Page 135 of Hot Lap
Peony's little stunt just reminded me exactly who the fuck I am.
Maiken Lange Pritchard doesn’t play defense.
The pashmina, the side project, and the casual, approachable, sweet-natured WAG persona are staying behind in the hotel room.
Today’s not about blending in. It’s about outshining. I’m not out for blood, exactly, but if a peony happens to wither in my shadow, I won’t cry about it.
Reece grabs his helmet bag and his duffel. He stops behind me and takes in my reflection. “You look dangerous.”
I tilt my head and side-eye him. “Thank you.”
By the time we get to the circuit, I’ve settled my plans.
Reece squeezes my hand. He’s heading to the gym first, then it’s FP3 followed later by qualies. “Keep ’em guessing, Mrs. Speed Demon.”
I pull his ear down and whisper, “The best revenge isn’t getting even, Reece. It’s being better. That’s what Frankie says.”
He leans back a little and considers me, then slowly nods. “I hear you and Frankie, avenging angel.”
While he goes off with Ona, I don’t retreat to the hospitality unit, because I’m not spending the day in safe corners. I step out. Boldly. Intentionally. In power heels that click like a metronome. My hat is a crown. My dress is armor. My lipstick is war paint.
And I won’t walk alone.
I find Lina outside the Telco Italia lounge touching up her lipstick. “I need backup.”
She looks me up and down, then caps the tube with a click. “You look like Vengeance Barbie.”
I laugh. “Then mission accomplished.”
Maria joins us a moment later, coffee in hand. “What’s going on?”
I tilt my head. “Peony made her presence known last night.”
Her eyebrows furrow and her chin drops. “That has-been?”
I nod. “Unfortunately not has-been enough.”
Gudrun strolls over, already immaculate. “So what’s the plan, darling?”
Lina answers for me. “We smile, we walk the paddock, we talk to the fans, and we show everyone exactly who therealMrs. Pritchard is.”
Gudrun grins. “Oh, it’s one of those days. Lovely.”
We move through the paddock like a four-woman PR hurricane. I smile for fans, sign autographs, let them take selfies. A teen girl in a Nitro cap stops me, wide-eyed.
“OMG, Maiken, your lipstick is so cool.”
“Want to know the color?” She nods. “It’s called Blood Debt.”
Her mother chokes on her laughter.
A group of women around my age ask for a selfie, and we pose, then they beg us to autograph their tee shirts.
Conversations pause mid-sentence as we pass. Cameras swivel to follow our path. Whispers surf our wake.
“That’sReece’s wife?”
“Damn, she looks ferocious.”
