Page 39

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Reece is floored when he sees Maiken.

She’s bloody distracting. Not because she dressed inappropriately, but because she’s completely unforgettable.

Her dress is black with a high neck and semi-transparent panels that hint at just the right amount of skin without triggering a diplomatic crisis.

It hugs her body in a way he definitely appreciates.

Her hair is pulled into a ponytail and the metal barrettes he gave her glitter like she’s been crowned with a constellation.

The single silver cuff he wrapped around her wrist is perfect, and he really needs to tip the stylist properly.

Her open-toed stilettos look like the kind of thing Mai would wear to walk straight through a battlefield and not miss a step.

She meets his gaze with a look that says, Say something stupid. I dare you.

He doesn’t. Nope. No way. Instead, he offers her his arm and wonders how she ever thought he considered her an embarrassment.

The AetherX party is everything he expected — stark and saturated in equal parts.

Up-lit panels along matte black walls. Modern art installations hovering in midair.

Staff wearing slate-gray suits with AetherX's neon-accented logo along their lapels.

The music is clean and bass-heavy, and the drinks glitter under spotlights.

The earthy resinous scent of oud permeates the room.

Reece doesn’t miss a beat as they walk in, but he feels every eye land on them. This time he knows Maiken is armed and ready.

He feels proper chuffed, until he notices Graham’s crew working the room.

There’s a flash of a shoulder rig and a glint of branded lanyards, nothing worrisome.

Except the man himself is holding court near the gallery wall, a champagne flute in one hand, the other gesturing expansively as if the conversation needs more room to contain his ego.

Behind him, his film crew is already panning toward the entrance.

Of course he brought the cameras.

The thing is, if AetherX granted access, Reece can’t override it. Not without violating his own media clause, the one Graham negotiated years ago.

Maiken clocks it too, but her spine stays straight and her expression doesn’t change.

Petra floats past them with two AetherX executives flanking her, laughing like she owns the air. She sees the cameras, notices Reece and Maiken drawing their focus, and she pivots immediately, positioning herself between them and the biggest lens.

It’s a good move, but it doesn’t work. The camera ops just reposition for another shot.

Graham approaches them minutes later, casual and crocodile-slick. “Reece. You always clean up well.” He eyes the cuff on Maiken’s wrist, then her whole look. “Did you two coordinate, or is that just animal instinct?”

Reece ignores him.

Maiken turns toward him slowly. “Good evening, Graham.”

Graham’s smile stretches. “I’ve been meaning to catch up with you, Ms. Lange. Though I must admit, I expected your dress to be a little more on-brand.”

The bait lands hard on the floor between them.

Maiken tilts her head. “Oh? What brand is that?”

Reece holds his breath.

His father’s jaw tightens. She’s backed him into a wall of his own making.

Behind them, the camera crew pretends not to catch the moment, but they definitely do.

Graham pivots back toward Reece. “You know this whole redemption arc only plays if she behaves.”

Reece understands every layered insult behind that sentence. Especially, behaves , like Mai’s an unruly mutt that slipped her leash and piddled in the corner. “Look, she isn’t the problem. You just don’t know what to do with a woman who rejects the approved script. Right?”

His father’s mouth twitches, not into a smile, but something uglier. Satisfaction .

Graham knows exactly what he’s doing. Reece won’t make a scene in front of the AetherX execs and under the subtle eye of every lens in the room. Not when this entire event could be repackaged into a B-roll montage for Paddock Access by tomorrow morning.

Reece doesn’t trust himself to continue because there’s no middle ground with Graham anymore. Diplomacy has failed, which leaves only the nuclear option.

His father is taking advantage of that. As long as Reece doesn’t detonate, Graham will keep pressing the button, over and over, knowing his son will absorb every hit and swallow the damage whole.

This makes brilliant telly.

So now, Maiken is the target, and Reece is forced to smile through clenched teeth while the man who long ago claimed a stake in his image drops napalm into the open air like it’s harmless.

Until his wife reminds him that she’s got her own warhead as she turns toward Graham with the kind of composure that makes people go quiet.

“I’ve been called many things, Graham Pritchard. Dancer, teacher, now wife.” She speaks with precision. “But you’re the only man who’s ever barged into my husband’s bedroom, looked me in the eye, and assumed I’d been paid to be there.”

Graham goes still.

The silence around them tightens as everyone pays attention.

“I didn’t ask your son for anything last Sunday night.

Not a dollar. Not a ring. Not even his last name.

” Her smile is surgical. “You assumed I was a whore, because it was easier than admitting he might’ve seen something in me that didn’t come with a receipt.

Which says more about you than it does about me, doesn't it?”

Reece doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.

The people around them — the AetherX handlers, the media crew, even Petra across the room — heard every word.

Graham tries to recover with a dismissive scoff, but Maiken’s already turned away, her fingers laced with Reece’s.

This time, she’s not the one walking out. Graham is. He nods once, the corner of his mouth pulling tight. Then he walks away, diminished. For now.

The crowd seems to exhale around them, but Reece feels the phantom weight of cameras still tracking him and Maiken, the subtle shift in conversations as people pretend they weren't listening and won’t spend the night dissecting every word.

The party continues its glossy rhythm, but the shine is slightly tarnished thanks to Graham.

Reece leads his wife two rooms deeper into the party, finally exhaling when his father is further removed. They’re surrounded by mirrored displays and drinks poured from fog. He turns to her, unvented fury burning a hole in his chest. “You good?”

Maiken meets his gaze. “That was nothing.” She rests her hand on his cheek. “Let it go. He’s not telling our story anymore, remember?”

Reece nods, but letting that shit fall away isn’t so easy when it’s all you’ve known from your father.

"C'mon, let's go someplace quiet." He grabs her hand and leads her out onto a balcony. It's not the main one everyone's crowding for photos, but a smaller one off the side terrace, away from the cameras and ambient noise. They step through a glass divider to a lounge jutting out over the marina.

Doha’s November night wraps around them, cool but not crisp, carrying the faint salt tang of the Persian Gulf on the breeze.

Below, the water laps against the building's foundation, a rhythmic whisper that competes with the thrum of bass from the party.

City lights shimmer across the dark water like scattered coins, and somewhere in the distance, a boat's horn sounds low and mournful.

Soft lighting. Minimalist couches. A glowing edge to the glass railing that mirrors the horizon. The lounge is sleek and calm and mostly deserted. It’s the kind of space designed to make you forget your worries.

Maiken inhales deeply as the night air moves the hem of her dress.

Reece leans close, catching her ginger perfume mixing with the salt breeze. "You want to disappear?"

"No. I want to cool off, and drink something that burns."

"I can accommodate you."

She smiles and moves to the railing. Her dress catches the light in soft pulses, the silver and gold in her hair glittering like the stars above.

The party's laughter bleeds through the glass walls, sharp bursts of conversation punctuated by the clink of crystal and the occasional flash of camera strobes that reflect briefly on the windows before disappearing.

"Be right back." Reece touches her waist, then heads for a bar that's tucked beneath an arch of light and steel, leaving her silhouetted against the glowing rail, the vast Qatar night spread out behind her like a dream.

He orders two drinks — hers with heat, his clean and clear. The bartender recognizes him but doesn't fawn, which is a relief. Reece waits quietly, eyes on the skyline, already cataloguing what he wants to say to his wife. Ice clatters in the shaker and against glass.

A voice cuts through the night behind him. It's too familiar and far too smooth, slicing through the ambient calm like a blade.

"Hell of a dress."

The words strike Reece’s spine like a match and he turns to see Junior Betterton standing too close to Maiken. Body angled in, his lazy predator smirk is on full display. Obviously, he thinks the moment is his to control.

She turns, slow and deliberate, and faces him head-on.

Reece sees the shift as her shoulders relax. Her weight is balanced, not defensive, but calculated. His wife knows how to protect herself.

DBJ says something too low for him to make out, but Mai’s chin lifts. She doesn’t step back or cower, though. Instead, she tilts her head like she’s sizing up a stain on a bathroom wall.

Then her voice rings out: “Yes, I remember you, Mr. Betterton. You left bruises on my wrist.”

Junior laughs, as if she just shared some inside joke. “Bet you enjoyed it though. Girls like you always do.”

“No.” Her tone is deadly. “And if you touch me again, I’ll put a heel through your foot and smile while you bleed.”

Dirt Bag laughs. “Fiery.” He reaches for her, but Maiken slaps his hand away.

Reece’s blood boils over as he stalks across the balcony. “Stay the fuck away from my wife, Betterton.”

Junior’s head snaps his way and the prat steps back. “Down, boy. We’re just having a chat.”

Reece gets between Mai and the predator. “You have no business being at this event.”

“I’m working, asshole.”

“Not here, you're not. This isn’t exactly your department is it, drone op?”

That lands, and Junior’s tight smile vanishes.

But before things escalate, the balcony door slides open, and Petra steps through. Her gaze locks on Junior. “You’re in the wrong place.”

Coy is right behind her.

Junior raises his hands. “Relax, Hayter. I’m gone.”

Coy steps forward. “Not fast enough.”

Junior looks like he’ll commit to war, then thinks better of it. Coy holds more weight than most in F1, and Baby Betterton knows it. He slinks off without another word.

The second the door shuts behind Junior, Reece curses under his breath. “Christ. What is it with this fucking night?” First Graham, now that arsehole. Why do all these men think they can treat Maiken like she's not worth basic human fucking decency?

Petra glances at her. “He touch you?”

Mai’s jaw is hard and her gaze is harder. “No, but I promised to make him regret it if he did.” She isn’t shaking, and she didn’t shrink from the threat. Maiken is a Vegas girl and the daughter of a corrections nurse. It seems she knows exactly how to handle wankers like Junior Betterton.

Reece has never wanted to kiss her more.

Instead, they rejoin the party because he has obligations. The crowd has shifted and everything feels a bit looser, probably because the drinks are stronger.

Maiken takes his arm, all confidence and control. She’s not just keeping up, she’s setting the pace.

They make the rounds.

Photos with Coy and Petra — Reece in the middle, arms draped over both shoulders, the cameras flashing like clockwork.

Then Coy steps aside and gestures to Maiken and his daughter. “Ladies, mind if we get one with you together?”

Maiken smiles and steps forward.

Petra smirks. “Guess we should give them something usable.”

They pose side by side, Maiken in black, Petra in red silk. Oil and flame. One calm as gravity, the other grinning like she’s already won.

The camera loves them. Phones come out. AetherX’s photographers turn their lenses. The execs lean toward each other mid-shot and whisper.

The CEO of AetherX, Daphne Browning, steps forward.

The woman is a power bob over chrome heels.

Her expression says she’s already drafted three different strategies while watching Maiken and Petra pose.

She approaches Mai directly. “That dress.” She nods, voice low and approving.

“And the whole look. Flawless and confident without apology. I like it.”

Maiken smiles. “Thank you.”

“Petra’s the face of our ‘Edge Theory’ campaign for a reason, but I think we’re overdue for a second narrative.”

Her gaze flicks briefly to Reece — not asking permission, but noting their connection — then she’s back to Maiken.

“Would you be open to a conversation about editorial work? Something digital-forward. Short-form, live touchpoints. Power. Performance. Personality.” This is quintessential Daphne, thinking so fast she skips half the words.

Maiken doesn’t dive in or gush. She considers. “I’d be open to a conversation, but I won’t compromise or apologize for what I do for a living. I want that to be absolutely clear.”

Daphne’s smile sharpens. “Good. No one should ask you to. And I sure as hell won’t.” She extends a hand, and Maiken takes it without hesitation. There’s a quiet message in that moment. Nitro’s primary sponsor has chosen sides.

Pride and relief take up so much space in Reece’s chest he can hardly breathe.

This is what Graham and all the other people who underestimate his wife don’t understand.

Maiken doesn’t need the machine’s approval. She rewires the whole bloody thing.