I watch with breathless anticipation from the Paddock Club balcony as Ivy launches her purple beast from pole position, the car responding to her touch like it's an extension of her body. My heart pounds against my ribs, the diamond on my finger catching the desert sun as I grip the railing. She's magnificent, a goddess of speed carving through the Bahrain air with surgical precision.
Lap one unfolds like poetry in motion. Every apex kissed perfectly, every straight attacked with calculated aggression. The commentator's voice booms through nearby speakers, marveling at how Ivy Hunt is "absolutely untouchable today." Pride swells in my chest. That's my fiancée down there, carrying my sperm into battle.
But as they approach turn one on lap two, time suddenly stretches like taffy.
Blair's car, the identical purple Zenith machine trailing behind Ivy's, suddenly veers inward at a horrifying speed. As she gets closer she finally hits her brakes, but her car ends up locking up.
"No!" The word tears from my throat as the inevitable collision unfolds.
The impact is catastrophic. Blair crashes into the side of Ivy's car with such impact that it's sent flying into the air, spiraling wildly against the blue Bahrain sky. Purple carbon fiber explodes in every direction as Ivy's machine cartwheels across the track.
My legs give out beneath me. I collapse against the railing, unable to breathe, unable to process what I'm witnessing. Around me, the Paddock Club erupts in gasps and screams, but they sound distant, underwater. My entire world narrows to the mangled purple wreckage spinning to a stop in the gravel trap.
"Please," I whisper, the word a desperate prayer to whatever gods might be listening. "Please be alive. I don't care if she's broken just please let her be alive."
The medical car screams onto the track as marshals sprint toward the crash site, yellow flags waving frantically. Seconds stretch into eternities as I search desperately for any sign of movement from Ivy's destroyed machine.
Then, impossibly, miraculously, I see her steering wheel fly in the air with an angry throw. And then her purple helmet emerges from the wreckage. Ivy lifts herself from the twisted carbon fiber with fluid movements that defy the violence she just endured. She stands, brushes gravel from her suit, and turns toward Blair's overturned car with such deliberate menace that I can feel it even from this distance.
Relief floods through me with such force that my knees nearly buckle again. She's alive. She's walking. She's okay.
The moment of relief is immediately followed by a second cold wave of dread as my eyes dart back to Blair's overturned car. Oh God. Blair. The mangled purple chassis lies upside down, smoke wisping from the twisted remains.
My stomach lurches. Despite everything, despite the humiliation, the public breakup, the way she'd tried to manipulate me in Cambridge, I feel sick at the thought of her being seriously hurt. I never wanted this. Not for her. Not for anyone.
"Please get out," I whisper, surprising myself with the intensity of my concern. "Come on, Blair."
I scan the wreckage desperately, searching for any sign of movement. The seconds tick by with excruciating slowness. Around me, strangers murmur and point, their faces reflecting the horror I feel. Someone nearby is filming with their phone, and I resist the urge to knock it from their hands.
Finally, marshals reach Blair's car. They work with urgency, stabilizing the vehicle before carefully pulling her out. When I see her helmet emerge from the wreckage, another wave of relief washes over me. She's conscious. She's moving.
Blair stumbles to her feet, rips off her helmet, and immediately doubles over, vomiting into the gravel. Even from this distance, I can see her body trembling violently.
"Thank god," I breathe, sagging against the railing.
But as my relief solidifies, something darker rises beneath it, a simmering anger that starts in my gut and spreads outward like poison. What the actual fuck was Blair thinking? That move wasn't just aggressive. It was suicidal. There was never a gap there, not even close. Did she honestly think she could thread that needle at 300 kilometers per hour, or was she just driving like a complete moron?
I push away from the railing, my hands shaking with a mixture of leftover fear and growing rage. People around me are still gasping and pointing, some already rewatching the crash on their phones, but I can't stand here another second.
"Excuse me," I mutter, shouldering past a group of corporate guests who barely register my existence. I need to get to Ivy. Now.
The Paddock Club stairs feel endless as I take them two at a time, my heart still hammering against my ribs. Security tries to stop me at the bottom, some rule about staying in designated areas during red flags, but I flash my team credentials with such ferocity that the guard actually steps back.
"That's my fiancée," I snap, not slowing down.
The paddock is chaos, team personnel rushing in every direction, medical staff jogging toward the track exit. I follow them, knowing they'll lead me to where the drivers are being brought. The desert heat beats down mercilessly as I weave between golf carts and equipment trolleys, the massive diamond on my finger catching sunlight with every movement.
The medical center looms ahead, a squat white building with ambulances parked outside. Two Zenith team members stand anxiously by the entrance, their purple uniforms making them easy to spot. They recognize me immediately.
"Nick!" calls one, a tall woman whose name I can never remember. "She's inside. She's refusing treatment."
Of course she is. That's my Ivy.
I burst through the door into the blessed cool of air conditioning. The reception area is a flurry of activity, doctors conferring in hushed tones, nurses preparing equipment. I scan the room frantically until I spot a flash of purple and black in a curtained-off section.
"Sir, you can't…" a doctor begins, but I'm already pushing past him.
Ivy sits perched on the edge of an examination table, still in her racing suit, helmet discarded beside her. There's not a scratch on her, not even a hair out of place. She's arguing with a medical officer who looks increasingly frustrated.
"I told you, I'm fine," she's saying, her voice carrying that edge of steel I've come to recognize. "I don't need…. Nick!"
Her eyes light up as she spots me, relief washing over her face. She reaches for me, but I step back, crossing my arms over my chest. My jaw clenches as I fix her with the coldest stare I can muster.
"What?" she asks, her relief morphing into confusion.
I don't budge, keeping my eyes locked on hers, silently communicating my fury. Her purple eyes narrow, meeting my glare with one of her own, the championship-winning intimidation stare that's made grown racers tremble.
But not me. Not today. Not after watching her car cartwheel through the air.
We remain locked in this silent battle of wills until Ivy finally breaks. Her shoulders slump slightly, and she exhales sharply through her nose.
"Fine," she mumbles, turning to the doctor with obvious annoyance. "Let's run your little tests. But my fiancé stays with me."
The doctor glances between us, clearly sensing the tension crackling in the air. After a moment's hesitation, he nods.
"Of course," he says, gesturing toward a chair beside the examination table. "You're welcome to stay."
I take the seat without a word, my anger still simmering as the doctor begins checking Ivy's vitals. She submits to the examination with the grace of a panda falling out of a tree, wincing dramatically when the blood pressure cuff tightens around her arm.
Every exaggerated wince, every dramatic sigh from Ivy chips away at my anger until it crumbles completely. Watching her petulant resistance to basic medical care after such a horrific crash, I feel something inside me break. My vision blurs as unexpected tears well up in my eyes, the emotional whiplash of the last twenty minutes finally catching up to me.
I let out a shaky breath, a small smile tugging at my lips despite everything. She's alive. She's here. She's being ridiculous.
Ivy pauses mid-complaint, her purple eyes focusing on my face. Her expression softens immediately, the hardness melting away as she notices my tears.
"Hey, it's okay, Nick," she says, her voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "I'm fine, see? Not even a scratch."
I nod, swiping quickly at my eyes with the back of my hand. "I know. I just... I got so scared. Seeing your car like that..."
The doctor discreetly steps away, giving us a moment of privacy as Ivy reaches for my hand, threading her fingers through mine.
"It'll take more than Blair's temper tantrum to get rid of me," she says, trying for humor but not quite hitting the mark. "The halo did its job. The car absorbed everything."
I squeeze her hand, anchoring myself to her solid presence. "That wasn't just aggressive driving, Ivy. That was…" I struggle to find the right words. "It looked deliberate."
Ivy's eyes flash with something dangerous, a shadow crossing her face so quickly I almost miss it. Her fingers tighten around mine for a split second before relaxing.
"Nick..." she begins, her voice low and controlled. The way she says my name sends a chill down my spine. There's something there, something she's holding back.
I lean closer, searching her face. "What happened out there? You know something, don't you?"
She holds my gaze, those purple eyes unreadable as she seems to make a decision. The bustling medical center fades into background noise around us. Finally, she lets out a breath and pulls me closer until our foreheads nearly touch.
"I need you to trust me right now," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "Let's just get through this medical nonsense and the stewards' investigation. Once we're alone, I'll tell you everything."
The weight in her words makes my stomach drop. Whatever "everything" is, I can tell it's not good.
"Okay."