[Ivy's POV]
Some people pray before a race. I prefer to be filled with my fiancé.
The Bahrain grid thrums with pre-race electricity, fifty mechanics performing their synchronized ballet around twenty cars worth more than some countries' GDPs. I roll my shoulders inside my race suit, feeling Nick's cum still warm inside me, our pre-race ritual complete just minutes ago.
Nothing centers me like being stretched and filled by him, carrying his power into battle like ancient warriors who fucked before marching to war. The memory of his hands gripping my hips, his desperate moans as I rode him mercilessly in our trailer, sends a delicious shiver down my spine.
I run my gloved hand across my flat stomach, a secret smile playing on my lips. I'm practically bursting at the seams with Nick's cum. His life force fueling the monster that drives me forward on track. Call it superstition, call it madness, but since Shanghai, I haven't once felt small.
My gaze drifts to P2, where Blair stands beside her identical purple Zenith machine. Her shoulders are slumped, her posture a far cry from the cocky swagger she displayed in Japan. She looks... broken. Defeated. The electric blue hair poking out beneath her helmet seems duller somehow, her silver eyes vacant as she stares at nothing in particular.
The sight should fill me with satisfaction. Instead, I feel a strange hollowness. Where's the fun in crushing someone who's already crushed?
"Everything good with the car?" I ask my race engineer as she makes final adjustments to my steering wheel settings.
"Perfect," my engineer confirms, her fingers dancing across the complex array of buttons and dials. "Weather's holding steady. Track temperature exactly as predicted."
Behind me in P3, Olivia Piastri gestures animatedly to a tall, brown-haired woman with glasses. The engineer nods seriously, making notes on her tablet as Olivia explains something about the car's balance.
I glance back at Blair, and something shifts in my chest. A race without worthy opposition is hardly a race at all. What's the point of dominating if there's no resistance, no challenge?
Nick's words from before Suzuka echo in my mind. "Can you ruin her." I told him then I'd make Blair ever regret letting him go. A wicked idea sparks in my mind.
I scan the immediate area. Olivia has wandered off somewhere as well as her engineer. My engineer has also disappeared into the sea of purple uniforms, probably fetching something from the garage. The pre-race chaos provides perfect cover for what I'm about to do.
I catch Blair's eye and motion her over with a crooked finger, plastering my most infuriating smile across my face.
"What?" she asks, reluctantly shuffling toward me, suspicion etched across her features.
"I just wanted to share something special with you," I say, keeping my voice low enough that only she can hear me. "About how Nick and I got together. You know, since you're technically responsible."
Her silver eyes narrow to slits. "I don't want to hear about your relationship."
"Oh, but you should," I purr, leaning closer. "See, after you reported me to the stewards in China for that yellow flag incident, I was so furious I wanted to fight you, but I found your boyfriend instead. I decided to hurt him. Really hurt him."
Blair's posture stiffens, the first signs of life I've seen in her all weekend.
"I cornered him in your trailer," I continue, watching her face carefully. "I pinned him down, tied his hands to a table, and raped him. It's funny you had just dumped him, he even had tears in his eyes but i had no idea. I thought he was lying until you confirmed the breakup on the podium. Nick fought back at first, but then something... interesting happened between us."
"He must have felt so betrayed by how deeply you shattered his heart," I whisper, watching her face contort, "because what started as revenge transformed into something... passionate. You should have seen him begging me to untie his wrists, those pretty eyes all desperate. Of course I obliged." I lean closer, my voice dropping lower. "And then I fell completely, hopelessly in love."
Blair's face drains of all color. Her silver eyes widen, not with the anger I expected, but with pure, unfiltered horror. Her body trembles visibly beneath her racing suit.
"You..." Her voice shakes, barely audible over the pre-race commotion. "You raped my boyfriend because I reported you for missing a fucking yellow flag?" She takes a step back, her helmet nearly slipping from her trembling fingers. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
I smile, drinking in her reaction like fine champagne. This is even better than I'd hoped.
"I love to win, Blair," I say with a casual shrug. "I thought you were like me too. Willing to do whatever it takes. I'd do anything to get in my opponents head."
Blair stares at me like she's seeing me for the first time, her silver eyes searching my face for any sign that I'm joking. Finding none, she shakes her head slowly, her voice still unsteady.
"That's not normal. What the fuck is wrong with you?" she repeats, the words barely a whisper.
I laugh, the sound sharp enough to make her flinch. "You threw him away like garbage," I counter, gesturing dismissively. "What do you care what happened after?"
The horror in her eyes begins to crystallize into something harder, sharper.
"You're sick," she spits, her voice finding strength in disgust. "You're fucking deranged."
"Am I?" I tilt my head, studying her with predatory interest. "Or am I just more committed to victory than you'll ever be?"
Before she can respond, the one-minute warning blares across the grid. Mechanics scramble into final positions, the controlled chaos intensifying around us.
A movement catches my eye, a woman rises from beneath Olivia's car like some mechanical specter, wiping grease-stained hands on her orange uniform. She must have been working on Piastri's car while I was busy with Blair, crouched low enough to be invisible until now. Her eyes meet mine briefly before darting away anxiously, focused on some adjustment to her tablet.
I freeze momentarily, wondering how much she overheard. Probably nothing over the cacophony of pre-race preparations. Even if she did, who would believe her? The thought dissolves as quickly as it forms, I have bigger prey to focus on.
Blair hasn't moved, still staring at me with an expression I'll treasure forever. It's beyond disgust or anger. It's the look of someone who's glimpsed something truly monstrous lurking beneath human skin. Fear mingles with revulsion in those silver eyes, her mouth slightly open as if words have failed her completely.
"Well," I drawl, injecting every syllable with mockery, "I'll see you out there on track, cuh."
I slide my helmet over my head before she can respond. The world narrows to what I can see through my visor, sounds muffling into that perfect racing cocoon.
As I lower myself into my car's cockpit, I feel a warm trickle down my inner thigh, Nick's essence making its presence known. The sensation sends a jolt of electric pleasure through my body, a physical reminder of our connection, our ritual, our power.
Through my visor, I catch Blair still watching me, her helmet now in place but her posture rigid with tension. Even with her face hidden, I can feel the weight of her stare, the horror and hatred radiating from her like heat waves off desert asphalt.
God, this feels good. Better than good, it feels transcendent. There's a purity to her hatred now, an honest emotion I can use, manipulate, twist to my advantage.
Now, we can finally race.
*****
[Blair's POV]
The cockpit feels like it's closing in on me, walls shrinking until I can barely breathe. My stomach heaves violently as bile rises in my throat, the acid taste of revulsion burning behind my teeth. I fumble with trembling fingers to adjust my visor, desperate for air that doesn't feel contaminated by what I just heard.
Oh god. Nick.
The image flashes unbidden, him pinned down, helpless, terrified, while I was busy sulking over my image. My chest constricts with a pain so acute it feels physical. All month I've been drowning in regret over ending things, replaying our final conversation, wondering if I'd made the biggest mistake of my life.
'But this... this is so much worse.'
I didn't just break his heart. I left him vulnerable to a monster. A monster who's now smirking at me from her pole position car, purple eyes gleaming with satisfaction behind her visor.
"West? Are you receiving?" My engineer's voice crackles through the radio, distant and unimportant. "Your heart rate's spiking. Everything okay?"
I can't answer. My mouth opens, but no sound emerges. I'm failing at the most basic human functions, breathing, speaking, thinking clearly, just as I failed Nick when it mattered most.
"Blair? Do you copy?" The concern in my engineer's voice cuts through the fog.
"I'm here," I manage, the words scraping my throat like broken glass. "I'm... fine."
My racing suit clings to my sweat-soaked body as the truth crystallizes in my mind with horrifying clarity.
Nick isn't with Ivy by choice. He's her prisoner, her victim, trapped in the clutches of a monster wearing human skin.
And I'm the only one who knows.
The realization hits me with such force that my vision blurs. My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly I can feel my knuckles straining against my gloves. I've never felt this kind of clarity before, this absolute certainty of what I need to do.
The first red light comes on.
Nick needs to be saved. Ivy needs to be stopped. Permanently.
Even if Nick never comes back to me after what I did to him, I can't leave him with her. No one deserves that kind of torture, that psychological prison. My throat constricts as I think of him smiling at her side, the diamond on his finger marking him as her property. A trophy of her violence.
The third light glows. Then the fourth.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears as the final light illuminates. I'm not racing for points today. I'm racing for Nick's life.
All five lights extinguish at once, and twenty-two engines scream in unison as we launch forward. Ivy's car rockets ahead of mine, her perfect start giving her an immediate advantage. I slam my foot down harder, desperation fueling my aggression as we hurtle toward the first corner.
The world narrows to just her purple car and mine, everything else peripheral, unimportant. My stomach churns with nausea as I realize what I'm contemplating. There's no coming back from this, no podium that could justify what I'm planning. But Nick's freedom is worth more than my career, my reputation, everything.
Through turn one, I stay tight to her rear wing, refusing to let her break away. The G-forces crush my body as we accelerate down the straight, my car dancing on the edge of control. My engineer's voice crackles in my ear, something about tire temperatures, but her words wash over me unheard.
My mind races through scenarios, calculating angles, speeds, points of impact. It would need to look like an accident. A racing incident. Just two competitors pushing too hard, with catastrophic consequences.
As we complete the first lap, she's still in reach, her purple machine tantalizingly close. One decisive move. Physics would do the rest.
The moment arrives with the next lap, turn one approaching at blistering speed. Ivy takes the racing line with clinical precision, her car hugging the inside curve.
I make my decision.
I deliberately steer towards the inside, positioning myself for the kill. The speedometer screams past 300 km/h as I aim my car like a missile toward her vulnerable side. My breath catches in my lungs, time stretching elastic as my finger hovers over the brake pedal.
But as the gap closes, mere meters separating our machines. A paralyzing thought crashes through my rage. I'm about to end someone's life.
I slam the brakes, a moment of humanity piercing my vengeful haze. Too late. Far too late.
My wheels lock instantly, tires screeching across asphalt as momentum carries me forward. The sickening crunch of carbon fiber meeting carbon fiber reverberates through my entire body as I T-bone Ivy's car with catastrophic force.
The world becomes chaos.
Ivy's purple machine launches skyward, spinning horrifically in slow motion. The nose cone tears away first, disintegrating into a shower of composite fragments. Her front wheels snap from their moorings like toys, cartwheeling across the track in opposite directions. The impact sends her car flipping, once, twice, three times, each rotation scattering debris across the desert circuit.
My own car becomes airborne in the collision's aftermath, the sudden weightlessness nauseating as my world inverts. The sky becomes ground as I flip, the harness cutting into my shoulders while my head slams against the cockpit sides despite the padding.
We both come to rest in the gravel trap, our multi-million dollar machines reduced to twisted wreckage. The sudden silence after such violence is almost more shocking than the crash itself.
I hang upside down, suspended by my harness, blood rushing to my head. Through my cracked visor, I can see Ivy's mangled car twenty meters away. The protective halo, that titanium ring designed to shield drivers from exactly this kind of catastrophe, remains intact around her cockpit.
Movement catches my eye. Her steering wheel flies through the air, tossed aside with deliberate force. My heart plummets as I realize what this means.
She's alive.
I watch in disbelief as Ivy extracts herself from the destroyed chassis, using her arms to pull her body from the wreckage with impossible strength. Not a stumble, not a limp, she emerges like some invincible demon, apparently unscathed despite the violence I've just subjected her to.
Hot tears flood my eyes beneath my visor. I failed. I tried to kill her, compromised everything I believe in, and accomplished nothing except destroying two cars and possibly my career.
The marshals rush toward us, yellow flags waving frantically. They reach my overturned car first, voices muffled through my helmet as they check my condition. I can only nod numbly as they carefully extract me from the twisted cockpit.
As my feet touch solid ground again, the full weight of what I've done crashes over me. My legs buckle beneath me, and I rip my helmet off just in time to vomit violently into the Bahrain gravel. The marshals step back, giving me space as I empty my stomach, retching until only bitter bile remains.
When I finally look up, Ivy stands twenty paces away, still wearing her helmet. Even with her face obscured, the hatred radiating from her is palpable, a physical force that makes my skin crawl. She knows. She knows exactly what I tried to do.
A medical team approaches, but she waves them away without taking her eyes off me. The message is clear.
This isn't over.
And Nick is still her prisoner.