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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

QATAR TO ABU DHABI | MONDAY

Reece zips his suitcase closed, but nothing about this moment feels settled.

He glances across the room. Maiken is folded into one of the chairs by the window, barefoot and absently twisting her wedding ring like it might give her answers.

She hasn’t said she’s coming with him. She hasn’t said she’s not.

It’s unusual for her to be this quiet and still, and he doesn’t like it.

Reece crouches in front of her and rests his hands on her knees. “Talk to me, honeybee.”

Mai lifts her gaze slowly. “I want to come with you to Abu Dhabi. I do.”

“But?”

“But I have responsibilities. My bank account. My next gig. I’ve already rescheduled two bookings this month and if I cancel on the Oyster again, Yvette might never call me back. I’m a freelancer, Reece. When I don’t work, I don’t earn.”

He exhales through his nose, brushing his thumbs over the soft fabric of her pants. “Look, Mai, money's not going to be an issue anymore. Not for you, not for us."

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is.” He’s dead serious. “And you’d know this if you’d ever asked me about my income.

The fact that you haven’t is unfathomable for me, but it’s time to have that talk.

You need to understand my base salary alone is twenty-four million a year, yeah?

That's before bonuses, endorsements, and appearance fees. Plus I have three more years on my contract. I’m not saying this to flex.

I’m saying it because I want you to understand that if you want to stand with me for the final race of the season, you can.

No worries. No guilt. Your bills are covered. ”

She blinks once, then stares at him, eyes wide as if what he’s just said is incomprehensible gibberish.

“I didn’t marry you to bankroll your life, Maiken. I also didn’t marry you just to leave you out of mine. Unlike Peony, I miss you when we’re not together.”

Her lips part like she wants to argue — maybe say something about independence or pride or what people will say online — but then she closes them again and bites her lip. “You’re really okay with this? With me being there and the media making it a whole thing again?”

Reece scoffs. “They’ll make it a whole thing if you’re not there.” He stands and leans down to kiss her forehead. “I’d rather have you with me and let the media yap than not have you at all.”

She lets out a long breath and finally nods. “Okay. Let’s go to Abu Dhabi.”

They leave the hotel in midmorning, wearing dark-tinted glasses. A driver will take them to the airport and return Reece’s rented SUV. Ona joins them and she and Reece load their bags while Maiken watches and does a little head-tilt thing that means she’s impressed.

Ona rides upfront with the driver. Reece settles into the back beside Mai.

The drive is quick. When they arrive at the private terminal, Maiken’s eyes go wide as the Nitro jet taxies into view — deep green body, pink-accented livery, PNW mountain logo on the tail.

“No fucking way,” she breathes.

Reece can’t stop smiling. “Way.”

They’re barely out of the car before Coy, Petra, and Jacintha emerge from the FBO’s lounge to greet them. Coy offers Maiken a fist bump. Petra’s in sunglasses and a hoodie that says Faster Than Your Boyfriend , but the grin she flashes is real.

Cin’s nose is buried in fitness data as they cross the tarmac and climb the stairs to board the plane. “Hey, Mai.” She doesn’t look up, and that’s perfect because it means she’s accepted Maiken as part of Reece’s team.

A Nitro media crew is already filming the boarding for behind-the-scenes coverage. Normally, Reece hates that, but Maiken’s delight is contagious.

“Oh my God.” She gasps, stepping onto the jet. “There’s actual legroom. And a couch? Practical and stylish? This is like a flying boutique hotel designed by billionaire lesbians.”

She twirls once in the aisle, then strikes a pose beside the espresso machine, toe pointed, hip popped, like she’s a PNW Nitro pinup. “This is the best thing ever!”

Coy laughs. “Wait until you see the bathroom.”

Her eyes go even wider. “Nooo. What if I never wanna pee anywhere else again?”

Petra drops into one of the leather recliners and stretches her legs. “That’s the trap. They get you addicted to the luxe life, then you have to be in economy purgatory whenever you travel on your own.”

Maiken gasps. “You mean I can’t take this to Target?”

The camera catches her deadpan. Reece bites back a grin. Every bit of her awe is genuine. It’s not an act or an angle, just Mai being Mai, bright and unfiltered and somehow more real than anyone he’s ever flown with before.

She catches him watching her, twirls again, and settles into the seat beside him with inhuman grace. “What? Am I embarrassing you?”

“Quite the opposite.”

She lifts a brow. “What’s the opposite of embarrassment?”

He leans in and kisses her. “Pride.” The camera catches that, too, and Reece is glad.

Maiken smiles and buckles her seatbelt, then murmurs, “This plane smells like leather, power, and generational wealth. Are we the villains?”

Coy barks a startled laugh. Petra, Ona, and Cin lose their shit. Reece chuckles, settling his hand on his wife’s thigh. “No, honeybee. We’re just really well-funded protagonists.”

The jet touches down an hour and a half later, the Abu Dhabi skyline rising in the distance, opulent, gleaming, and surreal.

Reece stretches. The atmosphere inside the cabin had been light — Coy cracking jokes, Petra and Cin scrolling through memes, Maiken declaring the plane “an actual miracle” and gleefully documenting every inch.

“Best. Thing. Ever,” she proclaims as they descend the stairs, her fingers graze Reece’s.

Then he sees Branca waiting just beyond the stairs, phone in hand, expression like carved stone.

Something’s wrong.

They slide into the waiting Nitro transport. The door shuts. The moment clicks into silence.

His manager turns in her seat. “We’ve got a problem.”

He leans forward. “What?”

Her expression is grim. “Damian Betterton, Jr. That pendejo wears a body camera. Probably thinks it makes him edgy. A clip from the AetherX party hit social media while you were flying. It’s gone viral.”

She taps her phone and turns the face for him and Mai to see.

The video plays. A low-angle shot, shaky and close, shows Maiken in that elegant black dress.

Junior says off screen, “You look incredible tonight, Mrs. Pritchard. Reece is a lucky man.”

He extends his hand, but she slaps it away.

Maiken’s voice comes off screen. “If you touch me, I’ll put a heel through your foot and smile while you bleed.”

It’s cropped, edited, and absolute horseshit.

Reece's vision goes white-hot. "That fucking piece of shit set her up.” His voice is deadly quiet, the kind of calm that precedes violence. "He's completely twisted what happened. Made her look like a—“ He can't finish the sentence because he’s choking on rage.

Mai shakes her head. “That’s not what he said to me, Branca. That’s not what happened.”

“He’s claiming you attacked him unprovoked.” She’s watching Maiken.

Mai shakes her head. “Of course he is.”

“There’s no context,” Reece’s manager adds. “The clip’s circulating without sound too. That one makes you look unstable.”

Reece bares his teeth. “Is anyone buying this crap?”

“Graham is.” Branca drops her phone into her purse. “He’s leaning into it hard. Leaking commentary that you’re under stress, that your wife’s ‘background’ makes her volatile. The gossip outlets are lapping it up.”

Beside him, Maiken crosses her arms tight over her chest, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. Reece’s jaw clenches as she retreats inward and her brightness dims with every word. That stillness is back and he hates it.

They turn into the hotel drive, and everything goes to hell.

Cameras.

Shouting.

Barricades breached.

Dozens of reporters crowd the front steps, hurling questions, cameras raised, microphones thrust forward. It’s not supposed to be like this in Abu Dhabi.

"Maiken! Why did you threaten Damian Betterton?"

"Reece, are you planning to divorce?"

"Did you marry Reece for money?"

Each question is a blade cutting into his wife. She has a white-knuckled grip on his arm, as she presses closer to Reece.

“Piss off!” He shields her with his body. “Get the hell away from my wife!”

A wave of hotel security descends. Uniformed staff form a human wall as Nitro’s team scrambles to help. Ona moves to Maiken’s other side like a shield, one arm extended.

Behind them, a second Nitro car pulls up. Petra’s door swings open. “Bloody heathens,” she snaps. “Back the hell off. This is a driver hotel, not a zoo.”

Coy joins her. “Where are your damn manners?”

The mass recoils from his authority, just enough to let their group escape.

Inside the gleaming hotel, the chaos quiets. For now.

The general manager, pale and flushed, greets them with a trembling bow.

“Mr. Pritchard, Mrs. Pritchard, I extend our deepest apologies. This behavior is unprecedented. Our staff has been ordered to revoke all press access for the remainder of the Grand Prix. Anyone who attempts to approach you again on these grounds will be removed and blacklisted.”

Reece gives a curt nod. “Appreciated.” He tastes metal, an after-effect of adrenaline that he’s all too familiar with.

They take the elevator up in silence. He holds Maiken’s hand, but she hasn’t said a word.

Their suite is enormous. Sleek. Cool-toned. The Persian Gulf glitters beyond the balcony’s glass.

But Maiken doesn’t look at it.

She drops her bag by the couch and stands there for a long moment, arms still crossed like she’s holding herself together. “I shouldn’t’ve come.”

Reece turns. “What?”

She takes off her sunglasses and looks at him, and the devastation in her eyes nearly brings him to his knees. This isn't just disappointment, it's the look of someone who's been made to feel small, dirty, and wrong for existing in his world.