Page 26

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I'm still fiddling with the card and staring at the impossibly perfect roses when my phone buzzes on the table. Then buzzes again. And again.

Shit. Three rapid notifications never equals good news.

Cold grips my ribs and crawls across my scalp as I grab the phone and unlock the screen.

It's a group chat lighting up like Christmas.

Delilah:

Girl, you seeing this??

It’s always girl with her.

Yasmine:

Oh my god, MAI. You need to sit down.

Delilah:

GIRL. CALL US WHEN YOU CAN!

Yasmine:

Holy shit it's everywhere.

I respond:

WHAT’S everywhere?!

Delilah:

Girl, we're following all the F1 fan pages now. They just aired part of a press conference. Reece shut it DOWN.

Yasmine:

He was . Defended you like a freaking knight.

Delilah:

BUT... heads up, girl. The media is talking SHITE

I swipe over to a link she sent. It’s a clipped video, grainy, already overlaid with bright red commentary banners.

The footage is from Vegas.

It shows Reece and me stumbling down a hallway, laughing, his hand on my waist. In another clip, we’re standing too close in the speakeasy at the bar, my head tipped back, laughing again. Innocent, but so fucking easy to twist.

The header and subhead with the video are brutal:

Reece Pritchard Ensnared by Stripper After Vegas Grand Prix.

Sources claim the PNW Nitro driver blindsided family and team with reckless drunken marriage.

I sit back hard against the chair, heart thudding as I remember what Reece said about Graham.

“He controls a majority of the F1 media coverage you see, and he’s a real piece of shit.”

Yeah. Okay. I guess he wasn’t exaggerating.

Yasmine:

They're painting you as some gold-digging villainess.

Delilah:

We got your back, girl. Let us know if you need anything.

I squeeze the phone until my knuckles go white.

OK. I will. Thx, girlies.

This feels surreal, like watching some fictional character get torn apart for the sake of a better story.

But also? I knew this was coming.

I look at the diamonds on my finger. I didn’t seduce Reece for this ring. I didn’t hatch some scheme to get his money and fame.

I met a man. I made a choice. A decision with consequences that keep unfolding before me on a path I never saw coming and have no idea where it leads.

Now, I’m the predator because that lie sells better than the truth. I exhale a shaky fucking breath and set the phone down.

What I can’t understand — what gnaws at the edge of my mind — is why ?

Why is Graham Pritchard — my freakin’ father-in-law — hellbent on painting me as the monster? Why is he so desperate to control his adult son's life that he’d twist something beautiful into a weapon?

I don’t understand that kind of love.

I don’t understand that kind of hate , either.

And I'm not sure which one scares me more.

I pick up my phone again and tap the message thread I have with Reece.

I start typing.

So your dad's camp is stirring up shit online. Clips from Vegas are everywhere. They're?—

I stop and stare at the half-formed message. What am I doing?

Reece has enough on his plate. He's preparing for one of the last races of the season. He's under a microscope already because of me. Expecting him to deal with this crap right now is selfish and kinda childish.

My phone lights up with an incoming video call from Frankie.

I check the time — it's the middle of the night in Vegas. She's on night shift at the prison.

I answer quickly. "Mom? Everything okay?"

Her face fills the screen, the harsh fluorescent lights of the prison medical office casting shadows under her eyes. She's in her navy-blue scrubs, short hair slicked back today.

"I'm on my break," she whispers, then her eyes narrow. "Have you read what they're posting about you? I just saw it all while doom scrolling.”

I slump farther down in my chair. "Yeah. Just saw it too."

"What bullshit." She glances over her shoulder, probably making sure her supervisor doesn’t hear her cussing. "Complete and utter bullshit . Do not let it get to you, baby."

"I'm trying not to."

Her head cocks and she studies me through the screen, her nurse's assessment gaze in full effect despite the thousands of miles between us. "Are you okay, Mai?"

"I'm..." I almost say 'fine,' but this is Frankie. She'd see through that in a heartbeat. "I don't know what I am. This is all so bizarre."

"Do you need to come home?" She shifts, the phone screen momentarily showing drop ceiling panels before refocusing on her face. "Just say the word and I'll figure something out."

The unspoken part hangs between us: she'd go into debt for plane tickets if I needed her to. That's what she's always done, stretched herself too thin for me. Just like Gran did for her.

"No, Mom. I'm okay. Just processing."

She nods, but her eyes are still worried. "That boy treating you right?"

"Yeah." I smile despite everything. "He is. He's different than I expected."

"Different good?"

"I think so." I fiddle with that big sparkly ring. "He sent me roses."

Frankie's eyebrows arch. "Again? How many damn roses does one man need to send?"

"Apparently a lot." I laugh and turn the phone camera to show her the massive arrangement by the window.

"Jay-sus." She whistles low. "That's not roses, that's a whole damn garden."

"I know, right?"

A muffled announcement sounds in the background. Frankie glances up, then back at me. "Gotta go, baby. Time for the med pass. I'll text you on my next break if you're still up."

"I will be. Time zones are weird."

"And Mai?" Her expression softens. "Don't you dare let those assholes define you. You know exactly who you are. Fuckin’ Cinderella."

The screen goes dark before I can respond, but I laugh.

God, I’m so damned lucky to have a mother like Frankie.

She would shank a bitch in a heartbeat for me, even knowing the consequences.

Of course, she’d probably also save the bitch’s life afterward.

That’s my mom, formidable with an oversized heart.

I stare at my phone, cursor still blinking in that unfinished text to Reece.

I delete it, then type:

Good luck tomorrow. You've got this.

But I stare at that message, too, because what the fuck do I know about what he does and doesn’t have?

Reece has practice sessions and qualifying... and other stuff, probably, but I’ve never experienced a race weekend.

I barely know what he does. Other than drive a ridiculously fast car and make my stomach do stupid backflips when he smiles at me.

The thought sends something sliding down my spine.

Drunk Maiken trusted Reece Pritchard enough to marry him. Sober Maiken? She still isn't sure if she trusts herself .

I sigh and delete the second message too.

Instead of going back to sewing, I open my laptop and type into the search bar: Reece Pritchard F1 . It’s time for me to learn as much as I can about the man I married.

The results flood my screen — Reece standing atop his dark green and pink Nitro car, victorious; Reece beside mangled carbon fiber wreckage, somehow unscathed; Reece on podiums, champagne soaking his hair and that rare, unguarded smile on his face.

Reece with Peony, but far fewer photos than I’d feared.

He’s earned eight wins, twenty-one pole positions, fourteen fastest laps, and forty-nine podiums.

Impressive numbers that prove he belongs among the elite, but not so dominant that the pressure ever eases. His success hasn’t come easily. He’s fought for every point, every position, and by all accounts, this year’s been particularly tough.

I take it all in and realize Reece isn't just a driver. He's a fighter.

Wrapping my head around that makes my chest ache in a way I wasn't prepared for.

It’s suddenly, blindingly obvious how much he’s risked to tether himself to me, a woman he barely knew outside of one stupid, drunken night in Las Vegas.

I close the tab on his race stats, but there's more here, I feel it. The pieces don't quite fit. His father's hostility, Reece's quiet determination, that moment of vulnerability when he mentioned his mother.

I take a deep breath and type: Pritchard family Formula 1 history .

The search results load, and I’m Alice falling down the rabbit hole into darkness I wasn’t prepared for but can't look away from.

There’s Reece — quiet, consistent, polished. From a grinning gap-toothed boy to the intense man I’m trying to understand.

Then there’s his younger brother, Wyn. A small, wild haired wild child who grew into a handsome tattooed menace.

The articles make it clear who’s the favored son without even trying to hide it. Wyn’s performance record mirrors Reece’s, but his driving style is described as aggressive to the edge of reckless. Brilliant when it works. Catastrophic when it doesn't.

Graham Pritchard — the patriarch — made sure Wyn had a seat, buying into WolfBett Racing just to guarantee his younger son's career.

Because when you have enough money and ruthless ambition, you can bend the whole world into giving your golden boy what he wants.

But Reece?

He clawed his way forward with nothing but raw talent and the sheer stubborn refusal to be overlooked.

I find articles about Graham’s ugly divorce from Sheyna Pritchard, Reece and Wyn’s mother.

The boys were barely teens. There are stories about Graham smearing Sheyna’s reputation, portraying her as emotionally unstable and unfit to raise them.

It’s how he gained custody and moved the boys to Europe to chase his racing dreams.

The more I read, the worse it gets.

There are whispers — never proven, never shouted too loudly — about the mental and emotional pressure both boys lived under. The "high expectations." The "ruthless drive for perfection."

The Pritchard boys endured demands that bordered on abuse, but no one really questioned Graham’s methods because the results were trophies and, ultimately, two seats on F1 teams.

Winning makes everything look prettier from the outside.

Somewhere along the way though, Reece started cutting the ties.

He hired his own physio — Onalerona Kenyatta — against his father's wishes. It was a quiet act of rebellion, and a crack in the wall Graham tried to build around his elder son.

It was probably the first real step toward freedom Reece ever had.

I sit back on the couch, stunned.

Wow. Am I an asshole for accusing him of making me a tool in his “daddy porn” revenge flick?

Yeah. I am.

“Fuck, I’m a clueless dipshit.” If I’d know who Reece really was and had any clue about his history, I would’ve known that’s not what he was doing Sunday night and Monday morning.

I wasn’t revenge. I was salvation .

This isn’t just rich family drama staring at me from the screen. It’s surviving a lifetime of pressure most people would’ve broken under.

Reece Pritchard is stubborn, careful, scarred, and still standing.

Still smiling that stupid, beautiful smile.

Still offering me his heart when he could’ve kept everyone shut out forever.

I rub my hands over my face, the weight of his truth settling into my bones.

If I stay and give this marriage a real chance, it won't be just about surviving the press or the paddock. It'll be about surviving a legacy that was built to grind people into dust.

And right now?

I have no idea if I'm strong enough to survive it with him.