The F1 Champion Wants to Claim Me for Herself in a Reverse World
Chapter 31: Mother in Law

The first thing that hits you about Boston in spring is the smell, not unpleasant, just distinctly urban coastal, like salt air wrestling with concrete and history.

Saudi Arabia came and went like a fever dream. Ivy won, Blair got second. The jet lag and emotional whiplash from Bahrain caught up with me hard, leaving me alternating between unconsciousness and Ivy’s arms for most of that race weekend. When I wasn’t passed out in our trailer, I was tangled up with my fiancée, discovering a gentleness in her I’d never experienced before. The woman who terrorized competitors on track handled me with such tender care it made my heart ache. I barely left our sanctuary except to watch her drive, content to exist in our private bubble.

Now we’re standing outside my mom’s apartment building in Boston, the place I called home whenever I wasn’t being dragged to racetracks during the second half of my childhood. The brick facade looks smaller than I remember, windows reflecting the late afternoon sun. My stomach twists itself into complicated knots as I stare up at the familiar structure.

Despite what I said a few weeks ago, Ivy said I’d regret not having my Mother at the wedding, so here we are.

“I wouldn’t peg you for a Boston guy,” Ivy says, squeezing my hand as she studies the building with curious purple eyes.

“That’s fair,” I reply, shifting my weight nervously.

The engagement ring feels suddenly heavier on my finger. We’re in Boston with a mission, to get married before Miami’s Grand Prix next week. The plan seemed perfect when we hatched it, a quick ceremony in America before heading to the race. But now, standing outside my childhood home with Ivy about to meet my Mother, I’m questioning every life choice that led me here.

Ivy glances at her watch for the third time in five minutes. “Your mom sure is taking her time to get ready.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “She’s just... difficult in general.”

Difficult is putting it mildly. Mom’s never been one for punctuality unless it benefits her directly. I remember all those mornings waiting for her to drive me to school, making me chronically late while Melissa somehow always managed to catch her bus on time.

My mind drifts to our dinner plans tonight. We’re meeting at Giacomo’s, that tiny North End restaurant with the perpetual line stretching down Hanover Street. The plan is simple but terrifying, tell Mom about the engagement before she discovers it online or, god forbid, at the actual ceremony tomorrow. At least the shock might be contained in a public setting where she can’t completely lose it.

“At least Melissa’s already in town,” I say, trying to focus on positives. “She flew in early just for us.”

Ivy smiles, that genuine one that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. “I still can’t believe she’s taking time away from Indy prep to see us get married.”

“Me neither,” I admit. “But she seemed excited on the phone.”

The venue Ivy’s mysterious assistant booked is some converted industrial space in Cambridge. I’ve never actually met this assistant, just heard Ivy mention her name, Cecilia, in passing. The woman’s efficiency borders on supernatural, securing us not only the venue but a justice of the peace on less than a week’s notice.

“My parents’ flight lands at Logan in a few hours,” Ivy says, scrolling through her phone. “They’re staying at the Four Seasons downtown.”

The mention of parents makes my stomach twist again. “I tried calling my dad again this morning. Still no answer.”

Ivy’s expression softens. “I’m sorry, Nick.”

“It’s fine,” I say, though it isn’t really. “Melissa says the last she heard, he’s just... partying. Living his best post-divorce life.”

A small, bitter laugh escapes me. “Which is kind of hilarious considering how conservative he was when raising us. No sleepovers, no dating until sixteen.” I shake my head. “Now he’s apparently having women half his age do body shots off him.”

Ivy raises an eyebrow. “People contain multitudes, I guess.”

“Or they’re just hypocrites,” I mutter.

The apartment building’s glass doors suddenly swing open with a mechanical whoosh, and there she is, my Mother, Kendal Woods, striding toward us with the purposeful gait of someone perpetually late for something more important.

My throat constricts instantly. Just the sight of her triggers that familiar tightening in my chest, the automatic response honed through years of disappointment and criticism. She looks exactly as I remember, impeccably tailored pantsuit, not a hair out of place in her sleek brown bob, sharp eyes already assessing and finding fault.

Ivy’s fingers intertwine with mine, her grip tightening protectively as she senses the change in my posture. The subtle support steadies me enough to find my voice.

“Hey, Mom,” I manage, the words coming out smaller than intended.

Mom’s eyes dart between us, lingering on our intertwined fingers with thinly veiled distaste. Instead of greeting me, she addresses Ivy directly, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.

“Miss Hunt, what an unexpected pleasure.” She extends a manicured hand. “I must say, I’m rather surprised to see my son has managed to capture the attention of someone of your... caliber.”

Ivy takes her hand with practiced grace, but I feel her fingers tighten around mine.

“I hope you realize what you’re getting yourself into,” Mom continues, her smile not reaching her eyes. “To think my Nicholas could somehow captivate a three-time world champion, it’s quite remarkable. He’s always been rather challenging to deal with. Problematic, even.”

The words slam into me like a physical blow. Heat rushes to my face as shame and anger battle for dominance. Twenty-one years old, engaged to be married, and she still manages to make me feel like an inadequate child within seconds of seeing me.

“Actually, Ms. Woods,” Ivy replies smoothly, her accent crisper than usual, “your son is the most genuine person I’ve ever met. Quite refreshing in my world of fake smiles and hidden agendas.”

Mom’s smile freezes, her eyes narrowing slightly. “How charming. Well, shall we?”

As she turns to lead the way, Ivy leans close to my ear. “I could actually murder her and make it look like an accident,” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin.

Despite everything, I have to stifle a laugh. “That’s my mom you’re threatening to kill.”

“I know exactly who she is,” Ivy replies, her voice hardening as she watches Mom hail a taxi with imperious efficiency. “And I already hate her.”

The taxi ride to the North End is excruciating. Mom dominates the conversation, peppering Ivy with questions about her career while completely ignoring my existence. Every now and then, she slips in a casual barb about my childhood failures or current shortcomings, each one presented as an endearing anecdote.

The taxi drops us at Hanover Street, and I feel like I’m walking to my execution. Mom strides ahead while Ivy and I follow, fingers still interlocked like we’re each other’s lifeline.

Giacomo’s hasn’t changed a bit, cramped tables, delicious aromas, and that perpetual line of tourists willing to wait hours for authentic Italian. Mom bypasses the queue with practiced entitlement, name-dropping someone I’ve never heard of to the host who immediately ushers us to a table.

“Why are there four place settings?” Mom asks, eyeing the extra chair with suspicion as we’re seated.

Before I can answer, a familiar voice calls out behind us. “Sorry I’m late!”

Melissa appears, weaving between tables with the grace she shows on track. Her practical brown bob is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a team Andretti jacket despite the warm spring evening.

Mom’s face transforms instantly, morphing from mild annoyance to something venomous. “You had your sister take time away from Indianapolis to watch you get married to a woman who’s clearly too good for you?” she hisses at me, not bothering to lower her voice.

I shrink in my seat, that old familiar feeling of inadequacy washing over me. Beside me, Ivy’s body has gone rigid, her knuckles white around her water glass. The murderous look in her purple eyes makes me genuinely concerned she might vault across the table at my Mother.

“Mom, please,” Melissa says, sliding into the empty seat. “Let’s just have a nice dinner.”

“Nice dinner?” Mom scoffs, reaching for her wine glass despite it being empty. “My daughter’s career is hanging by a thread, and she’s wasting precious practice time on... this.”

Melissa shoots me an apologetic look before turning to Mom. “My career is fine. Actually, I think you should know why I really wanted to be here tonight.”

Mom’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”

Melissa takes a deep breath, her green eyes meeting mine briefly before she continues. “Mom’s upset because she got kicked out of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway a few days ago for being drunk during my practice session.”

“For having ONE DRINK!” Mom interjects, slamming her palm on the table hard enough to make the silverware jump.

“Five drinks before noon,” Melissa corrects calmly. “And then you screamed at my engineer about tire pressures.”

“AND YOU FIRED ME TOO!” Mom’s voice rises to a pitch that turns heads at nearby tables.

Melissa straightens her shoulders, something steely entering her expression. “I think it’s time I stopped letting my Mother manage my career. Don’t you?”

I glance between my sister and Mother, a bizarre sense of pride swelling in my chest. The restaurant fades into background noise as I watch this unfold, Melissa finally standing up to our Mother after all these years.

Melissa and I lock eyes across the table, and twenty-one years of complicated history passes between us in that moment. Growing up, she was never what you’d call kind to me. She was the golden child, the racing prodigy, and I was just... there. The forgotten son who couldn’t drive worth a damn. She’d mock my attempts at gaming, call me weak when I’d cry after Mom’s brutal tirades. But somewhere beneath that rivalry, there was always something else.

When I left home at eighteen to move in with Blair, Melissa took it harder than anyone. I think that’s when she realized what she’d lost, her biggest cheerleader, the kid who’d sit for hours watching her practice laps, who’d defend her strategies to Mom even when I didn’t understand them myself. The buffer that absorbed Mom’s worst moods so they wouldn’t hit her full force.

The years since have transformed us. We’ve built something better, though it’s still fragile, maintained mostly through distance and carefully timed phone calls.

“Congratulations,” I say to Melissa, my voice surprisingly steady. “I know what a tough shadow Mom’s been to step out from under. That couldn’t have been easy.”

Mom scoffs, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. “Of course you’d support this betrayal. You’ve always undermined my authority.”

Ivy’s jaw clenches so tightly I can see the muscle twitching beneath her skin. Her smile is the most restrained I’ve ever witnessed, lips pressed into a thin line that barely qualifies as an expression of pleasure. When she speaks, it’s through gritted teeth, each word precisely measured.

“Please don’t speak to him that way,” she says, her voice dangerously soft.

Mom cuts her off with a dismissive wave. “Did you know Nick wanted to go to college when he graduated his online high school?” She lets out a sharp, mocking laugh that slices through the restaurant chatter.

I sigh, sinking lower in my chair as the familiar humiliation washes over me. Every family dinner, every holiday, the same stories dragged out like trophies of my inadequacy.

“I don’t understand,” Ivy says, genuine confusion flickering across her face.

Mom takes a sip of water, eyeing Ivy over the rim of her glass. “Why would I waste money for Nick to go find a wife? He sucks at cooking anyway.” She chuckles as if she’s delivered the punchline to a hilarious joke.

The table falls silent. Even the ambient restaurant noise seems to dim, as if the universe itself is holding its breath. Melissa’s eyes widen, darting between Mom and Ivy with growing alarm.

“I’m sorry,” Ivy says after a moment, her accent thickening with barely contained rage. “I think I misheard you. You denied your son an education because... cooking?”

Mom rolls her eyes. “Men go to college to find wives, everyone knows that. What was the point of sending him? It’s not like he was going to be an engineer or doctor.”

I don’t even see Ivy move. One moment she’s sitting beside me, rage simmering beneath her controlled expression, and the next she’s airborne, a purple blur launching across our table. Wine glasses topple, plates clatter to the floor, and suddenly my fiancée has my Mother by her expensive silk collar, yanking her halfway across the scattered remains of our bread basket.

“You worthless excuse for a parent!” Ivy roars, her first punch connecting with Mom’s jaw with a sickening crack.

The restaurant erupts in chaos. Patrons gasp and scream as Ivy rains down blow after merciless blow, her championship-trained muscles flexing with each impact. Mom’s head snaps back and forth like a ragdoll, her perfectly coiffed hair now a disheveled mess, blood trickling from her split lip.

“Ivy, no! There’s people here.” I cry out, my hands flying to my head in horror, fingers clutching my hair as I watch the violent spectacle unfold. My legs won’t move, body frozen between the instinct to intervene and the paralyzing shock of seeing my fiancée beating my Mother senseless.

The most disturbing part isn’t the violence, it’s Melissa’s reaction. My sister is laughing. Not nervous giggles or shocked gasps, but full-throated, delighted laughter as she watches our Mother being pummeled. I honestly would probably be laughing too if this place wasn’t so crowded.

“Oh my god,” Melissa wheezes between fits of laughter, making no move to stop the assault. “Someone’s finally doing it!”

Waiters and customers scatter around us, someone shouting about calling the police while others record the scene on their phones. I remain frozen, watching as Ivy’s fist connects with Mom’s cheekbone, the sickening sound of flesh meeting flesh punctuated by my Mother’s pained groans.

Melissa leans toward me, her eyes bright with a manic glee I’ve never seen before. “She really likes you,” she whispers conspiratorially as Mom’s groans grow weaker. “She doesn’t do this to you, though, right?”

“God, no!” I sputter, horrified by the implication.

“Based. Ivy fucking rules then.”

The fight: