Page 100 of Hot Lap
Reece doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.
The people around them — the AetherX handlers, the media crew, even Petra across the room — heard every word.
Graham tries to recover with a dismissive scoff, but Maiken’s already turned away, her fingers laced with Reece’s.
This time, she’s not the one walking out.Graham is.He nods once, the corner of his mouth pulling tight. Then he walks away, diminished. For now.
The crowd seems to exhale around them, but Reece feels the phantom weight of cameras still tracking him and Maiken, the subtle shift in conversations as people pretend they weren't listening and won’t spend the night dissecting every word. The party continues its glossy rhythm, but the shine is slightly tarnished thanks to Graham.
Reece leads his wife two rooms deeper into the party, finally exhaling when his father is further removed. They’re surrounded by mirrored displays and drinks poured from fog. He turns to her, unvented fury burning a hole in his chest. “You good?”
Maiken meets his gaze. “That was nothing.” She rests her hand on his cheek. “Let it go. He’s not telling our story anymore, remember?”
Reece nods, but letting that shit fall away isn’t so easy when it’s all you’ve known from your father.
"C'mon, let's go someplace quiet." He grabs her hand and leads her out onto a balcony. It's not the main one everyone's crowding for photos, but a smaller one off the side terrace, away from the cameras and ambient noise. They step through a glass divider to a lounge jutting out over the marina.
Doha’s November night wraps around them, cool but not crisp, carrying the faint salt tang of the Persian Gulf on the breeze. Below, the water laps against the building's foundation, a rhythmic whisper that competes with the thrum of bass from the party. City lights shimmer across the dark water like scattered coins, and somewhere in the distance, a boat's horn sounds low and mournful.
Soft lighting. Minimalist couches. A glowing edge to the glass railing that mirrors the horizon. The lounge is sleek and calm and mostly deserted. It’s the kind of space designed to make you forget your worries.
Maiken inhales deeply as the night air moves the hem of her dress.
Reece leans close, catching her ginger perfume mixing with the salt breeze. "You want to disappear?"
"No. I want to cool off, and drink something that burns."
"I can accommodate you."
She smiles and moves to the railing. Her dress catches the light in soft pulses, the silver and gold in her hair glittering like the stars above.
The party's laughter bleeds through the glass walls, sharp bursts of conversation punctuated by the clink of crystal and the occasional flash of camera strobes that reflect briefly on the windows before disappearing.
"Be right back." Reece touches her waist, then heads for a bar that's tucked beneath an arch of light and steel, leaving her silhouetted against the glowing rail, the vast Qatar night spread out behind her like a dream.
He orders two drinks — hers with heat, his clean and clear. The bartender recognizes him but doesn't fawn, which is a relief. Reece waits quietly, eyes on the skyline, already cataloguing what he wants to say to his wife. Ice clatters in the shaker and against glass.
A voice cuts through the night behind him. It's too familiar and far too smooth, slicing through the ambient calm like a blade.
"Hell of a dress."
The words strike Reece’s spine like a match and he turns to see Junior Betterton standing too close to Maiken. Body angled in, his lazy predator smirk is on full display. Obviously, he thinks the moment is his to control.
She turns, slow and deliberate, and faces him head-on.
Reece sees the shift as her shoulders relax. Her weight is balanced, not defensive, but calculated. His wife knows how to protect herself.
DBJ says something too low for him to make out, but Mai’s chin lifts. She doesn’t step back or cower, though. Instead, she tilts her head like she’s sizing up a stain on a bathroom wall.
Then her voice rings out: “Yes, I remember you, Mr. Betterton. You left bruises on my wrist.”
Junior laughs, as if she just shared some inside joke. “Bet you enjoyed it though. Girls like you always do.”
“No.” Her tone is deadly. “And if you touch me again, I’ll put a heel through your foot and smile while you bleed.”
Dirt Bag laughs. “Fiery.” He reaches for her, but Maiken slaps his hand away.
Reece’s blood boils over as he stalks across the balcony. “Stay the fuck away from my wife, Betterton.”
