There's a special kind of loneliness that comes from being surrounded by thousands of people who don't know your name. I'm sprawled across our king-sized bed in Ivy's trailer, staring at the ceiling while the distant roar of the Bahrain crowd filters through the walls like white noise. My phone burns a hole in my palm, Twitter notifications piling up as photos of my fiancée's pole position celebration flood my timeline.
The door hisses open, and Ivy strides in like a conquering empress, still wearing her fireproof underwear, her race suit tied around her waist. Purple highlights frame her flushed face, sweat glistening on her collarbone as she tosses her gloves onto the counter.
"Hey, you," she says, her voice husky with post-qualifying adrenaline.
"Hey," I manage, not quite meeting her eyes.
She freezes mid-step, those predatory instincts immediately sensing something amiss. Her purple eyes narrow as they scan my face, reading my mood like a speedometer.
"What's wrong?" she asks me. The mattress dips beneath her weight as she sits beside me, one hand coming to rest possessively on my thigh.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a boulder. "I met Enza Venturi today in the Paddock Club."
Ivy's hand freezes on my thigh, her entire body going still like a predator that's just spotted movement. Her purple eyes sharpen with dangerous intensity.
"She told me you two were lovers," I continue, the words tumbling out faster now. "Said you destroyed her at her final race after using her all season."
For a heartbeat, Ivy says nothing. Then her lips curl into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Well," she says with eerie calm, "sounds like she gave you the highlights."
I stare at her, searching for denial, explanation, anything that might contradict Enza's story. Instead, Ivy shifts closer, drawing me into her arms with surprising gentleness. I allow myself to be pulled against her, inhaling the familiar scent of sweat and that expensive perfume she wears under her racing suit.
"Did you love her?" I whisper against her collarbone, afraid to look at her face.
Ivy's laugh vibrates through her chest, a low, rich sound that I feel more than hear. She pulls back slightly, cupping my face in her hands to force me to meet her gaze.
"No," she says simply, her thumbs tracing my cheekbones. "I didn't love her. I wanted her so wrecked from that loss that she'd quit racing altogether. Maybe even kill herself." Her voice carries no remorse, just matter-of-fact certainty.
The casual cruelty in her admission makes my stomach twist. I search her face for any sign of regret but find only that familiar competitive gleam.
My mind reels with the implications. Is this what we are? Am I just another stepping stone in her path to glory?
"You like me more than you liked her, though, right?" The question escapes my lips before I can stop it, small and uncertain.
Ivy's expression softens unexpectedly. A genuine laugh bubbles up from deep in her chest as she leans forward to press her lips against mine. The kiss is tender, almost reverent, nothing like the possessive claiming she displayed for the cameras earlier.
When she pulls back, her purple eyes shine with adoration.
"Nick, I don't just like you more. I actually love you," she whispers, her fingers tracing my jawline. "There are no games with you. You're not my competition. You never were."
Relief floods through me, and I wrap my arms around her tightly, burying my face in the crook of her neck. Her body is warm against mine, solid and real.
But doubt still lingers, poisonous and persistent.
"I'm not going to discover this is all some elaborate scheme to get Blair to quit Formula 1, am I?" I whisper against her skin, half-joking, half-terrified of her answer.
Ivy stiffens against me, her entire body going rigid. She pulls back, her purple eyes wide with something between shock and hurt.
"God, no," she breathes, her hands moving to grip my shoulders. "Nick, that's not…"
She stops, swallows hard, then takes a deep breath.
"Look, I need to be honest with you," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper. "When we first... when I took you that day in Shanghai, I was thinking about Blair. I wanted to get inside her head, to throw her off her game."
"But then it turned out you were already single by then," she continues, her voice cracking slightly. "And suddenly, it wasn't about her anymore. It was about us. You and me."
She pulls me against her chest, squeezing me so tightly I can barely breathe, her heartbeat thundering against my ear.
"I've never felt this way about anyone," she whispers into my hair. "I meant every word of that proposal. If you don't believe me…" She pulls back, her purple eyes blazing with a fierce determination. "Let's do it tomorrow. The second we have a free moment after the race. Let's get married right here in Bahrain."
I stare at her, searching her face for any sign of deception. There's none, just raw vulnerability mixed with that characteristic Ivy Hunt intensity.
My hands find hers, fingers intertwining as I try to process her whirlwind proposal. There's something beautiful about her impulsiveness, her ability to make life-altering decisions with the same confidence she uses to take hairpin turns at 200 mph. But marriage isn't a race, it can't be won with pure speed and aggression.
"Not in Bahrain," I say softly, squeezing her hands.
Her face falls slightly, that competitive fire dimming in her purple eyes. "You're having second thoughts?"
"No," I reply quickly, bringing her hand to my lips. "I just don't want our wedding to be in a country I barely know. And I'm definitely not getting married in Saudi Arabia next weekend either."
She nods slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "That's fair."
I stare at our intertwined fingers, the massive diamond catching the light. "What about Miami? The race after Saudi?" I suggest, feeling a flutter of excitement. "We could get married in America."
"Miami," she repeats, testing the word on her tongue. Her head tilts slightly, those calculating eyes studying me. "You're American, right?"
"Born and raised," I confirm with a small smile.
She contemplates this for a moment, thumb absently stroking the back of my hand. I can almost see the gears turning behind those hypnotic purple eyes, weighing options, calculating outcomes, the same way she approaches every race strategy.
"Miami it is, then," she decides, that familiar certainty returning to her voice.
"Maybe we could get Melissa to come," I suggest the idea blooming as I speak. "And my dad too. He'd probably like to see his son get married, even if it's this sudden."
Ivy's eyes light up with unexpected enthusiasm. "That sounds perfect. I'll have my parents fly in from England for it too."
"Your parents?" The words slip out before I can stop them. In all our whirlwind romance, I've heard almost nothing about Ivy's family. "Will they... I mean, do you think they'll like me?"
"I honestly don't know," she admits, her voice softer than I've ever heard it. "My parents have always walked on eggshells around me. Like I'm some volatile substance that might explode if they say the wrong thing."
The confession hangs in the air between us, unexpectedly raw. I reach for her hand, threading our fingers together.
"Were you always like that?" I ask, studying her face. "Even when you were younger?"
She tilts her head back and laughs, the sound rich and genuine. "Oh God, yes. Very much so. I was the nightmare child who'd rather break her toys than let anyone else play with them." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "I once bit a girl at school because she beat me in a spelling competition."
I can't help but smile at the image of tiny Ivy, purple highlights and all, sinking her teeth into some unsuspecting child over a spelling bee.
"We could keep the wedding small," I suggest, squeezing her hand. "It would make things easier, less pressure. I'm definitely not inviting my mother, though."
She nods enthusiastically, leaning in to press her forehead against mine. "I can't wait."