Page 25

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Reece can’t head back to the hotel yet. Next up is a ViveLux sponsor photoshoot with Petra.

He tugs his cap lower over his brow as he heads toward the team's transport area. Cameras track him like predators following wounded prey, hoping to catch another reaction shot for Graham's show. He texts Claudia a quick update, so she knows he’s on his way. Media day obligations mean leaving the circuit. It’s another layer of complexity in an already over-scheduled day.

An SUV waits outside the paddock entrance, windows tinted against prying eyes. Petra's already inside, scrolling through her phone with a scowl.

"Took you long enough," she mutters as he slides in beside her and the driver pulls away.

"I was dodging the media." He fastens his seatbelt.

"They're the absolute worst this weekend." She doesn't look up from her phone. "Have you seen what they're saying about Maiken?"

Reece's jaw tightens. "Some of it."

"Total bollocks, all of it." She finally glances up. "Your dad's fingerprints are all over this." She sets her phone down, studying him for a moment. "I have to say, though, your wife was bloody brilliant last night. Worked that sponsor dinner like she'd been doing it for years."

Reece is surprised by the shift in topic. "You noticed that?"

"Hard not to." Petra shrugs. "The way she handled the FuegoFrío people? Impressive. Most newcomers freeze up or try too hard. She was natural."

Reece runs a hand over his face. "I was a complete arse for even taking her to that dinner. Didn't think about what a challenge it would be, throwing her straight into that shark tank."

"Didn't look like much of a challenge for her, though. She adapted quickly."

"She shouldn't have had to adapt at all." He stares out the window at the passing landscape. "I didn't think it through. Just assumed she'd be fine."

"Well, she was more than fine. Give her some credit."

His phone pings with a message from the ViveLux PR coordinator.

Running 15 minutes behind. Wardrobe & creative teams setting up now. Expect 6 outfit changes & 4 activity stations.

He pockets the phone. “ Six changes?"

"Bloody nightmare." Petra rolls her head on her neck. "They wanted eight for me. I told them no more than six or they could go dress a pig."

Reece laughs. God bless Petra Hayter and her ferocity.

Twenty minutes later, they arrive at an upscale fitness center that's been completely shut down for the shoot. Security guards man every entrance, and black screens have been erected over the windows. The sleek, minimalist ViveLux logo adorns temporary barriers.

Inside, the space has been transformed. Each section of the gym is now a distinct photo zone: a row of treadmills backlit with dramatic blue lighting, a weight area with strategically placed mirrors, a boxing corner surrounded by chrome panels, and a stretching zone with stark white fabric.

A swarm of stylists, photographers, lighting technicians, and brand representatives descend upon them immediately.

"There they are!" The creative director is a woman with a buzz cut and a tablet clutched in her hand. She strides forward. "Our champions! We're running behind, so let's get started with wardrobe immediately."

They're whisked to separate areas. Three stylists efficiently strip Reece of his team gear and begin assembling the first look: ViveLux's new "Performance Elite" training shoes, compression shorts, and a technical jacket in PNW Nitro's colors with ViveLux branding prominent on the chest.

"The concept is 'Precision in Motion.'" The creative director appears beside him as the stylists make final adjustments. "We're showcasing how ViveLux technology enhances elite athletic performance, just like in your car."

"Right." Reece forces enthusiasm he doesn't feel.

Petra emerges from her wardrobe area looking equally thrilled, wearing similar gear. "You look like you're enjoying this as much as I am," she mutters as they're positioned on adjacent treadmills.

"Highlight of my day."

"Big smiles!" the photographer calls. "You're athletes at the peak of performance!"

They jog at a carefully controlled pace. Fast enough to look dynamic, slow enough to avoid actual sweat that would require makeup touch-ups.

"I spied Dirt Bag at the press conference." Petra has a gift for chatting through her camera-ready smile.

Flash. Click.

"Perfect! Now look focused, determined!"

"Yeah. With Graham's production team." Reece adjusts his expression to something approximating athletic determination.

Flash. Click.

"Brilliant! Now point to something on your watch like you're checking performance data!"

They both obediently examine their wrists, where prototype ViveLux fitness trackers have been strapped.

"Junior's still got it out for you." Petra keeps her voice low.

"Nothing new there." Damien Betterton, Junior wanted to be a driver but never even made it to F4. He and Reece fought on and off the track more than once as kids, and Reece won every time. Junior hasn’t forgiven him.

"Excellent tension in the jawline! Hold that!"

Flash. Click.

"Wardrobe change!" calls the creative director. "We're moving to strength training!"

They're hustled back to their respective corners.

Stylists descend again, this time outfitting Reece in compression training pants and a sleeveless performance top that strategically highlights his physique.

"Your wife." Petra picks up their conversation as they're positioned at weight stations. "She handling the media bullshit alright today?”

Flash. Click.

"More intensity! You're conquering limits!"

Reece adjusts a dumbbell. "I don't know. Haven't talked to her since last night."

"Now face each other like you're competitive but respectful teammates!"

They turn, assuming the requested pose.

"Warn her, Reece." Petra’s media-trained smile never falters. "Graham's building a narrative. She should know what's coming."

Flash. Click.

"That intensity is perfect! Hold it!"

"I sent flowers," Reece admits.

Petra rolls her eyes. "Flowers. Bloody hell, Reece. She needs information , not roses."

"Boxing station next!" the creative director announces.

Four outfit changes and countless poses later, they're finally in the last setup — stretching poses that showcase ViveLux's new "Flex Tech" apparel line.

Reece feels like a contortionist, holding a hamstring stretch while looking meaningfully at his ViveLux-branded water bottle.

"Last series!" the photographer promises. "Give me determination, focus, excellence!"

Petra executes a perfect lunge while maintaining camera-ready poise. "Pippa Blackwood's doing the Paddock Access one-on-ones today."

"Christ. That shrew?” She's Graham's favorite attack dog.

Flash. Click.

"Amazing chemistry between you two! The competitive respect is tangible!"

Reece’s concern for Maiken is growing by the minute, but he's trapped in this ridiculous performance until the brand team is satisfied.

"That's a wrap!" the creative director finally announces. "Fantastic work, champions. These will be the cornerstone of our spring campaign!"

They head back to wardrobe to change. Reece gratefully pulls on his team gear, feeling more like himself with each familiar item.

Outside the fitness center, they pause on the sidewalk. Security keeps the perimeter clear, but in the distance, camera lenses glint.

"I'm off to the AmberPath cosmetics launch." Petra checks her watch. "Their timing is bloody terrible, but contract obligations..." She shrugs, then pulls out her phone, thumbs moving quickly across the screen.

Reece's phone pings with a notification.

"You might want to see what your wife's been up to, RP.

" Petra's eyes dance with amusement as she nods toward his phone.

Before he can respond, a car pulls up for her.

"Good luck with the rest of the vultures today.” She slides into the back seat.

"And Reece? Your wife's brilliant. Don't cock this up. "

He climbs into his waiting SUV, and as the driver navigates toward the circuit, he checks the link Petra sent.

It's an Instagram post by @MaiLanRouge.

He stares at the screen, pulse quickening. He's purposely avoided looking up her performer account. He wanted to know Maiken Lange before he saw Mai-Lan Rouge's public persona. Wanted his first impressions to be unfiltered by whatever image she projects to her audience.

The photo loads, and Reece's breath catches.

Maiken stands by the window of her hotel room, sunlight gilding her silhouette.

She's draped in black lace that hints at curves without revealing too much, and her pose is both elegant and daring. The massive bouquet of crimson roses he sent her is a prop she’s making the most of as she holds them to her cheek, the deep red blooms a perfect match for her painted lips.

One bare shoulder peeks out, a deliberate tease that manages to be both provocative yet innocent.

Her caption reads:

@MaiLanRouge: Married, not tamed. #MaiLanRouge #CherryBomb #ThisIsBurlesqueBaby

"Chriiist." He can’t look away because she's magnificent. Powerful. Completely owning her narrative.

It’s absolutely a fuck you to Graham.

Also? She’s undoing her husband right here in this SUV without even being present.

Reece scrolls down, seeing the comments explode beneath the image. Most are supportive, even celebratory. A few are predictably crude. Some — from accounts with no profile pictures and generic usernames — are venomous, echoing the worst of what he heard in the press room today.

Unsettled, Reece taps over to her profile and scrolls through older posts. Performance shots in elaborate costumes. Behind-the-scenes glimpses of a sequin-covered workspace. Videos of her rehearsing dance moves that take his breath away with their precision and smoldering power.

There are bloopers that make him chuckle, including one where she slinks across the stage, sexy as hell, feather boa draped over her shoulders.

She lifts her arms and one length of the boa falls, snags in her lipstick, and stays put.

She makes an absurd face, picks the feather free, then rolls her eyes dramatically and throws off the entire boa. Her caption reads:

Apparently “Matte Red Velvet” is actually “Industrial Strength Glue.” Who knew? #MaiLanRouge #ThisIsBurlesqueBaby

This is a woman who knows exactly who she is and makes no apologies for it.

And somehow, inexplicably, she's his wife.

The realization hits him anew, leaving him both awed and terrified because what he sees isn't just beauty or sensuality, it's fierce intelligence and unapologetic confidence.

Qualities that make her exactly the kind of person worth fighting for.

Reece locks his phone, slipping it into his pocket as the SUV approaches the circuit gates.

The image of Maiken with his roses stays with him, a talisman against the coming onslaught. Let Graham and his vultures do their worst. The woman in that photo isn't intimidated by them.

And neither is he.

Back at the paddock, the mental marathon continues. One-on-one media interviews are next, lined up like dominoes, and twenty minutes each. He expects a handful to fish for headlines about his marriage rather than his racing.

Most of the journalists actually play it safe, sticking to sponsor questions, team dynamics, a few softballs about the championship standings. However, when he sits down across from the Paddock Access crew — Graham’s production team — the temperature changes instantly.

Pippa Blackwood is the producer, a woman with glossy hair and hawk-bright eyes. She barely glances at her notes before launching in.

Her smile makes him think of a cartoon shark. Too sharp, too wide. "So, Reece, how does it feel to be married less than a week and already a media sensation?"

He goes for neutral. "I'm here to race. My personal life isn't up for public consumption."

She nods, like she expected that, then pounces.

"Do you think marrying someone from outside the F1 world — someone... less familiar with the pressures involved — could affect your performance this weekend? Especially with Nitro fighting for the Constructor's Championship?"

He leans back and folds his arms across his chest. "My marriage has no bearing on my driving. None whatsoever. I'm completely focused on delivering for the team this weekend."

Pippa’s responding smile is thinner this time. "Some would say it already has. Distractions off track often become mistakes on track."

"Some would say a lot of things. Doesn't make them true."

She shifts tactics, tilting her head sympathetically.

Yeah. Right.

"There’s a lot of conversation online about the suitability of your wife for this life. That she's unprepared for the spotlight and doesn’t understand expectations. Do you worry that she might reflect poorly on Nitro’s brand image if things go badly?"

Every word is polite, measured, and designed to gut him without leaving fingerprints.

Reece doesn’t return her smile. "My wife’s profession places her in the spotlight every night, so I’m confident that she can handle it. Anyone questioning her suitability should look in the mirror before speaking. I don’t question it. Why are they?"

Pippa doesn’t even blink, and the satisfaction glittering behind her eyes is obvious. She’s getting what she came for: tension and drama surrounding his marriage, not on-track performance metrics.

And Graham?

He’ll make sure his team edits the footage to make it worse.

The weight of his own father’s greed presses down on Reece.

Pippa smiles sweetly, but he’s not fooled. "How do you respond to concerns that all of this — the marriage, the pressure — might cost Nitro a title?"

Reece returns her gaze. "I respond by winning, Pippa. Proper results speak for themselves." He stands, unclips his mic, and walks away. He has no time for her toxicity.