Page 57 of Hot Lap
"That's a wrap!" the creative director finally announces. "Fantastic work, champions. These will be the cornerstone of our spring campaign!"
They head back to wardrobe to change. Reece gratefully pulls on his team gear, feeling more like himself with each familiar item.
Outside the fitness center, they pause on the sidewalk. Security keeps the perimeter clear, but in the distance, camera lenses glint.
"I'm off to the AmberPath cosmetics launch." Petra checks her watch. "Their timing is bloody terrible, but contract obligations..." She shrugs, then pulls out her phone, thumbs moving quickly across the screen.
Reece's phone pings with a notification.
"You might want to see what your wife's been up to, RP." Petra's eyes dance with amusement as she nods toward his phone. Before he can respond, a car pulls up for her. "Good luck with the rest of the vultures today.” She slides into the back seat. "And Reece? Your wife's brilliant. Don't cock this up."
He climbs into his waiting SUV, and as the driver navigates toward the circuit, he checks the link Petra sent.
It's an Instagram post by @MaiLanRouge.
He stares at the screen, pulse quickening. He's purposely avoided looking up her performer account. He wanted to know Maiken Lange before he saw Mai-Lan Rouge's public persona. Wanted his first impressions to be unfiltered by whatever image she projects to her audience.
The photo loads, and Reece's breath catches.
Maiken stands by the window of her hotel room, sunlight gilding her silhouette. She's draped in black lace that hints at curves without revealing too much, and her pose is both elegant and daring. The massive bouquet of crimson roses he sent her is a prop she’s making the most of as she holds them to her cheek, the deep red blooms a perfect match for her painted lips. One bare shoulder peeks out, a deliberate tease that manages to be both provocative yet innocent.
Her caption reads:
@MaiLanRouge:Married, not tamed. #MaiLanRouge #CherryBomb #ThisIsBurlesqueBaby
"Chriiist." He can’t look away because she's magnificent. Powerful. Completely owning her narrative.
It’s absolutely afuck youto Graham.
Also? She’s undoing her husband right here in this SUV without even being present.
Reece scrolls down, seeing the comments explode beneath the image. Most are supportive, even celebratory. A few are predictably crude. Some — from accounts with no profile pictures and generic usernames — are venomous, echoing the worst of what he heard in the press room today.
Unsettled, Reece taps over to her profile and scrolls through older posts. Performance shots in elaborate costumes. Behind-the-scenes glimpses of a sequin-covered workspace. Videos of her rehearsing dance moves that take his breath away with their precision and smoldering power.
There are bloopers that make him chuckle, including one where she slinks across the stage, sexy as hell, feather boa draped over her shoulders. She lifts her arms and one length of the boa falls, snags in her lipstick, and stays put. She makes an absurd face, picks the feather free, then rolls her eyes dramatically and throws off the entire boa. Her caption reads:
Apparently “Matte Red Velvet” is actually “Industrial Strength Glue.” Who knew?#MaiLanRouge #ThisIsBurlesqueBaby
This is a woman who knows exactly who she is and makes no apologies for it.
And somehow, inexplicably, she's his wife.
The realization hits him anew, leaving him both awed and terrified because what he sees isn't just beauty or sensuality, it's fierce intelligence and unapologetic confidence.
Qualities that make her exactly the kind of person worth fighting for.
Reece locks his phone, slipping it into his pocket as the SUV approaches the circuit gates.
The image of Maiken with his roses stays with him, a talisman against the coming onslaught. Let Graham and his vultures do their worst. The woman in that photo isn't intimidated by them.
And neither is he.
Back at the paddock, the mental marathon continues. One-on-one media interviews are next, lined up like dominoes, and twenty minutes each. He expects a handful to fish for headlines about his marriage rather than his racing.
Most of the journalists actually play it safe, sticking to sponsor questions, team dynamics, a few softballs about the championship standings. However, when he sits down across from thePaddock Accesscrew — Graham’s production team — the temperature changes instantly.
Pippa Blackwood is the producer, a woman with glossy hair and hawk-bright eyes. She barely glances at her notes before launching in.
