The F1 Champion Wants to Claim Me for Herself in a Reverse World
Chapter 33: Meet the Parents

There’s a special kind of hell reserved for meeting your in-laws while ESPN broadcasts your fiancée assaulting your mother on national television. I’m living in that hell right now, perched on the edge of a pristine Four Seasons couch, clutching a porcelain teacup, watching my future spiral down the drain in high definition.

“Look at her face when I connect with that right hook,” Ivy cackles, pointing at the massive suite TV where ESPN is doing a frame-by-frame analysis of last night’s restaurant brawl. “Priceless!”

Her laughter bounces off the elegant hotel room walls like it’s searching for an escape route. I sink deeper into the couch, wishing I could dissolve into the expensive upholstery. Across from me, Mrs. and Mr. Hunt sit frozen in matching armchairs, their expressions a masterclass in controlled panic.

Mrs. Hunt, Elaine, as she insisted I call her with a trembling voice, is a willowy woman with black hair streaked with elegant silver, her posture rigid enough to make a ballet instructor proud. She hasn’t touched her breakfast, just keeps rearranging her fruit with a fork while darting nervous glances at her daughter.

Mr. Hunt, Richard, hasn’t spoken more than five words since we arrived. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, but somehow seems to shrink whenever Ivy moves suddenly. His eyes, the same striking purple as my fiancée’s, keep finding mine with what looks like sympathy, or possibly a warning.

“I’m so sorry about this,” I blurt out, the silence between ESPN segments becoming unbearable. “I never meant for my mother to cause this... inconvenience.”

Ivy snorts loudly from her perch on the bed. “Inconvenience? Nick, I beat the shit of your mom on camera. Let’s not sugarcoat it.”

“Ivy, darling,” Mrs. Hunt ventures, her voice as delicate as the teacup in my hands. “Perhaps we should... focus on the wedding? It’s today, after all.”

Ivy’s eyes narrow slightly, and I watch in fascination as both her parents physically recoil.

“Mother,” Ivy says, her voice dropping to that dangerous register I’ve come to recognize. “Are you suggesting I should be embarrassed about defending my fiancé?”

“N-no, of course not!” Mrs. Hunt stammers, her teacup rattling against its saucer. “I just meant…”

“What your mother means,” Mr. Hunt interjects, his first complete sentence of the morning, “is that we’re very happy you found someone worth fighting for.” His eyes dart to his wife, silently begging her to agree.

“Yes, absolutely!” Mrs. Hunt jumps in with such eagerness that tea sloshes over the rim of her cup. She dabs at the spill with frightened fingers, nodding vigorously. “We’re so proud of you standing up for Nick. Very proud. Such a... passionate display of affection.”

I stare at Ivy, my mouth slightly open, words failing me. This isn’t normal. The way her parents flinch at her movements, their desperate attempts to appease her, it’s like watching people interact with a bomb they’re afraid might detonate.

Ivy catches my expression and her face shifts from amusement to irritation. Her eyes narrow as the silence between us stretches uncomfortably. The ESPN commentator’s voice fades into background noise as we lock gazes across the hotel suite.

When she realizes I’m not going to speak, her bottom lip juts out in that pouty expression I usually find adorable. Today, it just highlights how strange this whole situation feels.

“It’s not my fault they’re afraid of me,” she finally mutters, crossing her arms defensively.

More silence follows. I glance at her parents, who seem to be trying their best to become invisible, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on anything but their daughter. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife.

Ivy shifts uncomfortably on the bed. She looks between me and her parents, seeming to realize for the first time that this dynamic might not be as normal as she thought.

“Relax,” she says them, her voice softer now. “I’m not going to blow up on you, alright?”

She stands suddenly, causing both her parents to flinch again, but instead of approaching them, she comes to me. In one fluid motion, she sits beside me on the couch and wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me against her with surprising gentleness.

“I’ve found salvation through Nicholas here,” she announces, pressing her cheek against mine. “He’s made me... better.”

The declaration hangs in the air, startling in its vulnerability. Her parents exchange a look that contains years of unspoken communication.

“We can see that, darling,” Mrs. Hunt says carefully, the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her brightening her face. “He seems to have a wonderful effect on you.”

Mr. Hunt clears his throat, nodding in agreement. “You seem... happier than we’ve seen you in a long time.”

I feel Ivy’s arms tighten around me, her breath warm against my ear. “See?” she whispers, for my ears only. “They approve of you.”

Mr. Hunt’s expression suddenly darkens, his purple eyes, so like his daughter’s, fixing on me with unexpected intensity. “She’s not... hurting you, is she, Nick?” His voice drops to barely above a whisper, laden with genuine concern.

“Dad!” Ivy snaps, her body tensing against mine.

I quickly place my hand over hers, squeezing gently. “Not at all,” I interject before Ivy can say anything else. “She handles me with nothing but gentleness. She’s always there for me, even when her racing schedule doesn’t really permit it.” I turn to look at Ivy, finding her eyes wide with surprise at my defense. “I’ve fallen completely, madly in love with your daughter, despite how short a time we’ve been together.”

The tension in Ivy’s shoulders eases slightly, but her father’s troubled expression remains.

“I’m not a bad woman, Dad,” Ivy protests, her voice carrying a rare note of vulnerability.

Mr. Hunt’s eyebrows rise skeptically. “You bragged to us about trying to drive your last partner to suicide, Ivy.”

My stomach drops. I turn to Ivy, realization dawning. “You told them about your relationship with Enza?”

A proud smile spreads across Ivy’s face, completely at odds with the gravity of the conversation. “Yeah! She quit F1 because of me.” Her eyes gleam with a disturbing satisfaction. “Do you know how thoroughly I ruined her?”

None of this is a surprise since Ivy already told me this.

“Did she ever bring Enza around to meet you both?” I ask Mr. Hunt directly, my voice steadier than I expected.

He looks startled by my question, then shakes his head emphatically. “God, no. We never met the poor woman.”

I nod, feeling an unexpected weight lift from my shoulders. Something about knowing Ivy kept Enza separate from her family life makes this easier to process. It confirms what I already suspected, what she had with Enza was nothing like what she has with me.

“I’m not going to break you, Nick!” Ivy suddenly exclaims, her voice rising with a desperate edge. She grabs my shoulders, turning me to face her directly. “I would never do that to you. You’re not my competition. You’re my...” she struggles, searching for words, “...my sanctuary.”

I look at her, really look at her, taking in the fierce purple eyes, the determined set of her jaw, the barely contained intensity that radiates from her like heat. She’s objectively terrifying. Possibly unhinged. Definitely dangerous.

And I love her with every fiber of my being.

“I know,” I tell her softly, the truth of it settling in my chest like a warm stone.

Her face crumples with relief as she pulls me into a tight embrace, burying her face against my neck. I feel her trembling slightly against me, a vulnerability she shows to no one else.

Mr. Hunt dabs at her eyes with a napkin while Mrs. Hunt watches us with cautious optimism, like someone witnessing a wild animal being successfully tamed.

Still holding Ivy, I remember the media firestorm undoubtedly brewing outside our bubble. “Before the wedding, we should probably call Bridgette. The PR team needs to get ahead of this restaurant situation.”

Ivy pulls back, her expression hardening instantly. “No. Absolutely not. We’re getting married today, and nothing is going to overshadow that. We’ll deal with the PR stuff after our wedding.”

“But…”

“After,” she repeats, her voice brooking no argument. Her fingers trace my jawline with feather-light touches.

“Okay.”