The F1 Champion Wants to Claim Me for Herself in a Reverse World
Chapter 35: Celebration

There’s something surreal about watching your mother confess to crimes she didn’t commit on national television while you eat overpriced room service pancakes in your underwear. Yet here I am, fork suspended midway to my mouth, as ESPN broadcasts what can only be described as the most elaborate fiction since my eighth-grade book report on Catcher in the Rye

“In a stunning development,” the anchor announces with practiced gravity, “Kendal Woods, mother of Nick Hunt and Ex-manager of Formula E driver Melissa Woods, has released a statement taking full responsibility for the altercation with Formula 1 champion Ivy Hunt at a Boston restaurant last week.”

The screen cuts to footage of my mother, face still sporting impressive bruising in shades of purple and yellow that oddly complement Ivy’s signature hair highlights. She stands at a podium, expression wooden as she reads from a statement, her voice lacking its usual sharp edge.

“I deeply regret my behavior that evening,” she recites mechanically. “I had been drinking heavily and made threatening remarks toward my son that prompted Mrs. Hunt to defensively intervene. While her response was perhaps excessive, it was ultimately my inappropriate behavior that instigated the incident.”

I nearly choke on my pancake. In what universe would my mother ever admit to being wrong, let alone take responsibility for something like this?

“Holy shit,” I whisper, reaching for the remote to turn up the volume.

“Furthermore,” my mother continues, her eyes never quite meeting the camera, “I recognize that my past treatment of my son has been unacceptable. I apologize to Nick and acknowledge that Ivy Hunt was acting protectively toward her fiancé, now husband.”

The anchor reappears, eyebrows raised dramatically. “This statement comes just days after viral footage showed the three-time world champion physically assaulting Woods. The FIA had been considering disciplinary action against Hunt, including possible suspension from this weekend’s Miami Grand Prix. Sources now indicate they’re reconsidering in light of this new information.”

I mute the TV, staring blankly at my mother’s frozen face on the screen. Her left eye still swollen, a split in her lip barely concealed by makeup. The evidence of Ivy’s handiwork displayed for all to see, alongside a confession that rewrites history so thoroughly it borders on performance art.

“What did you do?” I turn to Ivy, who’s sprawled across our bed in nothing but a shirt, looking far too pleased with herself.

She shrugs with exaggerated innocence, then reaches out to grab my wrist, pulling me down beside her with that effortless strength that still catches me off guard. Her lips brush against my ear, breath warm and intimate.

“I have absolutely no idea what Cecilia did,” she whispers, her voice playful yet somehow cautious. “It’s better to stay at least one or two degrees separated from something like that, don’t you think?”

There’s a gleam in her purple eyes that sends a shiver down my spine, not fear exactly, but a stark reminder of the power she wields so casually.

“Are you telling me your assistant somehow... blackmailed my mother?”

Ivy’s laugh vibrates through her chest and into mine where our bodies press together. “I’m telling you, I don’t know anything specific,” she says, tracing my jawline with one finger. “I simply mentioned to Cecilia that it would be convenient if your mother took responsibility. The rest...” She waves her hand dismissively. “Creative problem-solving on Cecilia’s part, I assume.”

I glance back at the TV where they’re now showing split-screen footage, my mother’s confession alongside Ivy’s restaurant rampage. The juxtaposition is jarring.

“But what could she possibly have on my mother that would make her humiliate herself like this?” I wonder aloud, unable to imagine what leverage could make Kendal Woods publicly grovel.

“Everyone has secrets, Nick,” Ivy says, reaching for a strawberry from our breakfast tray. She bites into it slowly, deliberately, juice staining her lips a darker shade of pink. “Your mother more than most, I’d wager.”

I stare at her for a long moment, trying to process everything. Everything that’s happening within her orbit, it should terrify me, but instead I feel a strange sense of security.

“Well,” I say, setting my fork down decisively, “I think we should celebrate your miraculous salvation from FIA punishment.”

Ivy’s eyes light up, that predatory smile spreading across her face as she licks the last of the strawberry juice from her fingers. “What did you have in mind, husband?”

“Let’s go out somewhere nice for dinner,” I suggest, reaching for her hand. “Show Miami that Mrs. Hunt isn’t hiding from anyone.”

“I’d love that,” she purrs, intertwining her fingers with mine. “Somewhere very public, with plenty of cameras. Let them see exactly how not-suspended I am.”

*****

The restaurant Ivy chooses is exactly what I should have expected, obscenely expensive, impossibly exclusive, and situated directly on the water with a clear view of the Miami skyline. The hostess practically bows when we arrive, ushering us to a prominently placed table that might as well have a spotlight on it.

“Is this subtle enough for you?” Ivy asks with a wink as we’re seated, the surrounding diners already sneaking not-so-discreet photos with their phones.

“Perfect,” I laugh, reaching for her hand across the table. “Nothing says ‘my wife isn’t suspended’ like dropping a thousand dollars on seafood.”

The waiter appears with champagne we didn’t order, courtesy of the owner who is “honored to host the champion.”

Ivy takes the bottle from the waiter with a gracious smile. As soon as he’s out of earshot, she pours the champagne generously into both flutes, then slides them both across the white tablecloth toward me. There’s something mischievous in her expression, a predatory glint that makes my pulse quicken.

“Sorry, darling,” she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You must have noticed by now that I don’t usually drink during race season.”

“I figured as much,” I reply, eyeing the twin glasses now stationed in front of me.

She leans forward, those purple eyes dancing with wicked intent. “So you’ll need to drink for both of us tonight.”

“If you’d rather, I don’t mind being sober with…”

“I want you drunk for me, husband,” she interrupts, her accent thickening slightly as she reaches across to trace my wrist with her fingertip. “I want to take advantage of you all night long.”

I grab the first glass and tip it back, the expensive champagne bubbling down my throat. The alcohol hits my empty stomach with a pleasant warmth as I drain the flute. Ivy immediately refills it, her eyes gleaming with approval.

“Good boy,” she purrs, sliding the second glass closer to me. “Keep going for mommy.”

I dutifully empty both glasses, already feeling a pleasant buzz spreading through my limbs. True to her word, Ivy tops off the flutes again, the bottle already half empty.

“By the way,” she says casually as I take another long sip, “the team messaged me while you were in the shower earlier.”

I pause mid-drink, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Apparently, they had no idea we’d gotten married.” Her lips curl into an amused smile. “Victoria was quite surprised to hear her star driver had a husband now.”

“Oh, right.” I chuckle, the champagne making everything seem funnier than it should be. “Famous people usually announce these things, don’t they? Press releases and exclusive photo shoots and all that.”

Ivy nods, watching with satisfaction as I drain another glass. “Precisely. I told her I’d have Cecilia put together something appropriate for release. Nothing too personal, just enough to make it official.”

The champagne is definitely working its magic now, my inhibitions melting away with each swallow. I lean forward, genuinely curious about this mysterious assistant.

“So Cecilia is your assistant, private soldier, and PR person all wrapped into one?” I ask, trying to keep my words from slurring slightly.

“And my manager, too,” Ivy adds, refilling my glasses yet again. “She handles all the boring contractual stuff.”

I blink in surprise, the alcohol making my thoughts move slower than usual. “You need a manager? You’re literally the best driver in the world.”

Ivy laughs, the sound rich and genuine. “I don’t want to have to interact with people outside of racing,” she explains, reaching across to brush her fingers against mine. “Someone has to negotiate the deals with EA for the video games, arrange the sponsorship appearances, all that tedious nonsense.”

“Makes sense,” I mumble, the room starting to tilt pleasantly around me as I finish another glass. “So she’s basically your fixer.”

Ivy leans forward, her purple eyes glinting in the restaurant’s dim lighting. “Yeah, that’s a good way to put it. Oh, and sometimes she’s my bodyguard.”

“Your bodyguard?” I blink, the champagne making my thoughts fuzzy around the edges. “But I’ve never seen her before. Not once since we’ve been together.”

A mysterious smile plays across Ivy’s lips as she takes a sip of her water. “That’s because she’s rather good at hiding in plain sight. It’s part of her charm.”

The alcohol emboldens me as I drain another glass. “Well, shouldn’t I meet her? She seems pretty important in your life.”

Ivy’s expression shifts, something possessive flickering across her features as she reaches across the table to take my hand. Her thumb traces circles against my palm, sending shivers up my arm.

“I’d rather you not go meeting any new women, husband,” she says, her voice dropping to that husky register that makes my stomach flip. “Especially not ones as competent as Cecilia.”

Heat rushes to my face, spreading down my neck as I realize what she’s implying. The blush only deepens when she brings my hand to her lips, pressing a kiss against my knuckles while maintaining eye contact.

“You’re really hot when you’re jealous,” I mumble, the champagne loosening my tongue.

“I’m not jealous,” Ivy counters, though her grip on my hand tightens slightly. “I’m protective. There’s a difference.”