Page 8

The knocking at my front door continues, distant but relentless, like my own personal horror movie soundtrack. Mother-fucking media zombies trying to eat my braaaain.

When I’m done heaving, I rinse my mouth and the tub, then stumble into the kitchen on spaghetti legs. I down a glass of water and chug some Pepto. Chalky, minty, eww, but better than puke and stomach acid.

My phone buzzes on the counter with another text from Reece. God, he’s persistent.

Maiken? C’mon. I got you into this. Let me help you out of it. Zero strings attached.

I chew my lip, but the knocking and messages continue, and I can’t fucking think straight.

Fine, but this doesn't mean I forgive you.

I don't expect you to. Not yet.

How are you gonna get me out of this bullshit?

Just trust me for five more minutes. Pack whatever you need for a few days. Help is on the way.

I'm about to ask what the hell that means when there's a commotion outside.

I peep through the blinds again and see the crowd of reporters suddenly opening a path.

A petite woman with waves of dark hair and a perfectly tailored cream-colored pantsuit is marching up the stairs.

She carries herself like someone twice her size, and the look on her face could freeze hell.

"Ms. Lange?" Her voice cuts through my closed front door with crisp authority and a thick Spanish accent. "Branca Flores. I work for Reece."

I crack open the door, security chain still in place. She doesn't look like a reporter, but I'm not taking chances.

"Let me see some ID."

Without missing a beat, she holds up a business card and an ID badge with some Formula 1 team logo. "I'm his manager. I'm here to get you out of this situation."

I hesitate, then unchain the door. She slips inside quickly, immediately assessing my apartment with sharp brown eyes.

She's in her mid-forties with an elegant wavy bob, impeccable makeup, and the kind of “mom” energy that means she can shut down a room of rowdy kids with just one raised eyebrow and, apparently, stun the paparazzi into silence.

"Pack comfortably. We're going to Qatar." Her accent adds emphasis to her already authoritative tone.

“Cutter?”

“Qatar. On the Persian Gulf.”

"What the— No. I'm not going to the Middle East!"

She tilts her chin ever so slightly. "You prefer to stay here with them?" She gestures toward the gathered paparazzi outside.

"No, but I have obligations. Classes I teach. Shows I'm booked for." I cross my arms. "I'm not giving up my life for any man, especially not one who apparently married me as some twisted rebellion against his daddy."

Her expression softens, and she nods. "Good. You shouldn't. Who can cover for you while you're gone?"

The question catches me off guard. I expected her to ignore my concerns, not acknowledge them.

"I... well, Delilah and Yasmine can cover my classes and shows, and there's a sub for the kids' ballet, but..." I run a hand through my hair. "You don't understand. I need the money. I have bills and rent. I can't just disappear to Qatar."

She sighs and looks at me like I'm a particularly dense child. "Your husband will take care of your bills. Trust me, he can afford to cover your rent."

I open my mouth to argue, then remember the thousand-dollar tip. The giant diamond on my finger. The casual way he paid for everything last night.

"Fine." I turn to my workspace. "But only for a few days."

She pivots on her heel and steps out onto the walkway, addressing the gathered press with a voice that somehow fills the entire complex.

"Listen to me very carefully. You are trespassing. Sixty seconds to leave before I call the police and press charges. And PNW Nitro Racing will blacklist any publication that stays." She checks her watch with a flick of her wrist. "The time is running."

The threat is delivered so matter-of-factly, that no one even argues. They just start packing up.

"How the hell did you do that?" I’m impressed.

Branca shrugs one elegant shoulder. "They know I mean it. Now, what are you packing?"

"I have no idea. What do I need?"

She looks me up and down. "Conservative clothing to cover your shoulders and knees, nothing too tight or revealing in public. We respect local customs. You'll need to be mindful of appropriate behavior at the track and in public."

"What? Is there, like, a rulebook for racing wives?"

"Not officially, but there are expectations. Don't overshadow your husband during race weekends. Avoid social media controversies.” She smiles ruefully and adds, “A little difficult in your case, but we’ll work around it. WAGs support without intrusion.”

“Who?”

“WAGs. Wives and girlfriends. The paddock — that's the area where the teams work — has restricted access, so you'll need proper credentials. And most importantly, remember that everything you do reflects not just on Reece, but on his team, their sponsors, and Formula One."

Great. So I'm supposed to be a perfect, demure little wifey? I bite back the sarcastic comment. Branca isn't the enemy here.

"Do you have a current passport?" She moves through my apartment.

"Yeah." I pull it from my dresser drawer. "Wait, Reece is going to Qatar?"

"Yes. PNW Nitro's jet just took off." She walks into my workroom and picks up an unfinished red satin corset. It’s for my Cherry Bomb routine. "Beautiful work. You're talented." She examines my costumes with genuine interest.

"Thanks."

"Pack this too." She means the corset. "And anything else you're working on. The hotel suite has a lounge area you can use as a workspace."

I start throwing clothes into my suitcase — a jean jumpsuit, blouses and pants, a cute polka-dotted 1940’s dress, shoes, stilettos, and underclothes.

I grab my travel sewing kit, the half-finished red corset, and a blue velvet gown.

Branca finds my toiletry bag, chargers, and computer bag before I even think to look for them. Obviously, she’s done this before.

"Reece mentioned you might need this." She hands me a small bottle of ibuprofen and a Gatorade from her purse. It’s the kinda maternal move I’m used to from Frankie.

I take them gratefully, downing three pills and half the bottle. "So, you're what? His fixer?"

"I manage his career and his public image." She taps something into her phone, then looks up with a hawk’s gaze. I’m pretty sure Branca Flores misses nothing. "This marriage is... pues ... a surprise. But my job now is to protect both of you from the sharks who would make this into a circus show."

"Too late," I mutter, zipping up my suitcase. "So are you here to offer me money to quietly disappear?"

Something in her gaze gets real sharp. “Is that why you married him?”

“No. I kinda don’t know why I said yes. But after meeting his dad, I figured?—”

Branca cuts me off. "Reece is not his father, and if he wanted out of this, he wouldn't have sent me. He can clean up his own messes. I don’t wipe his ass or his nose." She looks me directly in the eyes. "He asked me to help you, Maiken, not make you disappear."

I'm not sure why, but I believe her.

"Now, shower and dress in something comfortable, but with coverage."

For a hot second, I consider telling her to leave, that I'll handle this mess. But what would that even look like? Barricading myself in this apartment until the press gets bored? Calling in sick to my classes while my face is splashed across the internet?

I exhale slowly. Sometimes surrender is the smartest move.

I go on autopilot and follow her instructions. It's easier than trying to make my addled brain figure this shit out for me.

The shower is quick but heavenly, washing away the stale sweat and lingering bar-hopping-boozefest stink.

The hot water helps clear my head, if not my situation.

Makeup is minimal, just enough to not look completely wrecked on camera, though I take a few extra minutes to hide the goddamned black-and-blue bruises on my wrist with coverup and powder.

My favorite wide-leg empire waist trousers and a fitted pale pink blouse with a Peter Pan collar make me feel put-together and almost sweet.

Which is good because deep down I'm still leaning toward homicidal.

My hair looks like absolute shit, so I pull it into a low bun, then cover it with a dark green turban I bought while thrifting last month.

Fixing my do properly would require time and patience, both of which are in critically short supply this morning.

The last touches are lip gloss, a skinny brown belt, and my matching brown and white t-strap Mary Janes.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Branca evaluates me with a critical eye, her gaze methodically assessing my appearance from head to toe. After a moment, she nods. "Good. The car is waiting. Are you ready?"

"Yes, except I need cash."

"No." One syllable, flat and final.

"But—"

She shakes her head. "You're worried about the wrong things. Anything you need, Reece or the team will cover it."

Uh. No. No fucking way am I gonna be dependent on a man I hardly know in a country I can’t even find on a map.

“Branca, I appreciate all you’re doing, but I’m not flying to a foreign country without cash. My mother didn’t raise me to be an idiot, current circumstances aside.”

She laughs. “I want to meet her someday.” She checks her watch, then pulls her wallet from her handbag. “Here.” She fishes a handful of colorful foreign currency and a black credit card from her wallet and offers them to me.

“I can’t take your money.”

“This is Reece’s money, which means it’s yours.”

I stare at it and sigh. “I don’t want to be indebted to him.”

"Indebted?" Branca makes a dismissive gesture. "You are his wife, not his debtor. This is how marriage works, no?"

Still, I hesitate. She handles this too easily. “I take it this happens a lot?”

Her brows arch and she shakes her head. “No. Not with Reece. He is a careful man.”

I chew my lip and debate. Am I really doing this?

Flying across the world with people I barely know?

If it wasn't for the vultures outside my door, I'd think I was walking into some human trafficking nightmare.

Except Reece's life is too public for that.

Apparently, the man can't scratch his ass without someone documenting it.

So what are my alternatives? Hide in my apartment and reread my entire collection of Drew Katterman novels while reporters camp outside?

Watch my students' parents pull their kids from my classes when they realize their ballet teacher is a "Vegas stripper"?

At least in Qatar, I can figure out my next move without cameras in my face.

Finally, I nod and accept the money. "This is a loan. I'm paying it back." It means I'll have cash to GTFO if things get dodgy in Qatar.

“Good. Now we go.”

Still, I hesitate, suddenly aware of what I'm doing. Twenty-four hours ago, I was just Mai-Lan Rouge, burlesque performer. Now I'm fleeing my own home, to a country I know nothing about, with strangers paid by a man I accidentally married.

Is this shit really happening?

I take one last look around my tiny apartment.

The chaise where I sleep still has last night's pajamas thrown across it.

Half-finished costumes hang in my workspace, sequins catching light like tiny stars.

This place is hardly glamorous, but it's mine.

Every inch of it earned through years of hard work, tip by tip, class by class.

It’s only a few days, right? Before I know it, I’ll be back here, working on new costumes, new routines, new exercises for my students. This trip is just a temporary work-around.

Yes. Right. Everything will be fine.

I square my shoulders and grab my suitcase. "Okay. I have what I need."

Branca opens the door, and we step outside. The reporters are gone, but there's a black SUV with tinted windows waiting by the curb. Anushka gives me a thumbs-up from her doorway as we pass, the rhinestones glued to her cheeks catching the sunlight.

"We’re heading straight to the airport?"

We climb into the backseat while the driver, some big dude wearing a green and pink polo shirt, puts my luggage in the back.

“Correct. Our flight leaves in two hours. We’ll change planes in Seattle."

"First class?" I joke.

She doesn't look up from her phone. "Of course."

The driver pulls away, and I watch my apartment complex disappear in the rearview mirror. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was on stage at The Golden Oyster, completely unaware that a Formula 1 driver was about to upend my entire life.

I shake my head. "I don't know a damn thing about F1."

Branca gives me a look that's both surprised and amused. "Well, Ms. Lange, seems like you have a lot to learn about your husband."

"Maiken," I correct her. "Or Mai."

"Maiken.” She nods. "Welcome to Formula 1. Buckle up. It moves fast."