Page 97 of Hot Lap
When the checkered flag waves and his name lights up as P3 alongside Petra’s in P2, the Nitro garage comes alive. There are shoulder claps, quiet grins, and daps all around. It’s pure satisfaction.
Someone taps my arm. It’s one of the media handlers.
“Time to move toparc fermé.”
I hand off the headset and follow her and the rest of the team. God, it’s amazing to be included in this. Everyone’s excitedand happy, drawing me into their inner circle like I’ve always belonged.
The logistics of getting from garage to podium area pass in a rush of credentials, checkpoints, and guided movement around barriers designed to keep the public at bay.
Then comes the podium ceremony — national anthems, champagne, and smiles.
Reece takes the third step, helmet off, hair damp with sweat, looking out at the crowd with something between satisfaction and hunger. When they hand him the trophy — a sleek silver and blue column that catches the floodlights — he holds it up briefly, then immediately looks toward our section. Toward me.
Even from this distance and with hundreds of people between us, that moment feels private, like he's saying, "This one's for us."
The champagne comes next. He gets doused by Petra, and I laugh as he tries to shield his eyes while drenching her right back. Nico joins in, and for a few seconds, they're just three people who've survived another dance with physics and won.
I'm grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.
When it's over and the crowd disperses, Reece remains at the track for media obligations and a team debrief.
Someone makes sure I get back on the transport to the hotel. There’s a sponsor event tonight, and after watching Reece stand on that podium, and seeing what this sport means to him, I'm determined to show the assholes —cough, Graham, cough— I’m worthy of being by his side.
Back at the hotel, I stand before my open closet, hands on my hips. The party’s in two hours and I’m staring at a selection of clothes that aren’t going to work.
The jumpsuit I wore to the race is folded across a chair, and Branca’s carefully selected cocktail options are beautiful but completely wrong. Everything’s too safe.
AetherX isn’t a company that rewards deference. Their tagline isPower in Motion, for fuck’s sake. They make six-figure enterprise software look sexy and their branding screams, “Ultramodern and forward-thinking.”
They reward impact, and they worship Petra Hayter for being part of a male-dominated power sport’s vanguard.
If I walk into their party looking like a hesitant plus-one, no one’s gonna see me as anything more than what the tabloids called me Monday morning — a glittery, accidental wife who won’t last a season.
Reece wanders into my room from his, towel slung over his shoulders. He’s damp from a shower and still glowing from the podium. He got back fifteen minutes ago, and I try very hard not to be distracted by him clad in nothing but his boxers, water beading on his chest.
“Are you okay?” He starts drying his hair with the towel.
“I need a dress.” I wave vaguely at the selection hanging before me. “Something that’ll make me look like a strategic investment, not a liability.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “The closet’s full.”
“Yes, of things for press pens and casual dinners. Not for a tech-forward, AI-designed art exhibit masquerading as a party.”
He grins and brushes a kiss just below my ear. “Then call the concierge and get whatever you need to feel comfortable in that crowd.”
“I’m not trying to becomfortable. I’m trying to beundeniable.”
“Brilliant. Be both.”
Right answer.
He disappears into his bedroom, and I pick up the phone. I could get used to this fast fashion lifestyle.
Not twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.
It’s a stylist named Amyn and he’s come with three garment bags, a makeup kit the size of a carry-on, and the look of someone who’s been tipped well enough to make miracles happen on short notice.
We narrow it down quickly. Two of the dresses are beautiful — one satin, one architectural silk — but it’s the third that stops me.
