Junior's face contorts. "What the fuck, Reece?"
"Touch her again and you'll bloody well find out exactly what the fuck." His voice is low and controlled, but there's no mistaking the threat.
The video ends, and I stare at Reece like I'm seeing him for the first time. In that moment, he wasn't RP11 the driver or the media darling. He was just a man who saw someone being hurt and made it stop. No hesitation. No calculation. Just protection, pure and simple.
He asks me, “Did Eddie record this?”
I shake my head. “Couldn’t’ve. He was on the other side of me.”
Claudia hmms. “Doesn’t matter, for now. The footage destroys Junior’s credibility. We’re prepping a statement, but I wanted you to see this first, so you can be prepared tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Media day.
I blow out a breath while Reece watches the clip again, jaw tight and expression thunderous.
Claudia says, “I’ll update you when the statement’s ready.”
“Thanks.” He ends the call and pockets his phone. Then he mutters, “So much for a quiet night.”
I lean into him. “Honestly? I’ll take this kind of noise over silence any day.”
He slips his arm around my waist and pulls me close. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. Pissed off all over again, and ready to fight. But I’m okay, thanks to the stranger in that video who stepped in when he didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did.” He cups my jaw and kisses me, then rests his forehead against mine and gazes into my eyes. “Then, now, in the future. I’ll always be there for you, Mai.”
I burrow into my husband’s arms and sigh. “I know. And I’ll always be right next to you, Reece. ’Cause we come out swinging.”
“Precisely. And side by side.”
Media day dawns bright and cool. Reece arranged for me to choose a capsule wardrobe from a styling service instead of relying on a concierge who knows nothing about me. I made my choices online last night, then they were delivered to our room this morning, and OMG, it’s like fucking Christmas came a few weeks early.
So many pretties and some are even vintage haute couture. I could get very used to this part of the F1 lifestyle.
But.
Today calls for a girl-power suit. Men’s-cut trousers in forest green herringbone wool blend, a fitted burgundy vest over a pink men’s Oxford-style shirt, sleeves rolled to my elbows. Men’s tie? Absolutely with a subtle floral pattern that ties into the whole PNW Nitro color scheme. Aggressively masculine brown belt and my brown stacked Oxfords. Though the real statement is my hair. I’ve gone full 1940’s with thick, shiny waves and genuine victory rolls pinned and sprayed to within an inch of their lives.
This is war, bitches, and my hair is locked and loaded.
Also, I’ve noticed the online interest in my style, so I’m perfectly happy to keep the fans focused. Especially since, overnight, the WAG fan groups have launched a massive counter-strike against Junior Betterton.
PRITCHARD WIFE DEFENDS HERSELF IN CLUB ALTERCATION: Footage Proves She Was Grabbed First
The headline scrolls past on my phone with a blurry still of me mid-motion. DBJ’s hand is tight on my wrist, and Reece’s hand is reaching for his.
My stomach flips, and I close the app. No way I’m starting the day like that.
Instead, I straighten my spine and pack my day bag. I’ve got the blue velvet costume with me again. It’s definitely not feathery or shimmery enough for stage, and it’s something to focus on while Reece takes meetings and faces the media.
“What’s your plan?” He watches me pack the dress and my sewing kit.
“Hospitality only. I won’t be on the paddock. Claudia said it’s too volatile.”
He nods, but there’s tightness in his shoulders.
“I’m not hiding, speed demon. I’m choosing where I belong.”
