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They blink, recalibrate, search for another angle, but I move on, my heels clicking across the concrete with enough purpose to crack foundations.

By the time FP3 concludes, we’ve lapped the whole damn paddock, been through the VIP areas, and visited all our husbands’ hospitality units.

Twice. Maria’s cracking jokes, Lina’s catching whispers, Gudrun’s gliding along like the social assassin she is.

We take turns drawing cameras, spreading attention, holding court.

And Peony?

I pass her once, standing stiff and beige beside some older man in Ravn black and silver. (I give that team style points for their livery.) She’s clearly trying too hard to look disinterested, but she sees me. She’d have to be blind not to.

Our gazes meet and she smiles, but it’s a brittle thing that doesn’t touch her eyes.

Uh-huh. I thought so.

She figured I’d hear she was on the paddock and go scuttle into a corner to hide, thus proving her point about what kind of woman Reece chose. Instead, she's looking at someone who chose him right back.

That difference is everything .

I smile at her like a woman with absolutely no fucks to give her.

And I keep walking, because I’m not here to trade barbs. I’m here to remind the world who I am.

Qualifying begins, and we split off to go to our husbands’ garages. I make my way to Nitro’s just in time to catch Reece before he dons his helmet. It’s been a good day on the track and his relaxed smile tells me he’s left behind all the Peony drama.

I smirk. “P1 or don’t bother coming home tonight.”

He laughs. “That’s cold, honeybee.”

“So’s second place.”

He grins wide, then pulls on his helmet and HANS unit. The engineers help him into his car’s cockpit, and I follow Ona up to the VIP box. The woman has a world of patience as she explains terminology and the event’s progression to me.

From the moment the session starts, I’m on edge.

Q1 is smooth. He flies through with one of the top three lap times, his car looking dialed in, his lines sharp.

Q2 is tighter. The track’s heating up, rubber going down, and the top ten are clawing for space like it’s the last ride on the rollercoaster. Reece clocks in P5 and barely blinks. The man is a fucking machine today.

Q3 is a knife fight between ten contenders for tomorrow’s pole position.

The top five cars are within tenths of each other when Reece goes out early for his first flying lap. I stand with my fingers crossed, watching the screens like I can will the laws of physics to bend in his favor.

“Come on,” I whisper. “Show ’em.”

Ona’s eyes are glued to the monitors. "They put him on new softs."

"Which means what?”

"Fresh tires with the best level of grip. Clean air means he's out early, so there’s no traffic to slow him down."

He goes purple in sector 1. Then again in sector 2.

"Purple?" I ask.

"Fastest time." Ona watches the screen. "Purple means he's quicker than anyone else through that section."

By the time he crosses the finish line, he's done it. P1. Blistering, beautiful, flawless. Not one car that follows can top his time, which means Reece will start on pole tomorrow for the final race of the F1 season.

The Nitro lounge erupts.

I exhale like I've been holding my breath for years.

Ona nods beside me, cool and satisfied. "That's how it's done."

Daphne Browning of AetherX smiles and touches my arm. “I think the team needs to add Reece’s wife to their strategy equations.”

I grin. “Whatever works.”

“I’ll ask Coy to put you on the payroll.”

Reece pulls into parc fermé and climbs from the car. He waves to the crowds, then looks up and sees me watching from the balcony.

I mouth, “You’re welcome.”

I am Mrs. Pritchard, and I came to win.

That night, we have dinner at one of the hotel restaurants with Petra, Coy, Ona, Misho, and Bowie. We’re tucked into a private corner, laughing over salad and pasta. They’re trading war stories from the paddock.

Reece has his arm behind my chair, casual and warm.

Coy’s describing a last-minute tweak to Reece’s floor panel, and Misho’s swearing it gained them two-tenths per lap.

Jacintha and Ona are arguing about hyperbaric chambers, while Petra rolls her eyes like she’s above all of it, which to be fair, she might be.

“Hell of a day.” Coy grins at Reece and Petra.

Reece shrugs. “Team effort.”

She lifts her water glass. “Here’s to Nitro dominance.”

We all toast, clinking glasses and throwing back sips, just as someone steps into the room.

Nico Belmonte. Blond, blue-eyed, calm as still water and twice as cool. There’s a quiet magnetism to him, like the eye of a storm that doesn’t know how to be anything but still.

He strolls over to our table, hands in his pockets, all easy charm and soft swagger.

“Congratulations,” he says with a smile and a stunning Spanish accent. “The Pritchards are taking the paddock by storm.”

“Appreciate it, Nico.” Reece introduces me. “Have you met Maiken?”

“Welcome to F1.” Nico smiles and returns my handshake. “Though I saw that hot lap footage. I’m pretty sure the racing world isn’t ready for Maiken Lange Pritchard.”

I laugh. “Think I can drive your car? Reece is selfish and refuses to let me behind the wheel of his.”

Nico laughs. “Not a chance. Like I said, I saw that video.” His gaze flicks to Petra even as he says, “You married a barn burner, RP.”

We all laugh, and I’m not gonna fight the man when he’s just stating an obvious truth.

Coy says, “You’re not exactly slumming it in P2 tomorrow, Nico.”

Petra arches a brow. “Better watch your ass in turn 1, bunny boy.”

He smirks. “No, you watch it.”

She leans back, unfazed. “Then walk away so I can.”

He laughs, then nods to the rest of us. “Enjoy your evening.”

As he strolls off, I clock the lingering glance he throws Petra’s way, and how she doesn’t seem to notice.

Later, back in our room, I drop onto our bed, nail polish out for some last-minute repairs to my claws. “So what’s the story with Nico and Petra?”

Reece snorts, pulling his shirt over his head. “We all first met as kids, and Nico’s had a thing for her since they were… thirteen? The guy’s fearless and smooth as butter on the track, but he’s hopeless off it.”

“Seriously?”

He shrugs. “Maybe someday he’ll find the nerve to do something about his crush.”

I raise a brow. “Not that I blame him. Tenacious P is kind of a goddess.”

Reece grins. “Almost as ferocious as you.”

“Hmm. Almost.”