The F1 Champion Wants to Claim Me for Herself in a Reverse World
Chapter 39: Codependent

There’s a unique kind of loneliness that comes from missing someone who’s only a few hundred feet away. I wake with a start, blinking against the afternoon sunlight streaming through our Cambridge room window. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 12:17 PM, I’ve been out for nearly three hours.

The bed feels too big without Ivy beside me. Her scent lingers on the pillow, that intoxicating mixture of expensive shampoo and something uniquely her, but the sheets have long gone cold. I run my hand over the empty space, a hollow ache spreading through my chest.

It’s been like this since Miami. Since that moment of weakness when I voiced my fears about being a distraction. Ivy took my concerns and transformed them into a mission with the same terrifying focus she applies to everything in her life.

“If my husband wants to see me win,” she’d declared, those purple eyes gleaming with determination, “then I’ll show my husband a winner.”

I stretch, wincing as my muscles protest. Despite the plush comfort of our bed in the Zenith headquarters apartment, my body feels strangely unrested. The silence of the room presses against my ears, broken only by the distant hum of the building’s ventilation system.

We still spend our nights together, her body curled protectively around mine as we sleep. We share meals, moments of tenderness squeezed between her relentless training schedule. But the rest of her waking hours belong to the simulator now, to telemetry data and race strategies.

I miss her. It’s ridiculous, pathetic even. She’s literally down the hall, but I miss her like she’s on another continent. I do spend all my free time watching her and napping, though.

Sliding out of bed, I shuffle to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The mirror reflects a man I’m still getting used to, Nick Hunt, husband to the most dangerous woman in motorsport. My hair sticks up at odd angles, and there are pillow creases marking my cheek. Not exactly the image of a champion’s spouse.

With Imola just over a week away, I know this separation will only intensify. The Italian circuit is notoriously challenging, demanding absolute precision and focus. If Ivy wants to extend her championship lead over Blair, she’ll need every advantage she can get.

I drag myself out of bed and pull on a Zenith team t-shirt, deciding to seek out my wife rather than wallow in her absence. The polished corridors of the Cambridge facility gleam under harsh fluorescent lighting as I make my way toward the simulation center, the heart of Zenith’s technical operations.

Even before I reach the doorway, I hear Ivy’s voice echoing down the hallway, each word sharp enough to cut glass.

“That’s not what I fucking asked for!” she roars, her accent thickening with rage. “The rear end is still washing out in Acque Minerali. Fix it, or I swear to God I’ll design the fucking suspension myself!”

I pause at the threshold, taking in the scene. The simulation room is dominated by the massive structure in its center, a marvel of engineering that can rotate in any direction to perfectly mimic g-forces. Inside that monster sits my wife, strapped into a perfect replica of her race car, surrounded by screens projecting Imola’s historic track.

Tessa stands nearby, tablet clutched to her chest, methodically noting every profanity-laced demand from Ivy. Her neat ponytail is slightly frazzled, but her expression remains professionally neutral as she types with impressive speed.

What surprises me most is Blair’s presence in the viewing area. She’s perched on a stool, absently munching cereal straight from the box as she studies Ivy’s driving style with narrowed eyes.

I step fully into the room, and Tessa immediately notices me. Her face brightens with a warm smile that reaches her eyes.

“Hey, Nick,” she says, genuinely pleased to see me. “Sleep well?”

Blair’s head turns at my name, and our eyes meet briefly. She gives me a small nod of acknowledgment before returning her attention to the screens. It’s not much, but compared to the icy glares I’ve received since Bahrain, it feels like a peace offering.

Inside the simulator, Ivy’s cursing reaches new creative heights.

“I don’t give a shit about theoretical performance! The fucking car needs to be stable under braking or I’ll…” she cuts herself off mid-tirade, her voice suddenly dropping to a dangerous whisper that somehow carries perfectly through the room. “If I don’t see my fucking husband soon, I’m going to murder someone with my bare hands. I need a break.”

A technician hurriedly begins shutting down the simulation as Ivy yanks off her racing gloves. The massive structure whirs to a stop, hydraulics hissing as it settles into its neutral position.

The simulator pod’s door hisses open, and Ivy emerges like a storm contained in human form. Her racing suit clings to her athletic frame. Purple-tinged hair sticks to her forehead, and her jaw remains clenched tight enough to crack walnuts.

Then she sees me.

The transformation is instantaneous and complete. Like someone flipped a switch, her entire being softens. The murderous glare melts into warm affection, her rigid posture relaxes, and the scowl curves upward into that smile she reserves exclusively for me. If I hadn’t witnessed this metamorphosis countless times before, it would be downright alarming.

“Nick!” she exclaims, voice honey-sweet where seconds ago it had been razor-sharp. She practically bounds toward me, ignoring the bewildered technicians and Tessa’s raised eyebrows.

Everyone in the room watches with a mixture of fascination and mild terror as their fearsome champion transforms into an entirely different person. I catch Blair’s eye for a split second, her spoon hangs suspended between the cereal box and her mouth, momentarily forgotten.

Ivy’s arms encircle my waist, pulling me against her with that effortless strength that still makes my stomach flip.

“Hey baby,” she says, pressing a kiss to my temple. “How was your nap? You looked so peaceful I couldn’t bear to wake you earlier.”

The genuine concern in her voice makes my chest tighten with emotion. This is the real miracle, not her racing prowess or championship titles, but this capacity for tenderness that she shows to no one but me.

“It was good,” I reply, leaning into her touch. “Lonely, though.”

Ivy’s gaze suddenly shifts over my shoulder, her attention landing on Blair who’s still frozen mid-cereal bite.

“So,” Ivy says, her arm remaining possessively around my waist, “you’re pretty much always around when I’m in the sim lately. What’s up with that?”

The question hangs in the air, deceptively casual but laced with that competitive edge I’ve come to recognize. The room grows quieter, technicians suddenly very interested in their screens.

Blair lowers her spoon, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “I’m trying to steal your driving style,” she admits without a trace of shame.

To my surprise, Ivy’s face lights up. The irritation I expected never materializes. Instead, she looks almost... impressed?

“Smart,” she says, nodding with genuine approval. “I did the same to Enza.”

The name drops like a stone into still water, creating ripples of reaction throughout the room. Everyone knows about Enza Venturi, the Italian racing prodigy who’d abruptly quit F1 three years ago at the height of her career. What most don’t know is the role Ivy played in that departure.

Blair’s eyes widen slightly, clearly not expecting this response. “You did?”

“Of course,” Ivy replies, her fingers absently tracing patterns against my hip. “Best way to learn is from someone better than you. I spent hours analyzing her braking points, her lines through complex corners.” Her smile turns slightly predatory. “Then I used it all against her.”

There’s something almost respectful in the way they’re looking at each other now, two apex predators acknowledging each other’s hunting skills.

“Though,” Ivy adds, her voice dropping to that dangerous purr, “I hope you understand the difference between our situations.”

Ivy narrows her eyes, a dangerous glint flashing within those purple depths. “I doubt you have my drive to destroy people, West.”

Blair meets her gaze unflinchingly, silver eyes cool and collected. “I don’t need mind games to beat you, Hunt.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees as Ivy’s expression darkens. She leans forward slightly, still keeping me tucked against her side.

“If you don’t destroy your rivals to the point where they’re broken shells of their former selves,” she says with genuine confusion in her voice, “what the fuck is even the point of racing them?”

Blair shrugs, remarkably unbothered by Ivy’s intensity. “To be the best,” she answers simply, tossing another handful of cereal into her mouth.

Ivy rolls her eyes dramatically. “The difference between you and me is simple, Blair.” Her grip on my waist tightens possessively. “You probably saw Nick’s mom belittle him a thousand times and did jack shit. I saw her do it once, and I almost put her in the ground.”

An unexpected silence falls over the room. I feel heat rising to my cheeks, embarrassed to be the center of this particular conversation, yet strangely touched by Ivy’s fierce protectiveness.

Blair nods slowly, a flicker of something, guilt, perhaps? Crossing her features. “Kendall really is a bitch,” she agrees quietly.

“Amen to that,” I mutter, surprising myself with my own boldness.

“Amen,” Tessa echoes from her position by the monitors, her voice soft but firm.

Ivy’s head whips around, eyes narrowing as they land on Tessa. “And who the fuck are you?” she demands, as if noticing her for the first time despite Tessa having been in the room all along.

Blair actually laughs, the sound breaking some of the tension. “She grew up with Nick and me,” she explains, gesturing between us with her cereal spoon. “Her sister Britney was a racer.”

Tessa steps forward, extending her hand toward Ivy with remarkable composure. “Tessa Keller, junior engineer. I transferred from McLaren last month.”

Ivy stares at the offered hand for a long, uncomfortable moment before finally accepting it with visible reluctance. “Right,” she says, her voice flat. “A new hire.”

The handshake lasts precisely two seconds before Ivy drops Tessa’s hand like it’s contaminated.

“Tessa’s actually an old friend of mine,” I interject, trying to ease the sudden tension. “She was always there for me growing up, especially when my own family wasn’t. Like this one time after a particularly awful weekend with my mom…”

The temperature in the room plummets even further as Ivy’s entire demeanor transforms. Her eyes narrow to dangerous slits, the purple of her irises darkening like storm clouds. The arm around my waist drops away as she takes a deliberate step toward Tessa.

“Oh?” Ivy’s voice is deceptively soft, almost gentle, but I recognize the deadly undercurrent. “You have a history with my husband?”

Tessa’s eyes widen behind her glasses, a flash of alarm crossing her features as Ivy advances. The space between them shrinks rapidly, Ivy’s body language screaming predator as she invades Tessa’s personal space with practiced intimidation.

“Ivy, no! What are you doing?” I lunge forward, grabbing her arm and pulling her back. To my surprise, she doesn’t resist, allowing herself to be guided away from Tessa’s increasingly pale face.

Her body remains tense under my touch, but she makes no move to break free. Instead, her purple eyes stay locked on Tessa, assessing, calculating, like a lioness deciding whether a particular gazelle is worth the energy to chase.

“It’s not that kind of history,” Tessa stammers, clutching her tablet against her chest like a shield. “We were kids. Our sisters raced together. That’s all.”

Blair watches the scene unfold with undisguised fascination, cereal temporarily forgotten as she observes this new dynamic with analytical interest.

“Ivy,” I murmur, keeping my voice low and soothing. “Tessa’s friendship was one of the few good things I had growing up. She’d help me with homework when Melissa was too busy. She was like... a protective older sister.”

Ivy’s expression shifts in an instant, her features arranging into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s the same smile I’ve seen her give to reporters she despises or Lana Norris, a perfect, practiced curve of lips that contains absolutely no warmth.

“How wonderful,” she says, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she extends her hand toward Tessa again. “I’m simply thrilled to meet someone who cares so deeply about my husband’s wellbeing. What a rare gift.” Her fingers tighten visibly around Tessa’s hand. “Though I should mention, he’s quite occupied these days keeping pace with his rather demanding wife. Perhaps give us some space?”

I feel my face flush hot with embarrassment. “Ivy, please…”

“What?” She releases Tessa’s hand and turns to me with wide-eyed innocence. “I’m just being friendly.”

Blair snorts from her perch, shoving another handful of cereal into her mouth. “About as friendly as a shark.”

The technicians around us have gone completely still, pretending to be absorbed in their screens while clearly straining to catch every word. Tessa takes a small step backward, her complexion pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.

“I should get back to work,” she says quietly, adjusting her glasses with slightly trembling fingers. “The suspension modifications you requested need to be implemented before your next session.”

Ivy’s smile doesn’t falter. “Excellent idea. The sooner I crush Blair at Imola, the happier everyone will be.”

As Tessa retreats to her workstation, I grab Ivy’s arm and tug her toward the door. “We need to talk,” I whisper urgently.

She allows herself to be led from the room, but not before shooting one final warning glance at Tessa over her shoulder. The moment we’re in the hallway, I round on her.

“What was that about?” I demand, keeping my voice low despite my frustration.

Ivy shrugs, completely unrepentant. “Just establishing boundaries with your... friend.” The way she says ‘friend’ makes it sound like an accusation.

“She’s not a threat to you,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “She’s just someone who was kind to me when not many people were.”

“Everyone is a threat until proven otherwise,” Ivy replies, her expression suddenly serious. “You’re too trusting, Nick. You always have been.”

I let out a sharp laugh, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. “What?”

Ivy’s eyebrows shoot up, clearly not expecting this response.

“I’m not some naive kid, Ivy,” I continue, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m actually incredibly wary of new people. Always have been. Tessa is literally one of maybe five people outside my family I’ve ever truly trusted, and that’s only because she was consistently there for me when everyone else was busy with their own lives.”

Ivy’s expression softens slightly, but there’s still something guarded in her purple eyes. “She gave you a look, Nick.”

“A look?” I repeat, incredulous.

“Yes, a look.” Ivy steps closer, her voice dropping to a whisper despite the empty hallway. “Like she’s watching a baby deer being stalked by a lioness and she’s just waiting for the right moment to intervene. To save you.” She gestures toward herself with a sweep of her hand. “From me.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “You’re projecting.”

The words slip out before I can soften them, and I immediately regret my tone. Ivy’s eyes narrow dangerously, that championship-winning glare focused entirely on me.

I meet her gaze steadily with my own glare, refusing to back down. We stand like that for several heartbeats, locked in a silent battle of wills in the sterile Cambridge hallway.

Then, like a sudden change in weather, Ivy’s expression crumples. The fierce competitor dissolves, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable than most would believe possible. Her bottom lip juts out in an exaggerated pout that somehow manages to be both ridiculous and endearing.

“No, don’t get mad at me,” she whines, reaching for my hands. “I’m serious, Nick. I really think she wants to steal you from me.”

The abrupt shift from intimidating champion to insecure wife still gives me emotional whiplash sometimes. I can’t help but smile at the absurdity of it all, this woman who terrorizes competitors on track, who literally assaulted my mother without hesitation, is worried about losing me to a childhood friend.

“No one,” I say, taking her face between my hands, “is ever going to steal me from you. I promise.”

Her purple eyes search mine, looking for any hint of deception. Finding none, she leans into my touch, her shoulders relaxing visibly.

“Good,” she murmurs, turning her head to press a kiss against my palm. “Because I’d have to kill her, and then Victoria would be upset about losing another engineer.”

“We don’t joke about killing people, Ivy.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Please stop being mad at me.”