There's something hypnotic about watching the woman you love speed around a racetrack at 300 km/h, like watching a goddess of war dance between disaster and glory. My knuckles have gone white against the Paddock Club balcony railing, the diamond on my finger catching Bahrain's merciless sunlight as Ivy's purple machine screams down the main straight.
The desert heat is oppressive, sweat trickling down my back despite the air conditioning pumping through the exclusive viewing area. I've barely touched my champagne, too focused on the purple blur that contains my fiancée as she fights for pole position.
"Fucking hell," mutters a voice beside me, followed by a disgruntled sigh.
I tear my eyes away from the track to find a guy about my age leaning against the railing. He has short dark brown hair and bloodshot brown eyes, his expensive designer shirt partially unbuttoned and showing a bit too much chest. The fruity concoction in his hand looks radioactive, decorated with at least three different tropical garnishes and a tiny purple umbrella. He takes a long sip, leaving a mustache of condensation on his upper lip that he doesn't bother to wipe away.
When he notices me looking, he straightens his posture and extends his free hand, the movement causing his drink to slosh dangerously.
"You're Nick, right?" he asks, his words carrying the slight slur of someone several drinks deep.
"Yeah," I reply cautiously, shaking his hand.
He tosses his head to get his bangs out of his eyes, a gesture that reminds me of every popular boy in high school. "I'm Adam. Lana Norris's boyfriend."
My stomach tightens. Lana Norris, the British driver whose crash brought out the yellow flags in Suzuka that cost Ivy her battle with Blair. The one Ivy called "pathetic" for crying in her car.
"Nice to meet you," I offer, turning back to the track where Ivy's purple machine is starting another flying lap.
Adam sways slightly on his feet, leaning in closer than necessary. His perfume, something expensive and overpowering, mixes unpleasantly with the scent of alcohol.
"Can you keep a secret?" he asks, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
I lean back, creating some distance between us. "Probably not, to be honest."
He laughs, but there's something broken in the sound, a hollowness that doesn't match his attempt at camaraderie. His bloodshot eyes reflect something darker than mere intoxication.
"Lana's team principal has been blackmailing me," he blurts out, glancing nervously over his shoulder.
"What?" I nearly choke on my champagne.
Adam leans in closer, his drink sloshing dangerously as he cups one hand around his mouth. "Lana has this... kink," he whispers, his cheeks flushing. "She likes to watch me with black pregnant women."
My brain short-circuits, unable to process what I'm hearing. "I... what?"
"Well, she actually prefers when they peg me," he continues, his face now crimson as he takes another gulp of his drink. "You know, with strap-ons and stuff."
"Please stop talking to me," I mutter, looking desperately for an escape route.
He doesn't seem to register my discomfort, continuing as if I'd asked for elaboration. "But now Morgan Stella, Lana's team principal, she found out somehow. She has videos, and she's threatening to release them if I don't 'play ball.'"
The conversation has veered so far from normal paddock small talk that I feel like I've entered some bizarre alternate dimension. On the track below, Ivy's car screams past, completely unaware of the surreal conversation happening above.
"You need to tell the police."
"Jesus," Adam murmurs, his eyes suddenly wide with panic. His phone erupts with a shrill ringtone, and he nearly drops his tropical abomination as he fumbles to retrieve it from his pocket. The caller ID drains his face of color.
"Oh no," he whispers, hand trembling as he holds up the screen. "It's Morgan. What should I even say to her?"
I just stare at him, completely at a loss for words. Instead of waiting for my response, Adam lets out a small squeak and scurries away, phone clutched to his ear like it might bite him. His shoulders hunch as he disappears behind a group of corporate sponsors, his voice rising to a high-pitched "Yes, Ms. Stella, right away!"
"What the fuck?" I mutter, watching his retreat with a mixture of confusion and relief.
The surreal encounter leaves me feeling like I've been dropped into someone else's fever dream. I turn back to the track, trying to refocus on Ivy's qualifying session, but Adam's bizarre confession lingers in my mind like an unwanted earworm.
"Excuse me."
I whirl around at the sound of a woman's voice behind me, the champagne in my glass sloshing dangerously. My heart nearly stops.
Standing before me is Enza Venturi herself, the Italian racing legend, three-time world champion, and Ivy's former mentor. Her elegant black hair frames a face that's graced countless magazine covers, those famous hazel eyes studying me with calculated interest. She's dressed in an impeccably tailored white pantsuit that makes her look like she's stepped straight off a Milan runway rather than into a sweltering paddock.
"Holy shit," I blurt out, my brain-to-mouth filter completely malfunctioning. "You're Enza Venturi!"
My voice cracks embarrassingly on her last name, but I can't help it. This woman is motorsport royalty. Before Ivy's meteoric rise, Enza was the queen of Formula 1, her tactical brilliance and ruthless overtaking making her both feared and revered throughout the paddock. She's the woman to dethrone Michaela Schumacher for Christ's sake.
"You're an absolute legend," I continue, the words tumbling out in an unstoppable fanboy avalanche. "My sister and I used to watch all your races. That battle with Alonsa at Monza in 2016? Unbelievable. We still talk about it."
Something shifts in Enza's expression, her perfectly composed features faltering for just a moment. The cool, almost maniacal smile she'd been wearing transforms into something more uncertain, almost panicked.
"Shit," she mutters under her breath, her Italian accent thickening with apparent frustration. "You're much nicer than I was hoping you'd be."
I blink at her, completely thrown by this unexpected response. "Me? Wait, you know who I am?"
Enza's shoulders slump as she moves to stand beside me at the railing, her perfect posture crumbling like a sandcastle at high tide. The balcony breeze catches her hair, sending dark strands dancing across her face.
"I came here to tell you to break up with Ivy," she says, her voice soft but direct.
My expression hardens instantly. "What the actual fuck is with everyone today?" I snap, gripping the railing tighter. "First Adam with his weird fucking blackmail confession, and now you want me to dump my fiancée? Is there something in the paddock water?"
"What…" Enza starts, but her words die in her throat as her gaze drops to my left hand. Her hazel eyes widen dramatically, fixating on the enormous diamond catching the desert sun.
"You're her... fiancé?" The word trembles on her lips, fragile and disbelieving.
"Yeah," I confirm, straightening my spine and squaring my shoulders. "And I'll deadass throw hands right now if you think I'm dumping her."
I've never threatened to fight anyone in my life, let alone a motorsport legend, but something about defending my relationship with Ivy brings out a protective ferocity I didn't know I possessed.
Enza's eyes glisten momentarily, but she blinks rapidly, refusing to let tears fall. She doesn't look intimidated by my amateur tough-guy routine, more like someone who's just been told their terminal diagnosis is confirmed.
She turns away, leaning heavily against the railing. Below us, Ivy's purple machine screams through the final corner, setting a purple first sector time.
"You have no idea what you're getting into," she murmurs, her voice almost lost beneath the engine's howl. "She's not who you think she is."
I roll my eyes so violently I'm surprised they don't detach from their sockets. "I don't give a shit what you think she is or isn't. I love who she is with me."
Enza scoffs, a bitter smile twisting her elegant features. "In our last season together, we were lovers."
"What the fuck?" The words explode from me before I can stop them. My stomach lurches like I've just crested a roller coaster. "She never told me that."
"Did you ask?" Enza's eyebrow arches perfectly, her expression almost pitying.
"No, I guess I didn't," I admit, suddenly feeling dizzy. "It's only been about three weeks since we got together."
Enza laughs, the sound brittle as glass. "She begged me to be her lover at the start of the season. She was my protégée." Her voice drops to a whisper, her eyes distant with memory. "It felt wrong, but oh so right."
"Stop talking about my fiancée like this," I snap, my hands trembling against the railing. "I don't want to hear this shit."
But Enza continues, her words spilling out in an unstoppable flood, eerily mirroring Adam's earlier confession. "She showered me with love, with devotion. I gave her everything, my knowledge, my body, my heart." Her voice catches. "Then finally, our last race together, she had pole position. As we were getting into our cars, she made the most evil smile I've ever seen in my life. Her eyes were... manic, soulless. She laughed at me and said she never loved me, that she didn't even like me. That she just wanted to destroy me. I could barely even drive that day."
I stare at her for a long moment, then burst into laughter.
"Ruthless," I say, nodding with something like admiration. "That tracks."
Enza blinks at me, clearly thrown by my reaction. "Did you hear what I said? She used me, manipulated me, and discarded me when I was no longer useful."
"So that's why you walked away from Formula 1?" I ask, leaning against the railing with newfound confidence. "And now you're slumming it in IndyCar? Seems like quite the downgrade for Ferrari's last champion."
Enza shakes her head, a flash of determination replacing the vulnerability in her eyes. "I'm going to beat Ivy at her own game."
"I'm not following," I reply, genuinely confused.
"The Triple Crown," she says simply, as if those three words explain everything. Her hazel eyes burn with renewed purpose.
I sigh deeply, running my thumb over the massive diamond on my finger. "Look, Enza, if you get in Ivy's way again, she'll just destroy you. Again." I meet her gaze directly. "It's your funeral."
Something suddenly clicks in my brain. Enza Venturi. IndyCar. My sister.
I jab my finger toward her, my hand trembling with a sudden surge of protective rage. "Wait a second. My sister Melissa is driving the Indy 500 this year, and if I hear you've been anywhere near her..."
My thoughts scatter like startled birds. What exactly am I threatening her with? I'm not exactly intimidating.
"I don't know what I'll do, but I'll tell Ivy you tried something, and she'll probably..." The words tangle in my throat as I struggle to articulate the implied threat. Ivy would destroy her, but saying that out loud feels both childish and terrifying.
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. "Just stay the hell away from my sister. Don't even look at her, got it? She doesn't need your mind games or whatever this is."
Enza's perfectly sculpted eyebrows knit together in genuine confusion. "Why would I do anything to your sister?" She shakes her head slowly. "I don't even know her."
The earnest bewilderment in her voice makes me falter. Maybe I've misread the situation entirely.
"What the fuck was the point of any of this?" I demand, gesturing wildly between us. "Coming here, telling me all this shit about Ivy, trying to break us up? What were you hoping to accomplish?"
Enza's shoulders slump even further.
"I thought I'd save you," she says simply, her voice soft with something like regret. "Before you end up like me."
I stare at her for a long moment, this woman whose career I'd followed since childhood, whose races I'd analyzed on endless replays, whose biography sits dog-eared on my bookshelf back home. The living legend now standing before me, reduced to this desperate attempt to meddle in a relationship she knows nothing about.
Without another word, I turn and walk away, leaving behind the woman I once idolized. Each step feels heavier than the last, like I'm shedding some part of my childhood with the increasing distance between us.
Behind me, I hear her call my name once, but I don't look back. On the track below, Ivy's purple monster flashes across the finish line, setting a time that will undoubtedly secure pole position. The crowd erupts in cheers, the sound washing over me like a cleansing wave.
"At least she's driving well."