner part is afraid of what will happen if I do.

"So what's the plan now? Is there a protocol for someone in my situation? "

"The situation being that you married one of our drivers after knowing him for less than twelve hours?" Claudia’s tone is light, but her eyes are assessing.

I sigh. "That would be the one."

"First, we get you settled at the hotel. Tomorrow morning at eleven, you'll meet with Coy Hayter, the team principal."

"The boss?"

"Yes. He'll discuss any concerns you may have regarding your marriage to Reece." She pauses. "Including options for annulment, if that's what you want."

Annulment.

The word lands like a stone in my stomach, which isn’t what I expected. I turn the ring and glance at her. "Is that what Reece wants?"

Claudia’s brows arch, like she wasn’t expecting me to ask about him. "No. He's been quite clear that he doesn't. However, he won’t fight you if that’s what you choose to do."

"Oh." I stare out the window at the Doha skyline, a collection of futuristic spires against the night sky. It's almost nine p.m. local time and the city is alive with lights. "I don't know what I want."

"Not surprising. It's been a chaotic day for you."

That is an understatement of epic proportions.

"Where’s he now?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

"At the hotel, likely getting in a light workout before going to bed. The team arrived several hours ago, and he needs to reset his body clock to Qatar time as quickly as possible. Race week maintains a strict schedule."

I nod, suddenly aware of how little I know about Formula 1 and what Reece's life actually entails. The spontaneous man who beat me at Mario Kart in Las Vegas seems disconnected from this world of first-class flights and global schedules.

When we arrive at the hotel I’m stunned stupid by what I see.

The building is a towering crescent of glass and steel, gleaming like it was carved from light itself.

We’re ushered through doors so tall they feel ceremonial, and I’m sure I’m entering a temple for the absurdly rich.

Inside, the air is cool, filtered, and expensive.

The gleaming marble lobby stretches wide.

I look up and stare at a glittering cut-gem ceiling.

Embedded lights pulse gently within its geometric patterns, and I’ve never seen a building so breathtaking.

A scent wraps around me, jasmine edged with citrus. The lighting is low and buttery, casting soft gold over mirrored walls and plush velvet seating. There’s no music, but there is sound — the hush of a hidden waterfall, the murmur of clipped accents, the whisper of wheels on polished stone.

Staff materialize without a word. Their uniforms are so crisp they look starched into submission, their smiles rehearsed but not fake. One lifts my carry-on before I can protest.

I don't belong here, but I’m not being asked to leave either. It’s a weird feeling for the little girl whose bed was her granny’s old couch and who never had a bedroom until the day she rented her own apartment.

Claudia hands me a key card. "You're in room 2418. Reece is in 2420, with connecting doors." If she notices that I’m overwhelmed, she’s kind enough to say nothing.

I look at the card, then her. "Adjoining rooms?"

"He thought you might appreciate your own space, given the unusual circumstances. The team has the entire floor."

"So I won't be sharing a room with my husband?" I'm not sure if I'm relieved or offended.

"That's entirely up to you. The connecting doors can be unlocked from either side." Claudia's expression remains neutral; god she’s good. "Reece insisted you have the option of privacy."

Of course he did. Mr. Perfect Gentleman, even when he's brought me halfway around the world after a drunken Vegas wedding and an abrupt introduction to his asshole father.

"Fine. Anything else I need to know tonight?" Exhaustion makes me a little bitchy, and not even the splendor of this hotel can dull my edge.