Page 46

Maiken’s tucked into one corner, cross-legged on the sofa like she owns the space.

A half-empty espresso sits on the table beside her tablet, and her bag is open just enough to reveal a swath of midnight-blue velvet.

She’s completely absorbed in hand-stitching a ring of soft indigo feathers around the hem of a floor-length gown, focused and serene.

She looks like art. Or war prep. Probably both.

Seeing his wife centers him. Her hands move with the same precision he brings to racing — every stitch deliberate, every feather placed with purpose. She's building something beautiful in the middle of chaos, and he's struck by how much that reflects who she is.

Reece watches her for another minute before stepping closer. “You settling in okay?”

Maiken glances up, needle paused mid-stitch. “I’ve got espresso, feathers, and no DBJ. So yeah, these are five-star accommodations.”

He chuckles and sits beside her, scanning the progress on her gown. “This the next act?”

“Mhm. I was halfway through it before some git waylaid me in Vegas. Figured I may as well bring it along.” She brushes the velvet gently. “It’s for a piece called Blue Dahlia. Sort of noir glam meets existential crisis.”

Reece smirks. “Sounds like me during every pit stop.”

“Exactly.” She grins and tugs a tiny feather tighter. “It’s about transformation. Decay into power. You know. Light stuff.”

His gaze drifts to the cuffs, where she’s already layered downy feather trim in navy and cobalt. “You’re seriously talented, you know that?”

She shrugs, but her expression softens. “Thanks. Sometimes I forget I’m allowed to be proud of it.”

He reaches out and runs his fingers along a line of stitching. “You should be.”

She scans the quiet space around them. “You sure it’s okay I’m here?”

“Absolutely. You're in Nitro family space now, aren't you? Nobody's going to mess with you here.”

“That what I am now? Family?”

“One hundred percent you are.”

Maiken presses her lips together, like she’s holding something back. Then she smiles. “You’re gonna ruin me for all other men.”

He grins. “Brilliant. That’s the plan.”

She snorts, scans the room once more, then brushes her lips over his jaw. “Okay, RP11. Go do your engineering stuff. I’ll be here, playing Cinderella with sequins.”

He nods and stands, but not before stealing a kiss.

As he heads toward the door and his next meeting in the garage, Reece throws one last glance over his shoulder. Maiken threads another feather into place, framed by Nitro logos and early afternoon light.

Yeah. This feels like balance.

Outside, Abu Dhabi’s afternoon sun glints off every carbon surface in the paddock.

It’s warmer than expected and heat rises in shimmering waves from the concrete.

A generator hums loudly nearby, muting the distant sound of an engine being fired up in one of the garages.

Sweat already trickles between Reece’s shoulder blades.

He squints toward the WolfBett garage as he leaves Nitro’s hospitality unit. Wyn stands just outside the rear entrance wearing a dark-blue team polo and a quiet frown. His arms are crossed and he’s looking at the ground.

When Reece slows, his brother turns.

“Hey,” Reece says.

“Hey.”

The greeting is stiff, neither brother sure how to cross the invisible chasm that separates them now. They used to joke, used to hang out after race weekends and give each other shit. Now they sound like strangers making small talk at a funeral.

"I heard you're going minimal downforce this weekend," Reece offers. Technical talk is safe ground.

Wyn nods. "Yeah. Track temps are mental, but those straights are too long to carry heavy wing. Risky as hell through the middle sector, but if I can nail qualifying and survive the opening stint..."

Reece smiles. Tactical and aggressive, that's Wyn all over. Always planning for the worst-case scenario while pushing for the best. "Remember Monza last year? When you saved that slide in Parabolica because you'd trimmed the wing for exactly that kind of balance?"

Wyn's expression brightens. "You called me a madman afterward."

"You were a madman, but you were a fast madman." The moment hangs between them, the first bit of genuine warmth in months. "I miss?—"

"Listen, I?—"

"Minimal downforce? Christ, you boys are determined to be fucking morons." The too-familiar voice cuts in behind them.

Graham. Awesome.

Their tentative easiness evaporates instantly as Wyn shifts, shoulders pulling up, jaw setting.

They were finally talking like brothers again, and now their father’s here to remind them they're supposed to be enemies.

Reece turns slowly, schooling his expression into something close to neutral. He used to try for civil, but that's off the menu now.

Graham stands like he owns the tarmac, hands tucked into his blazer pockets despite the afternoon warmth, one brow arched like he's a team principal and not a pain in everyone's arse. "You planning to slide through every corner like you're driving on ice?" His expression is full of disdain.

Wyn's hands clench at his sides. "I'm planning to drive the setup I tested and approved. The one my engineers support."

Graham tuts. “A shame. I had hopes you’d learn from your brother’s mistakes.”

There it is. The wedge. Always driving it between them, making sure they can't find common ground without him inserting himself as the arbiter.

Reece steps closer, jaw flexing. “And what mistake would that be, exactly?”

The sweet scent of fuel is stronger here, mixed with the ozone smell of electrical systems running hot. Somewhere nearby, the explosive pssshht-chunk sound of a wheel jack echoes off concrete.

Graham smiles, and it's the same expression he wore when he used to pit them against each other as kids — who could lap the karting track faster, who could memorize more technical data, who could earn Daddy's approval. “Getting involved with someone who’ll burn everything down just to be seen.”

Someone?

That’s it.

Something snaps in Reece, probably his self-control.

Anger becomes protective fury, white-hot and immediate.

Every moment Maiken has spent doubting herself because of this man's games crystallizes into pure rage.

"If you want to discuss my wife, have the fucking bollocks to say her name. Otherwise, we're done here, old man ."

His father lifts a hand like he’s trying to appear unbothered. “I’m simply saying your choices come with consequences. Public ones.”

"Right. You're a minor stakeholder in one team and a guest everywhere else. Maybe act like it."

Graham's eyes narrow, and for a moment the only sounds are the distant whine of engines and the rhythmic thump of someone hammering metal. “You’ll regret pushing me, Reece.”

For most of Reece’s life, Graham made that kind of threat sound like paternal concern. This time he’s not bothering with the pretense.

Good. Reece prefers his enemies honest

“No. I regret not doing it sooner.”

“And I regret being within earshot of this conversation.” Wyn steps between them as a mechanic walks past pushing a cart of tires. "Let it go before someone shoves a mic in your face."

Reece steps back because Wyn’s right, the cameras are always close. And Graham’s poison thrives in public.

“See you on the grid, little brother.” Reece walks away.

Graham stays silent, but he’ll be back. He always comes back, like a cockroach.