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CHAPTER THREE

Reece had never seen burlesque before last night.

Now, memories filter through his alcohol-muddled brain as sunlight cuts across the hotel room, illuminating honey-blonde hair on the pillow beside him.

Maiken Lange. Not Mai-Lan Rouge from the stage, but a woman breathing evenly in the morning light.

She's curled atop the bedding, one hand tucked under her cheek, lips slightly parted.

Without the stage makeup, her lashes still look impossibly long, casting delicate shadows on her cheeks.

Even in sleep, there's something magnetic about her.

His gaze travels over the swell of her perfect breasts, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips.

He brings his attention back to her face, takes in the soft fullness of her lips, and wonders how they'll feel when he kisses her as a sober man.

How will she taste? How will her body respond to his touch?

Reece inhales and smiles. She still smells faintly of that gingersnap perfume he'd noticed last night. Sweet and spicy, just like her.

Maiken is beautiful .

Her performance still hums in his bloodstream. She'd outshone Vegas itself last night, more brilliant than the seventy-five-thousand-dollar ring now on her finger. Even more impressive, she'd never once asked about his money, his houses, or his cars. Not once.

He’d only gone to The Golden Oyster to be with his brother.

Junior wanted to go, and Wyn was all too happy to drink and watch women take off their clothes.

Wasn't really Reece's scene, but he’d figured burlesque would be kitschy at worst, and probably better than a standard strip joint. Plus, he’d hoped spending time together off the track would maybe bridge the growing divide between his brother and him.

But when "A Girl Like You" started playing and Mai-Lan Rouge stepped on stage, Reece forgot about Wyn and started paying proper attention.

She moved like she was born beneath a spotlight — deliberate, smooth, unapologetically in control. Wrapped in a shimmering wine-colored robe, fur framing her face, she offered a peek of leg with each step.

Her body in sync with the music’s hypnotic, retro-cool beat, Mai glided across the stage, smoke made flesh. Her smirk said she was letting the audience in on her private joke and they were bloody lucky to be included.

She found Reece front and center at the VIP table, and challenged him with a direct gaze. Then came the wink just as Edwyn Collins sang about crawling on the floor. A saucy little flick of lashes and a teasing mouthed, "Call me," so knowing and playful that he couldn't help but smile right back.

This wasn't just flirtation. This was possession.

She'd brushed her fingers over her skin like she knew exactly the worth of what she offered, and he'd watched, mesmerized, as she unwrapped herself, bumping and grinding and teasing every inch of the way because she was a gift she knew he should be grateful to receive.

And yeah, he bloody well was.

When the music hit a lazy, dangerous groove, she'd stepped closer to the edge of the stage, hips swaying like a pendulum, eyes still locked on Reece. For a moment, no one else in the world existed. Just her. Just him. Just heat and hush and the unbearable pleasure of anticipation.

Right, she'd stripped, but it was playful art and shameless seduction, flirtatious, fun, and the sexiest bloody thing he'd ever seen.

As the music faded, she gave him one last smoldering look, then left him hollowed out and breathless.

Later, over onion rings and gin and laughter, he’d realized that as beautiful and tempting as Mai-Lan Rouge was on stage, Maiken Lange was a thousand times more intriguing and wonderful.

Now, with her sleeping beside him, midnight traded for morning, Reece knows something has shifted, and he isn't the same man who walked into The Golden Oyster last night.

Sunlight creeps across the floor, slicing through half-drawn curtains and painting the walls in gold and shadows. The room is quiet, but Reece’s mind clamors with the kind of thoughts that come after too much alcohol and just enough truth.

Beside him, Maiken sleeps on her side, her long lashes still, mouth soft. A small crease divides her brows. Her dreams must be holding a serious debate. Her clothes are wrinkled, hair tangled. She looks nothing like the woman from the stage, yet she still owns the room.

They didn’t touch last night, not like lovers.

They drank. Laughed. Shared an entire lifetime of ridiculous stories in the back of a rideshare car with a driver named Hector, then fell asleep atop the covers, fully clothed, heads tilted toward each other.

But sitting in a booth after kicking her arse in Mario Kart, Reece did something he still can’t explain.

He’d pulled the ring from his jeans pocket, the one he bought in Monaco eight months ago for Peony.

She never wore it, because while he chased podiums and points, his girlfriend executed betrayal with surgical precision.

Soft lips, calculated lies, and a partner selected not by chance but for maximum impact, one who ensured the wound cut deep and stayed raw.

Reece hadn’t proposed that day.

Instead, he'd come home early and caught Peony in the lie. He’d told her to take her things and get the fuck out.

He couldn’t bring himself to return the ring, though. It stayed in his travel bag, buried but always there, following him from one race to the next. It was a reminder of what he’d held onto for too long, or maybe never had in the first place.

Until last night when he didn’t want to leave it in the room safe because one of the engineers had had his room robbed.

Reece had told Maiken about Peony and the ring.

Instead of laughing when he’d said it was meant for her, Mai had nodded as if that made perfect sense.

Then the ring fit her finger and everything felt right.

Half-asleep in the car afterward, she'd nestled against him and a voice in his mind told him she belonged there.

Even now, he can't shake the feeling that the ring had never been for Peony, but always for Maiken.

It wasn't just Vegas chaos or alcohol that made him direct Hector to the drive-thru chapel afterward. It was how she looked at him. Mai saw him , not his wealth, his success, or his connections.

When he’d asked if she wanted to be his wife, she'd smiled up at him with sincere blue eyes and said, "That would be the most wonderful thing, Reece Pritchard. What woman wouldn't love to be your wife?"

So they got married at a little white drive-thru chapel where the officiant wore a bedazzled jumpsuit and sang off-key. There were blinking neon hearts, digital photos of them looking proper chuffed, and a slip of paper with both their signatures and an official seal that made it real.

Reece turns his head and looks at her hand.

There it is.

The ring. On her finger, right where it belongs.

Its four carats of glittering diamonds catch the morning light.

Big square one in the center, trapezoids on either side, smaller brilliants knifing down the platinum band.

The ring winks at him, like Mai-Lan had onstage.

Slipping it on her finger had been completely fucking deranged, but also the most honest thing he’s done since telling Peony to piss off.

He exhales slowly and murmurs, “Well, that happened.”

In five hours, he’ll be on a private jet to Qatar. Back to the paddock, press interviews, and strategy meetings. Back in the car.

A married man.

And he’ll carry with him the way Maiken Lange had smiled after saying, “I do,” not as a joke, but soft and a little shy, tears shimmering in her eyes. He’s pretty sure she saw the broken thing inside him and still said yes.

What the hell have I done?

Reece sits up and chuckles. Despite the hangover and the insanity, he feels no regret, because he can’t remember the last time anyone made him that stupidly happy for eight hours straight.

He looks at Maiken again. He has no idea what’s next, but whatever it is, he hopes it starts with her opening her dark blue eyes and smiling at him.

Which is when life intrudes, because now he needs to piss. Reece slips from the bed, careful not to disturb her, and grabs the clothes he left out yesterday after he packed all his shit. He always packs Sunday before a race so he doesn’t have to think about it Monday morning.

He takes a quick shower, because he smells like a man who was on an all-night bender, then shaves, and dresses in trackies and a green and pink PNW Nitro hoodie. He considers his reflection and shrugs.

He doesn’t look any different, but he is . Maiken’s devil-may-care attitude drove a wedge into the anxiety that’s blanketed him since he was a boy, opening a little breathing space.

He inhales deeply. It’s good not to feel like he’s suffocating.

Eight months without touching a podium. That's how long Reece has been fighting to find his form.

He's grown accustomed to waking after race day feeling the crushing pressure to do better.

Yet this morning, with Maiken curled against him, that desperate hunger is different.

Still there, still burning, but no longer consuming everything in its path.

His phone buzzes on the bathroom counter with a new text message from Ona, his physio:

S.O.S. Graham heading your way. Marriage pics on CircuitJerks. License looks legit??? Need confirmation — real or problem? Either way, I'm here.

“Bloody fucking hell .”

Reece stares at his phone, then opens the bathroom door. Maiken's still sleeping, blissfully unaware of the incoming shitstorm. This is not how he wanted the morning to go. He needs to wake her and see if she remembers what happened between them last night before his father shows up.

Reece crosses to the bed and sits on the edge. He gently touches Maiken's shoulder. "Mai?” No response. He leans over her. “Hey, we need to?—"