Page 17

CHAPTER NINE

The small meeting room feels like a jewel box and gives curated calm vibes that I’m not sure I should trust. Its walls are paneled in cream silk and dark wood with inlaid gold detailing that catches the soft glow of recessed lighting.

A lacquered table anchors the room. It’s sleek enough for high-stakes negotiations and is surrounded by elegant leather chairs. An arrangement of white orchids sits in the center.

Coy Hayter is at the far end when Claudia escorts me in. He's reviewing something on a tablet, but he stands as I approach.

“Ladies, good morning.” He has a pleasant British accent and a deep voice.

He's older than Reece, early fifties maybe, with a neat beard and brunet hair that's gone silver at the temples. His dark green polo and khakis somehow look sharper than business casual should allow.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Ms. Lange. Or would you prefer I call you Mrs. Pritchard or…?”

"Maiken. Please. Thanks."

He nods. “And please call me Coy. Everyone else does.” He takes his time with what he says, which I like.

We shake hands, and his grip is firm but not bone crushing.

Coy gestures to the chair kitty-corner to his. "Will you sit?"

I do, smoothing my hand over the dove gray cashmere sweater set that hides my body.

The cardigan’s buttoned just enough to be modest and paired with tailored cream trousers that hang straight from hip to ankle and make me hate myself.

I flat-out rejected the damn nude heels the concierge provided, instead going with my trusty brown-and-white Mary Janes.

They mean business without implying the wrong kind of work.

I'm also wearing my own lacy thong because I needed some rebellion to preserve my soul beneath all this fucking compromise.

My eyeliner's sharp, my lipstick's a dark red closer to wine than blood, and my hair is pinned back in a clean twist that took three tries to get right.

My only jewelry is a delicate gold chain with a tiny pearl pendant that sits at the hollow of my throat.

And the wedding ring, of course. The whole ensemble whispers "corporate wife" or "diplomat's daughter" — elegant, expensive, and utterly forgettable. It’s so not me.

I doubt I’m fooling anyone. I look like painted roadkill because I’m still that jet-lagged, but Coy doesn’t seem like the judgy sort. His focus is sharp, but not unfriendly.

Claudia takes a seat at the table and places her phone in the center. “This will be recorded and I’ll send you a copy of the audio file for your records, Maiken.” She meets my gaze. “That’s standard team protocol.”

Really?

"First, let me be clear." Coy folds his hands on the table.

"I'm not here to interrogate you. You are not on trial. This meeting is simply to make sure you're informed of the team’s expectations for our drivers’ partners, to answer any questions you might have, and to offer any assistance that you may require. "

That’s surprisingly respectful. I nod cautiously. "Okay."

He considers me for a moment before continuing. He’s probably figuring me out right quick. The clothes ain’t foolin’ the man. "You and Reece are legally married under the laws of Nevada. That marriage is valid internationally. There’s no easy undo button, only an annulment or divorce."

"That’s what I thought."

"Now, normally, teams get very nervous when a driver makes a major personal decision mid-season. Especially something that could affect focus or public image."

I brace for the next part, where he says I'm a liability.

"However, Nitro's position is that your marriage is Reece's business, not ours. As long as it doesn't negatively impact his performance, we will support him, and by extension, you."

I blink, thrown. "That's… not what I expected."

His mouth quirks into the ghost of a smile. "That's because most people think F1 is a snake pit."

"Is it?"

"Sometimes." His gaze sharpens. "But not in my garage."

I relax a fraction.

"Now, that said, there are certain realities you'll face, Maiken.”

There’s goes that moment of Zen. "Like the press?"

"Exactly. They're going to dissect your life. Your past performances. Your appearance. Your expressions. Your words and deeds. You will be judged, usually unfairly, by people who’ve never met you."

"Sounds great." My right foot is bouncing, so I uncross my legs and plant my feet firmly on the floor.

Coy chuckles. "It's brutal. But it’s survivable."

I nod. That must be true, since I’m not the first woman to run the gauntlet.

"You also need to know if you choose to stay married to Reece, you will become part of the circus. Even if you don't attend every race, you’ll be seen as a representative of the team."

"A WAG."

He grimaces. "I hate that term, Wife and Girlfriend . Like you're accessories. You're not. You're people. Important ones to the drivers who count on you."

I look down and twist the ring on my finger. It feels strange and heavy. "What if I decide I want an annulment?"

"Then we'll support that, too." Coy’s voice is rock solid. "We'll protect your privacy as much as possible."

I match his even gaze. “No hit pieces? No smear campaigns?"

"Not from Nitro. I can't control the rest of the paddock, Maiken, but you have my word that you’ll be treated fairly by this team."

I exhale hard. "Thank you."

He sits back in his chair, studying me again. Not the way a predator sizes up prey, but the way a good coach studies a new recruit, and I’m pretty sure he’s trying to figure out where my potential lies.

"You're stronger than you think, Maiken."

I scoff. "You don't know me."

"I don't need to. You stood your ground with Graham Pritchard. That tells me you have backbone."

I flashback to that fucking shitshow of a morning. The way I told Graham exactly where he could shove it. It’s not much, but it’s something. “Helluva a way to start my day.”

Coy hmph’s then stands, and I rise with him. Claudia follows.

"One last thing, Maiken. Whatever you decide, decide for you. Not for him, and not for us." He gestures for us to precede him to the door. "If you stay, make sure it's because you want to, not because you feel obligated."

We reach the door and he shakes my hand again.

"I appreciate that, Coy." Thank god my voice is steady. I like this man. He’s actually treating me like a goddamn adult.

And that?

That’s worth more than all the diamond rings in Vegas.

Claudia gives me a brief, assessing look as I fall into step beside her in the hallway. It feel less like judgment and more like data gathering. I imagine she does that with everything. "You handled that well."

I snort under my breath. "Thanks. I think."

As we wait for the elevator, she consults her tablet and I consult my conscience. When the doors open, we step inside. I watch my reflection in the closing chrome. We’re alone, and I glance sideways at her.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"You've known Reece for a while now, right?"

"Four years. Since he signed with Nitro.” She taps her tablet once before locking the screen and sliding it into her portfolio. Her full attention shifts to me.

"What kind of man is he? When nobody's looking?"

She considers this carefully, and I think she’s not used to answering personal questions.

After a beat, she says, "He's loyal. Principled.

Stubborn, and sometimes too hard on himself.

Reece is fiercely protective of the people he cares about.

" She watches me, her expression unreadable. "He’s not perfect, Maiken. None of them are. But if he’s chosen you, he didn't do it lightly. "

I nod, absorbing that. It fits with what I've already seen.

"He doesn't let many people in. But once you're part of his inner circle, he’ll always be there for you."

We reach the lobby and step from the elevator.

A small group of women waits near a cluster of armchairs, three glamorous ladies, standing out even against the glittering backdrop of the hotel.

Claudia touches my arm. "Come. I'll introduce you."

We approach, and she gestures to each woman. "Lina Sutton, Gudrun Vehls, Maria Almodóvar. This is Reece’s wife, Maiken."

I brace for impact. Doubtless they know my brief and sordid history with F1, and have sharpened their knives, claws, and teeth. I’m fresh meat wrapped in useless armor, dove gray cashmere.

Lina is impossible to miss. She’s tall and elegant with sleek dark hair pulled into a glossy low ponytail.

She wears tailored white trousers, a pale blue silk blouse, and strappy sandals that in a previous life — like two days ago — I’d’ve shanked a bitch for.

She steps forward first, offering her hand with a warm, genuine smile that shocks the shit outa me. "Maiken. It's wonderful to meet you."

I shake her hand, grateful for the calm steadiness she projects, and feel the other two women sizing me up — not unkindly, but with the careful curiosity of women who have seen a lot and trust little at face value.

One is tall and striking, with straight platinum blonde hair and a simple structured navy dress.

The other is petite, all curves and smile, wearing a black pantsuit with silver flowers embroidered down one side and enormous gold hoop earrings that brush her shoulders.

"Welcome to the madness," Gudrun says, her German accent crisp. She’s the platinum goddess.

The other woman, Maria, clasps my hand. "We are so excited to meet you!" She’s all sunshine and fizz and I swear she’s a human Italian soda, except she’s Argentinian. But you get the idea.

Claudia gives me an encouraging nod before stepping back. "You're in good hands now."

And just like that, I'm swept into their orbit.

I'm hyper-aware of my appearance. My outfit is definitely not me, and standing next to these women, I feel like I wandered into a Vogue editorial by mistake.