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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Friday morning I wake feeling brave and good about myself, which is a nice change from the emotional whiplash of the past week.

Last night was soft and strange and maybe the most honest, not-alcohol-fueled connection I've had in years. Reece didn't push. I didn't run. And by the end of the night I understood why Drunk Maiken said, “Yes,” when Drunk Reece asked her to marry him.

Sober Reece is breathtaking.

I glance toward the shared doorway. It's still closed, but not locked. No sound comes from the other side.

Is he asleep? Getting ready? Or maybe he's already at the track and in the car, flying around at breakneck speed.

The thought of seeing him again makes my stomach go all woogie, but in a good way.

Since I can’t decide what to do about us yet, I choose to get dressed.

I open the dresser to rummage through the clothes and discover a bathing suit I hadn't noticed before. It’s a burgundy one-piece with a retro cut that would make Esther Williams proud. It’s modest enough for Qatar and perfect for a morning swim to clear my head.

I slip it on, throw a long cover-up over it, and grab my sunglasses. Before heading out, I scribble a quick note and stick it to the inside of our adjoining doorway:

Gone for a swim. Back soon. -M

Just in case he looks for me. I mean, he's probably busy with race prep and team meetings and whatever, so I don't want to bother him on a workday, but I don't want him to think I've just up and left either.

The hotel pool is a spectacular oasis of azure water surrounded by palm trees and cabanas, already dotted with guests escaping the Qatari heat. I claim a wide, red lounger in partial shade, drop my cover-up, and dive in.

The water is cool silk against my skin, washing away the lingering doubts and questions.

God, I love being in a pool.

For two hours, I swim and float and lounge in the shade. I don’t think about Vegas, my marriage, or other people’s expectations and assumptions. I chill out and remember who I am when I'm not being defined by someone else.

Fucking Cinderella.

Just like Frankie said.

It’s afternoon when I return to the room with damp hair and sun-warmed skin.

Room service arrives with a soft knock and a polished tray holding a salad, sparkling water, a shrimp wrap that’s to die for, and a little white card tucked into another enormous collection of blush-pink roses and tiny yellow blossoms.

It's the fourth bouquet this week, and somehow, that still doesn't make it less surreal.

I pick up the card and laugh.

You married a plonker. —RP 11

I don't know what a "plonker" is, but I figure it's something like "dipshit". Yeah... he kind of is, but he's my plonker, and I like him more than I probably should.

I eat the shrimp wrap (sooo good) and let myself feel happy.

After lunch, I shower and get dressed in something casual and camera-safe with a little bit of a retro vibe. Then, I finally work up the nerve to knock and even ease open the connecting door on Reece’s side of the doorway.

“Speed demon?”

No response, so I step in and look around.

His room is empty. The bed is made. There’s a rinsed coffee cup left upside down to dry beside the sink, a gray sleep shirt and dark blue sleep pants folded neatly over the back of a chair, but no note.

No call.

No Reece.

I stand there for a long beat, unsure what I was expecting.

A knock. A text. A kiss on the cheek and an invite to join him at the track?

Something.

Instead, it’s like last night’s connection never happened. For him.

I shake myself. “God. Don’t be pathetic, Maiken. He has a job to do. I bet none of the WAGs go to these practice things.”

My phone buzzes and I pull it from my pocket. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to hoping it was Reece, but it’s a message from Maria.

Hola! Find us in the Telco lounge if you get bored. Petra’s already beating everyone and it’s not even qualies.

I read it twice.

She’s in the Telco lounge at the paddock with the other WAGs.

I lean back against the door. “Well, fuck.” There goes that theory.

The other wives and girlfriends are at the track. Dressed. Smiling. Part of it. While I’m alone in a hotel suite with another empty meal tray and a fourth flower bouquet from a man who can’t seem to decide whether he’s trying to protect me or hide me.

Maybe he thinks they’re the same thing.

I don’t text back. I just stand there for a while, letting reality settle in and embracing the ache.

Because I get it.

This isn’t my world. Not really. I’m the stray he brought home from Vegas. I wear the wrong clothes, have the wrong résumé, live on the wrong side of the tracks.

As much as I want to believe last night meant something, the cake and closeness and, hell, the way he looked at me, maybe it wasn’t enough to get me a seat beside my husband today.

Hmm. I pull a face.

The thing is, Lear treated me like that. Like I was his little disposable rebellion to be hidden in Vegas while he went home to his wife. So I know what it feels like to be a dirty little secret, and this isn’t that. Which is confusing.

I honestly can’t suss out how Reece feels about me. When we’re together, he’s all attentive and sweet and turning my insides to goo. He sends me flowers. He pays attention to my work. He pays attention to me .

Then this happens. I get left behind.

“So how should I feel?” I pull out my phone and check the time in Vegas. Frankie’s probably at work and the girls are getting ready for their shows. Which means no one to help me unpack that question and this weird-ass situation.

Ugh. This is all so stupid .

I pocket the phone and glance around Reece’s room.

I may as well snoop a little while I’m here.

It’s not something I’m prone to, but this is the man I married.

How else am I going to get to know him and figure out what makes him tick and why I’m still at the fucking hotel today?

I mean, isn’t it my wifely duty to pry into all his deep, dark secrets?

Or at least know what kind of toothpaste he uses?

The answer is Crest. The plain old white paste kind.

The man goes for classics.

This is confirmed by the watches (three of them) I find neatly lined up on his bedside table.

All Swiss and I’m sure all absurdly expensive.

The one he wore last night is among them.

A Bregeut. I pick it up and am surprised by the weight.

It feels masculine, but not in an aggressive way.

It’s solid, elegant, reliable. It feels like something that should be on Reece Prichard’s wrist. I put it back and continue my investigation.

He wears boxer briefs, black only. Sweats and tee shirts with the PNW Nitro mountain logo.

Everything is neatly folded and stored with almost military precision.

In the closet, I find two suits. One is dark gray linen with impeccable tailoring.

The other is a muted mossy green. Both have pale pink linings.

I’m impressed with their quality and his commitment to the team colors.

The man understands the assignment and he’s devoted to the cause.

Devoted. Interesting.

I close the closet door and return to my room.

The ache in my chest is dull and steady now. I’m not mad, not exactly. More… bruised in that stupid, quiet way you can’t explain without sounding melodramatic.

I tidy the lunch tray, top off my fizzy water from the bottle, and grab the remote. If I’m gonna to be stuck here, I might as well watch him drive and see what I wasn’t invited to join.

God, that sounds so middle school I actually roll my eyes at myself.

The screen flares to life with bright colors and glaring lights, a rotating overhead shot of the paddock, and a voiceover from the commentary team.

“...and as we head into sprint qualifying here in Lusail, some surprising tension in the air. All eyes are on PNW Nitro’s Reece Pritchard, currently sitting fifth in the driver’s standings, and struggling today.”

The shot cuts to him walking into the garage, helmet in hand and jaw tight. With him is a tall Black woman with short buzzed hair and imposing biceps. She must be Ona, his physio.

Reece wears his race suit slung low on his hips like he’s about to take the world apart.

God, he looks good. And intense.

“So far this weekend, we’ve seen a little inconsistency,” the commentator continues. “A lockup in FP1, a scruffy sector 2.”

The second wonk adds, “I’d say the tabloid buzz hasn’t helped.”

My stomach twists.

The screen flashes with a split-image graphic:

Reece Pritchard’s Surprise Marriage: distraction or drama?

It shows a godawful Vegas shot — one with me mid-spin, mid-wink, grinning and practically out of my costume.

“Assholes. At least pick something flattering.” I have plenty of glamorous and sexy shots online for them to choose from. “You petty little bitches.”

They cut back to the anchors, both of them doing that diplomatic dance of “we’re not judging, but we’re totally fucking judging.”

“Well, she’s not at the track today,” one of them says. “And people are wondering if this was a moment of passion that’s burning out just as quickly.”

“We all know Reece. Quiet guy. Reserved. This wasn’t exactly a textbook move for him. But this has been a rough season by his standards, and I’d be surprised if the team isn’t asking some pointed questions behind closed doors.”

I mute the TV, but the silence is louder than the commentary was.

I give the screen double middle fingers, then turn the volume back on. Whatever Reece’s world is saying about me, I should hear. It’s time to make notes and take names. Mama didn’t raise me to be a whiny little titty baby who runs from a fight.

Nope. This bitch is a warrior.

I sprawl across the bed and leave the TV on for the rest of qualifying, watching the chaos unfold.

The commentators do their best to sound analytical.

“Reece isn’t quite on rhythm today. Missed the braking point into turn 9 on the second run. We’re not used to seeing that kind of inconsistency from him.”

“Could be a setup issue, but he’s not rotating cleanly. You have to wonder if his head’s fully in it right now.”

“No public appearances for Maiken Pritchard since the Vegas photos. Her absence is… notable.”

I hiss at the screen. “What do you fucking know?”

When Reece crosses the line after the last run, the stats place him in P7 for tomorrow’s sprint start.

Not first. Not even close.

I don’t know much about racing yet, but even I can tell that’s not where Reece Pritchard is supposed to land.

Something inside me goes very still. Whatever this is between us? It’s hitting him too.

I affect him.

And that means I have power. For good or evil.

I mute the broadcast, stand, and stretch — slow and deliberate. Then I reach for a garment I hadn’t planned to wear this weekend.

It’s time to send my husband a message.