Page 59 of Hot Lap
Yasmine:
Holy shit it's everywhere.
I respond:
WHAT’S everywhere?!
Delilah:
Girl, we're following all the F1 fan pages now. They just aired part of a press conference. Reece shut it DOWN.
Yasmine:
He was . Defended you like a freaking knight.
Delilah:
BUT... heads up, girl. The media is talking SHITE
I swipe over to a link she sent. It’s a clipped video, grainy, already overlaid with bright red commentary banners.
The footage is from Vegas.
It shows Reece and me stumbling down a hallway, laughing, his hand on my waist. In another clip, we’re standing too close in the speakeasy at the bar, my head tipped back, laughing again. Innocent, but so fucking easy to twist.
The header and subhead with the video are brutal:
Reece Pritchard Ensnared by Stripper After Vegas Grand Prix.
Sources claim the PNW Nitro driver blindsided family and team with reckless drunken marriage.
I sit back hard against the chair, heart thudding as I remember what Reece said about Graham.
“He controls a majority of the F1 media coverage you see, and he’s a real piece of shit.”
Yeah. Okay. I guess he wasn’t exaggerating.
Yasmine:
They're painting you as some gold-digging villainess.
Delilah:
We got your back, girl. Let us know if you need anything.
I squeeze the phone until my knuckles go white.
OK. I will. Thx, girlies.
This feels surreal, like watching some fictional character get torn apart for the sake of a better story.
But also? I knew this was coming.
I look at the diamonds on my finger. I didn’t seduce Reece for this ring. I didn’t hatch some scheme to get his money and fame.
I met a man. I made a choice. A decision with consequences that keep unfolding before me on a path I never saw coming and have no idea where it leads.
Now, I’m the predator because that lie sells better than the truth. I exhale a shaky fucking breath and set the phone down.
