The F1 Champion Wants to Claim Me for Herself in a Reverse World
Chapter 45: Indiana Jones

The Indianapolis Motor Speedway looms around me like a concrete cathedral, massive and holy in ways I’d never fully grasped through a computer screen. Monday morning sunlight pours across the empty grandstands, casting long shadows that stretch across the legendary tarmac beneath my feet. My sneakers make soft scuffing sounds against the surface as I walk, each step a tiny desecration on hallowed ground.

“This is surreal,” I murmur, trailing my fingers along the wall as we walk the track. “I’ve driven this course hundreds of times in iRacing, but somehow despite your career we never crossed paths with it in real life until now.”

Melissa glances over at me, the morning light softening her usually sharp features. It’s strange seeing her without the ever-present tension that normally tightens her jaw. Here, on her turf, she seems almost... peaceful.

“Isn’t it great?” she asks, a genuine smile spreading across her face. It’s the kind of unguarded expression I rarely see from her these days.

“Yeah!” I nod enthusiastically, tilting my body as we round turn one. “The corners are more banked than I thought they’d be.”

“Nine degrees,” Melissa confirms, her hand instinctively tracing the air in the shape of the turn, muscle memory from thousands of laps. “Not the steepest, but enough to feel it.”

I whistle, imagining how it must feel at racing speed. “What’s Daytona’s banking again?”

“Thirty-one degrees,” she answers without hesitation. “And Talladega’s is thirty-three.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, leaning into the nine-degree slope beneath my feet. “Nine degrees on foot already feels so different, I can’t imagine how wild thirty degrees would feel.”

Cecilia shadows us a few paces back, her eyes constantly scanning our surroundings despite the emptiness of the speedway. I’ve grown used to her presence over the last twenty-four hours, the way she materializes whenever anyone approaches me, then fades back to a respectful distance when it’s just family.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, probably Ivy again. She’s texted me seventeen times since I landed in Indianapolis, each message more possessive than the last. Part of me finds it endearing, another part wonders if this separation anxiety might affect her performance in Monaco.

“So this is where you’ll be racing Sunday?” I ask, trying to focus on my sister instead of the hollow ache in my chest that’s been my constant companion since leaving Ivy.

“Yep. Five hundred miles of pure hell,” Melissa says, but she’s smiling as she says it.

“You seem a lot happier since you dumped Mom,” I observe, watching her face for any reaction. “More... yourself.”

Melissa’s smile turns sharp. “God, firing her was fucking amazing. Liberating.” She kicks at the track surface with her racing boot. “And then your wife beat the absolute shit out of her right in front of us, which was just...” She makes an exaggerated chef’s kiss gesture. “Cherry on top.”

“By the way,” Melissa says casually, her voice shifting to a deliberately neutral tone that immediately puts me on alert, “Mom’s here.”

I stop dead in my tracks, sneakers squeaking against the sacred racing surface. “You invited her? After everything?”

Melissa turns to face me, crossing her arms defensively. “Nick, I’m not a monster. Who doesn’t want their mother to watch them win the Indy 500?”

The confidence in her statement, the absolute certainty of victory, makes me shake my head with a mixture of disbelief and admiration.

“Oh, I see your ego’s back in full force,” I tease, nudging her shoulder. “What about Dad? Couldn’t make it?”

Melissa rolls her eyes, resuming our walk along the track. “Since the divorce, all I ever hear from Dad is about his latest party or his newest girlfriend. He’s ‘living his best life’ apparently, which means he’s too busy chasing twenty-somethings to watch his daughter race.”

“At least he returns your calls,” I mutter, feeling that familiar pang of disappointment. “So it’s just us and the monster, then?”

“And your terrifying shadow,” Melissa adds, nodding toward Cecilia who maintains her perfect distance behind us. “Seriously, does she ever blink?”

“I don’t think so,” I whisper loudly. “I’m pretty sure Ivy had her engineered in a lab somewhere. Half human, half Terminator.”

As we share a laugh about Cecilia’s robotic demeanor, movement catches my eye further down the track. A lone figure in a sleek tracksuit runs with practiced precision along the racing line, cutting through the morning haze like a knife. There’s something familiar about her vibe, the economical movement of someone who’s spent a lifetime optimizing every motion.

My stomach drops as recognition hits. Those elegant strides, that perfect posture, it’s unmistakable even from this distance.

The runner notices us and slows, removing her earbuds as she approaches. Dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, hazel eyes that still burn with competitive fire even in her F1 retirement, Enza Venturi stands before us, looking barely winded despite what must have been miles of running.

“Holy shit,” Melissa breathes beside me, her professional composure evaporating instantly. “You’re Enza Venturi.”

Enza’s laugh is warm and musical, tinged with that distinctive Italian accent that once dominated F1 press conferences. “That’s exactly how your brother introduced himself to me when we met,” she says, her eyes finding mine with uncomfortable intensity.

I feel a flash of irritation burn through me. The last time we spoke, she’d cornered me in the paddock club, desperately trying to “warn” me about Ivy. As if I needed saving.

“That was before I knew you were my opp,” I reply coolly, crossing my arms.

Enza’s smile doesn’t falter, but something shifts in those hazel eyes – pity, maybe, or resignation. “I was trying to help you get away from a devil with purple hair,” she says, shaking her head slightly. “And yet now you’ve married her.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I snap, unable to contain the surge of irritation. “You’re just mad she never loved you.”

The effect is immediate. Enza’s confident posture deflates, her shoulders slumping as the barb finds its mark. The legendary champion suddenly looks smaller, more human than the racing goddess depicted in all those posters.

“I just came over to say hello,” she says quietly, her accent thickening with emotion. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Melissa’s head whips between us, her eyes wide with confusion. “Wait, you actually know Enza Venturi? Personally?”

I lean closer to my sister, lowering my voice to a whisper. “She dated Ivy before I met her.”

Melissa freezes, her mouth dropping open in what would be comical disbelief if we were anywhere else. She stares at Enza like she’s seeing her for the first time, her entire worldview visibly crumbling.

“Enza Venturi, my childhood hero, is a lesbian?” Melissa hisses, her voice pitched high with shock. “No way. She’s literally the most womanly woman alive! The epitome of femininity in motorsport!”

Enza’s laugh cuts through the tension, rich and genuine despite the awkwardness. “Ferrari didn’t want a scandal,” she explains with a casual shrug. “But I’ve always just gone after what looks beautiful to me. Men, women, I really don’t care.”

I watch my sister process this information, her expression cycling through shock, confusion, and something that looks suspiciously like disappointment. She’s taking this harder than I expected, her racing idol suddenly revealed as something different than the image she’d constructed.

“Look,” I interject, “I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention this to the press. I don’t want people knowing about Ivy’s... past relationships.”

Melissa’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re embarrassed your wife is bi? Seriously, Nick?”

“No!” I protest, heat rising to my face. “I just don’t want to hear about Ivy’s exes in the news. I’m her husband.” I straighten my shoulders, voice dropping lower. “I’m her lover.”

Melissa’s eyes narrow as she studies my face, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her lips. “Well, well, look at you, Mr. Possessive,” she teases, nudging my shoulder. “Never thought I’d see my little brother getting all territorial.”

“God forbid a boy loves his wife,” I mutter, crossing my arms defensively. The words come out more heated than I intended, but there’s no taking them back now.

Melissa bursts into laughter, her head tilting back as the sound echoes across the empty speedway. When she recovers, she raises her hands in mock surrender.

“Relax, Nick. I’m not going to attack you, especially not to the press.” Her eyebrows narrow suddenly, a mischievous glint appearing in her eyes. “But speaking of the press... did Ivy really jerk you off during your Twitch stream? It’s all over racing Twitter.”

I feel my face flush hot enough to melt asphalt. “Of course not,” I scoff, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

Melissa studies my face for a long moment, her lips twitching as she struggles to contain her laughter. Finally, she shakes her head in amazement.

“You’ve changed, little bro,” she says, wonder coloring her voice. “Everyone in the paddock kept asking if you were ‘that type,’ and I kept saying ‘no way, not my sweet innocent brother.’” She punches my arm playfully, the gesture familiar from a thousand childhood interactions. “Maybe I was wrong about you.”

I rub my arm, more out of habit than actual pain. “People change,” I mutter, unsure whether to be embarrassed or proud of this new perception.

Enza clears her throat awkwardly, reminding us of her presence. “I should continue my run,” she says, already backing away from our family moment. “It was... interesting seeing you again, Nick. And lovely meeting you, Melissa.”

As she jogs away, Melissa turns to me with wide eyes. “Did I just make things weird with my childhood hero?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, watching Enza’s retreating figure. “Ivy tried to get her to kill herself.”

“What the fuck?”