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CHAPTER SEVEN

QATAR GRAND PRIX | WEDNESDAY

Gentle knocking jolts me awake and I bolt upright, momentarily disoriented as sunlight streams through a gap in curtains I don't recognize. For a heartbeat, I'm back in that hotel room in Vegas.

Then reality crashes into my brain.

Qatar. Another hotel suite. A wedding ring still on my finger.

The knocking sounds again. It's coming from the connecting door, not the hallway entrance.

"Maiken?" His voice is muffled through the wood. "Are you awake?"

My heart does a stupid little flippity-flop at the sound of his voice.

Sit still, you damn fool thing.

I swing my legs off the bed, and pad toward the door, but I don't open it.

"Yeah, I'm awake." I rest my palm against the cool wood. "What time is it?"

"Quarter to eight. I know you're meeting with Coy later."

"Right."

A pause stretches between us, awkward even through the barrier.

"Can we talk?" he finally asks. "Just for a moment?”

I lean my forehead against the cold door. The wood is a barrier between us that’s both too thick and not nearly thick enough. It seems like a metaphor for something. "I'm not sure what there is to say."

"A lot, actually, but I'll settle for 'good morning' for now."

A small smile tugs at my lips despite the confusion of our situation, the whirlwind of yesterday, the lingering fury about his father’s absolute assholery. There's something disarming about this man’s patience. "Good morning, Reece."

"Good morning, Maiken." The way he says my name, with that slight emphasis on the first syllable, makes my breath do something stupid.

Another pause. I imagine him on the other side, maybe leaning against the door just like I am.

"Why do you want to stay married to me, Reece?” The question bursts out of me. "You barely know me."

He exhales, and I swear I can feel it through the door. "I don't have a great answer for that."

"Try anyway."

"Because..." He hesitates. "You remind me there's a whole world outside of F1. It's something I'd rather lost track of."

I frown. "What does that mean?"

"It means I've been living in this bubble for so long, I'd forgotten what it's like to just... be a person. Not a driver, not Graham Pritchard's son, not PNW Nitro's investment. Just Reece." His voice drops lower. "With you, for those few hours, that's who I got to be. Just me."

"So I'm what, your pressure valve?"

"No. God, no." He sounds frustrated. "My father’s controlled every aspect of my life and Wyn's since we were kids. Racing, training, diet, friends, appearance, relationships — fucking everything . Hiring Ona, my physio, and Branca as my manager were my first real steps toward independence."

I cross my arms. “And I’m step three in Reece Pritchard's twelve-step program?"

"No."

"That's it? Just 'no'?"

"I don't have the right words, Mai." The nickname catches me off guard. Even through the door, there's a raw honesty in his voice that makes me pause. "I know how this looks. I know it's crazy. But when I'm with you, something just fits . I haven't felt that in a long time. Maybe never."

I don't know what to do with that. It's either the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me or the most elaborate line I've ever heard.

There’s a sound like a tinny bell. An alarm. "Shit. I have to go." The sound stops abruptly. "Sponsor obligations. Do you want me to be there for your meeting with Coy?"

"No." I answer quickly. "I need to do this myself."

"Okay. Yeah, that’s fair." He pauses. "Mai, whatever you decide... I'll support it."

I trace the door’s wood grain with my gaze as if I could see through it to his expression. "Even if I want an annulment?"

The silence that follows seems to stretch forever.

“Yeah. Even that.” The words come out strained.

That admission cost him something; it was in his voice, a subtle pause after "even." What exactly is he giving up by offering me this freedom?

Reece adds, "It’d be brilliant if you’d at least give me a chance to show you Vegas wasn't just the alcohol talking."

Before I can respond, he says, "I have to go. Claudia will take good care of you. I'll see you later, if you want."

Hinges squeak and a door latch clicks. There’s another one on his side that he’s closed. I press my ear to mine and hear the thud of another door shutting as he leaves his room.

I stand there, ear pressed to wood, and close my eyes against some strangely hollow feeling. Is that disappointment? Why? This is what I wanted, right? Space to think? Room to breathe and time to sort my priorities?

Sighing, I push off the door, cross to the windows, and pull the curtains fully open.

Sunlight floods the room, and I gasp at the view of turquoise water and a marina filled with pristine super yachts under the bluest sky I’ve ever seen.

I drink it all in, then step back and peek into the suite’s living room.

On the table by the window, is something I didn’t notice last night.

Flowers. Okay, no, not just flowers. This is a gigantic stunning arrangement of peach roses interspersed with sprigs of smaller star-shaped yellowish-white flowers that fill the air with an intoxicating fragrance.

They're displayed in a fluted green glass vase with a bright pink ribbon wrapped around it and tied in an elaborate bow.

This is nothing like the shitty, wilting grocery store carnations Lear brought me after our first fight. (That cheap motherfucker.)

A small card nestles among the stems. I pluck it out and read the simple message:

I'm sorry for everything that happened with my father. You deserve better. —Reece

My stomach does something squidgy that should worry me, but I’m distracted (or deliberately ignoring it). I touch the satiny rose petals, then lean in and inhale deeply. They smell heavenly.

Oh my god, I love roses. Did I tell him that during our night together or was this a good guess? Doesn't matter. These are fucking gorgeous, and I'm gonna enjoy the hell out of receiving them. In my twenty-four years, I've rarely received flowers and never a bouquet like this.

I mean, with this, Reece Pritchard put a check mark on the plus side of his balance sheet.

Okay, yes, maybe I can be bought. Just a little bit. I'm not immune to genuine apologies, especially when they come wrapped in petals instead of bullshit and excuses.

Reluctantly, I step back. I need a shower and I need to unpack and hang up a few things and do my hair and makeup and eat something. I unzip my suitcase and open the closet door to grab a hanger, and stop short.

The closet isn't empty. Not even close.

Hanging in neat rows are dresses, blouses, pants, and even a few light sweaters in my size.

The styles are elegant but not flashy, in colors that will complement my complexion.

Below them sits a neat row of shoeboxes containing flats, sandals, stilettos.

On the shelf above are jewel toned silk scarves and pashminas.

I slide open a drawer in a nearby dresser to find neatly folded bras, panties, stockings, pajamas. All with tags still attached. Some practical, some definitely not. Everything screams quality and expensive .

Branca must have arranged this. I grab my phone and text her:

Just discovered the clothes. Thank you so much.

Thank your husband. That was Reece's idea. I just helped with sizing.

I stare at the text, unsure how to feel. Is this generosity or control? Thoughtfulness or a sign he's embarrassed by how I dress?

My phone buzzes again. This time it's Reece. She must’ve texted him.

Hope the clothes are OK. Asked the concierge to work with Branca to get you some things. I'm not trying to control you. She mentioned you don't have clothes for Qatar.

As if he could sense my uncertainty.

I glance back at the closet, then at the flowers, then finally at the ring still on my finger. This man is a puzzle I can't quite figure out, and I'm not sure if I want to walk away from it or solve it.

I stare at my phone screen, typing and deleting several responses before settling on:

Thank you for the clothes & flowers.

My finger hovers over the send button before I hit it. I hesitate, watching the ellipsis that shows he's typing, then I quickly add:

I'll let you know what I decide after meeting with Coy.

His response to that is immediate.

That's all I can ask for. Good luck.

Three dots appear, then disappear. Then nothing more.

I set the phone down, unpack my few things, and decide on an outfit. When I step into the bathroom, I’m stunned again.

Floor-to-ceiling marble stretches in every direction, soft white veined with silver and gold. Not fake gold, either. The real, reflective kind that catches the light and throws it back at you like it’s got something to prove. The walls glisten. Even the damn towel racks gleam.

An enormous freestanding tub sits in its own recess. It’s pure white, sculpted like art, with a gold floor-mounted faucet that looks engineered for both function and flex. On the opposite side of the room, a rainfall shower looms behind a sheet of glass so clear I almost walk straight into it.

There’s a marble vanity with raised crystal sink basins, white flowers, and fluffy white towels stacked with precision.

Plush robes hang on the wall with matching slippers below.

The scent in the air is a mix of sandalwood and whatever it is rich people always seem to smell like — clean, expensive, just a little smug.

If this is where I’m supposed to wash off Vegas, I think I’ll need extra time.

I pad closer to the tub and run my fingers along the spotless rim. Christ. It looks like it’s never been used. Do they, like, throw out the tub after each guest?

I glance up at the room’s huge mirror and consider my reflection. I look tired and a little lost, a trespasser in someone else's amazing life.

“Well, okay then.”

I exhale, roll my shoulders back, and start the water. If they’re gonna let me borrow this world for a minute, I might as well soak in it.

I peel off yesterday's travel clothes, settle into the lap of luxury with a very appreciative groan, and lounge in the gloriously deep tub. I need to sort through my tangled emotions, and this feels like just the right place to do it.

Can I trust Reece? Is it okay to feel gratitude for what he’s done?

I’m not gonna lie to myself and say there’s no attraction.

The man’s gorgeous and thoughtful and generous .

But all of that leaves me feeling more confused because Sober Maiken is questioning everything Drunk Maiken felt one-hundred-ten-percent certain about.

I went from being a burlesque dancer with a hangover to a wife of a Formula 1 driver in a luxury hotel in Qatar, staring at haircare products that I definitely can’t get at Vons in Henderson, Nevada.

“Gah!” I close my eyes and slip under the water. My brain is useless. I need food and I need time. I resurface, wipe my eyes, and grab the shampoo. The truth is, I’m not gonna make a decision about this marriage today. Sober Maiken just doesn’t have enough information to make a smart choice.

And I can’t dismiss Drunk Maiken’s instincts either.