The F1 Champion Wants to Claim Me for Herself in a Reverse World
Chapter 36: I’m Her Mess

Miami mornings hit different when you’re married to the most dangerous woman in motorsport. The air is thick with humidity and possibility as Ivy’s fingers intertwine with mine, our wedding rings occasionally clinking together while we stroll along the track’s surface.

“This is where I’m going to destroy them tomorrow,” Ivy says, her purple eyes gleaming as she visualizes the racing line through Turn 7. The Miami International Autodrome stretches before us like a concrete ribbon, empty now except for track officials and the occasional team member doing early reconnaissance.

“You’ll crush them,” I agree, squeezing her hand. “After everything that’s happened, I can’t wait to see you take pole.”

Ivy stops suddenly, crouching to examine a section of curbing. “They’ve resurfaced this part since last year,” she murmurs, running her gloved fingers along the painted stripes. “Feels smoother. Could get more traction on exit.”

I love watching her work, the way her entire being sharpens with competitive focus. Most people never see this side of her, the meticulous professional beneath the purple highlights and fierce reputation.

“We should head back,” she says, rising gracefully. “Briefing starts in twenty.”

The paddock is already buzzing with activity as we approach the Zenith garage, teams preparing for the first practice session. Mechanics swarm like usual around the cars.

That’s when we see them.

Blair and a stunning male model wrapped around each other like they’re auditioning for a romance novel cover. He’s exactly what passes for high fashion in our world, impossibly long chestnut hair cascading past his shoulders, willowy frame draped in designer clothes that probably cost more than my old ensemble. His delicate features are almost ethereal as Blair’s fingers tangle in his silky locks.

They’re practically devouring each other against her purple Zenith car, completely oblivious to the bustling paddock around them. Or at least pretending to be.

I expected to feel something, jealousy, anger, maybe even a twinge of regret, but there’s nothing but mild amusement. If anything, I’m relieved she’s found someone else to fixate on. One less complication in my life.

Ivy’s hand tightens around mine, her body tensing like a coiled spring.

“Well, that’s certainly a statement,” she mutters, her purple eyes narrowing dangerously.

I squeeze her hand reassuringly. “Let’s just keep walking.”

But before we can move past, Blair detaches her lips from the model’s, turning her head deliberately in our direction. Our eyes meet, and there it is, that calculated stare, like she’s trying to communicate something important through sheer force of will. The guy remains oblivious, his lips now trailing down her neck as she maintains unblinking eye contact with me.

Is she trying to make me jealous? Prove she’s moved on? Whatever message she’s sending, it’s falling flat.

“Your teammate seems to be enjoying the Miami hospitality,” I comment lightly to Ivy, loud enough for Blair to hear.

Ivy’s lips curl into a predatory smile. “Good for her. Maybe getting laid will improve her driving.”

Blair’s expression falters for just a moment before she doubles down, pulling the model closer with exaggerated passion while still watching for my reaction.

“Come on,” Ivy says suddenly, tugging at my hand with unexpected urgency. “I want to fuck you before practice.”

Her voice rings out across the garage area, casual and matter-of-fact, like she’s suggesting we grab coffee. Several mechanics freeze mid-task, pretending they didn’t hear, while a nearby journalist fumbles her recorder.

I nearly choke on air, heat rushing to my face. The thing about Ivy is, I don’t think she even realizes how she sounds sometimes. There’s no performative quality to her bluntness, she just says exactly what she wants with the same directness she applies to everything else in her life.

Blair’s eyes widen to comical proportions. She leans in to whisper something in her model boyfriend’s ear, her hand cupping his cheek intimately. His perfectly sculpted face flushes pink, and he shakes his head slightly.

“It’s so early in the day though,” he murmurs, just loud enough for us to hear as we pass by.

*****

The garage is a symphony of mechanical noises and urgent voices as sprint qualifying begins. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my overworked muscles scream in protest. My shirt clings to my back, damp with sweat despite the air conditioning blasting through the team area.

Ivy wasn’t kidding about wanting me before practice. And after practice. And right before qualifying. My body feels thoroughly used in the most delicious way, but sitting here watching the monitors while still sticky and exhausted is less than ideal. I should have showered again, but there wasn’t time after our last... session.

“Hi, I’m Lucian Vale.”

The voice startles me. I look up to find Blair’s model boyfriend standing over me, one perfectly manicured hand extended. Up close, he’s even more striking, cheekbones that could cut glass, skin like porcelain. His chestnut hair cascades over his shoulders in waves that belong in a shampoo commercial.

“Hi,” I manage, shaking his hand briefly before letting go. His grip is surprisingly firm for someone who looks like he’d blow away in a strong breeze.

Lucian’s eyes travel over me with deliberate slowness, taking in my disheveled appearance. His perfectly sculpted lips twist into something between a smile and a smirk.

“Why are you so sweaty? It’s not even that hot in here.”

There’s a subtle edge to his question, a hint of condescension that makes me bristle despite myself. I shift again, wincing slightly as muscles I didn’t know I had protest the movement.

Lucian slides into the empty chair beside me, his movements as graceful as a cat settling into a sunbeam. The expensive fabric of his designer pants makes a soft whisper against the plastic seat.

“Is it really... appropriate for Ivy’s image to have you looking like this?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at my disheveled state. His voice carries that particular breed of concern that isn’t concern at all. “The cameras are everywhere, you know.”

I can’t help but laugh, the sound bursting out of me with genuine amusement. Lucian flinches slightly at my unexpected reaction, his perfect eyebrows drawing together.

“Ivy literally beat the shit out of my mother on national television last week,” I say, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. “You think she gives a single fuck what I look like right now?”

His eyes widen fractionally, that porcelain mask slipping to reveal something rawer underneath, dislike, maybe even jealousy. I can practically see him recalibrating, searching for a new angle of attack.

“Blair mentioned you were... different,” he says, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “I see what she means.”

“Did she now?” I lean back in my chair, suddenly unbothered by my sweaty state. “And what else did Blair tell you about me?”

Lucian’s perfectly manicured fingers tap against his knee, a rhythmic gesture that betrays his discomfort. “Just that you used to be sweeter. More... accommodating.”

“Accommodating,” I repeat, tasting the word. “Interesting.”

On the monitors above us, Ivy’s purple machine screams through the first sector, setting a blistering pace that puts her firmly in provisional pole. I feel a surge of pride watching her work, carving through Miami’s concrete canyon with surgical precision.

“You know, it’s unusual,” Lucian continues, his voice carrying that artificial lightness people use when they’re being deliberately cruel. “Most men in your position would at least try to look presentable. For their partner’s sake.”

I turn to face him fully. In another life, I might have found his disapproval crushing. Now, it just seems small.

“What exactly is my position, Lucian?” I ask, genuinely curious about how he sees me.

He smiles, all teeth and no warmth. “The accessory, of course. The pretty little thing on Ivy Hunt’s arm.”

I laugh again, the sound harsh and unexpected. I raise my left hand, twisting it so the massive diamond on my ring finger catches the light. Next to it, the gold wedding band gleams just as proudly.

“Accessory? I’m her husband, Lucian. My wife chose me.”

His perfect face twitches, a micro-expression of disgust flashing across those sculpted features.

“Well, she had to marry someone, didn’t she? Anyone to maintain the image. I’m just saying you could try harder to…”

“Shut the fuck up,” I cut him off, something snapping inside me. My eyes narrow, and I can feel the wild energy crackling behind them, the same manic intensity I’ve seen in Ivy’s gaze when she’s mad.

“You want to know why I’m such a sweaty, disgusting mess right now, Lucian? Because Ivy fucking Hunt, three-time world champion, dragged me into our trailer between sessions and fucked me until I could barely walk.” My voice is low but vibrating with intensity. “I am her mess. I look exactly how she wants me to look. If I showed up here all polished and perfect, she wouldn’t be able to do that.”

I jab my finger toward the monitor where Ivy’s purple machine is flying through the final sector, the timing graphics showing her a full half second ahead of Blair.

“See that? That’s what happens when my wife gets what she needs.”

Lucian’s porcelain complexion has gone even paler, his mouth hanging slightly open as he stares at me. For a brief moment, I catch something in his eyes, not just shock and revulsion, but a flash of raw envy.

“You don’t even deserve her,” he whispers, regaining his composure. “You’re nobody.”

“And yet, here I am.” I smile, feeling strangely powerful despite my disheveled state.

Lucian’s jaw clenches, the muscles working beneath his perfect skin as he rises from the chair in one fluid motion. His nostrils flare slightly, composure cracking like fine china under too much pressure.

“This conversation is beneath me,” he hisses, adjusting the cuffs of his designer shirt with trembling fingers. Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks away, his long chestnut hair swinging dramatically with each step.

I watch him go, a strange sense of satisfaction settling in my chest. A year ago, hell, even a few months ago, his judgment would have crushed me. I would have spiraled into self-doubt. But now, I am strong.

“Maybe Ivy is rubbing off on me.”