Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
I’ve got laps to finish, a race to prepare for.
But later?
Later, I’ll make her mine.
* * *
The air is thick with the buzz of the weekend.
The Saturday sessions are done, and the paddock is alive with movement - engineers analysing data, mechanics making final adjustments, media teams swarming for last-minute interviews.
And the drivers?
We’re expected to mingle.
Sponsors. Team executives. VIPs who have no real business in the sport but whose money keeps everything running.
I should be focused on that, but instead, I’m checking my fucking phone.
She hasn’t messaged me back.
She was there. I saw her.
But then she was gone, out of sight completely.
Where the fuck did she go?
I grit my teeth, shoving the thought away as I take a sip of my drink, barely paying attention to whatever the hell this conversation is about.
Some ex-driver-turned-analyst is talking about strategy for tomorrow. Next to him, a major sponsor nods along like he has any idea what he’s agreeing with.
I nod at the right moments. Smirk at a joke I barely hear. Play the role.
Then -
"Monsieur Moreau?” I turn, arching a brow at the newcomer - a suited staff member, one of the event coordinators, judging by the badge clipped to his lapel. “A word, please."
I lower my glass as I step to one side.
"Where is she?" I ask immediately, cutting straight to the point. "Did you find her?"
He hesitates for a moment before he finally answers.
"Yes, but… she said no."
For a split second, I think I misheard.
"What?"
My voice is flat. Cold, even.
The staff member shifts uncomfortably as I wait for him to explain.
"Madame Taylor,” he clarifies. “She… declined the invitation, sir."
I go completely still.
She said no?
She refused to come to me?
The words don’t compute.
I don’t know what kind of game she’s trying to play here, but I’m not dealing with this crap.
Nobody tells me no.
My jaw clenches as my grip on my glass tightens.
The staff member, wisely, doesn’t say anything else.
"Where is she now?"
My voice is measured and even, but beneath it, I’m fucking furious.
"She returned to the Paddock Lounge."
I nod once, dismissing him without another word.
Because I need to find her.
Now.
* * *
I move fast.
Through the venue. Past the waiters, past security, past the lingering guests and the team members.
A few people glance at me as I walk by, curious and confused.
I don’t fucking care.
The staff at the entrance of the Paddock Lounge shift awkwardly as I approach, shooting me a confused look.
I don’t belong in this section. Not anymore. They know that I should be in my own space; with my team, with my sponsors.
Instead, I push straight past them without a word.
Nobody stops me.
Nobody dares.
I step inside, and my eyes find her immediately.
She’s sitting comfortably with her friends, drink in hand and looking completely at ease.
Like she didn’t just reject me. Like she wasn’t supposed to be somewhere else - with me.
I scan over the crowd that she’s with and spot that Jacques is there too.
A brunette - one of Poppy’s friends, I think - is perched on his lap, and fucking hell, he must be almost twenty years her senior. His friends are there too, though keeping a wide berth from the other girls, who clearly aren’t interested.
And then, there’s her.
She hasn’t recognised my presence yet, and she’s still sitting with her back against the couch and laughing at something that one of the girls has said. She’s sitting comfortably - relaxed, and looking very much like she belongs.
Like she didn’t just test me.
I move without thinking, striding over without hesitation. Her eyes lift, and she sees me.
For a split second, I catch it - the way her eyes widen, giving her away.
But then her lips curve into a soft, sweet smile; and when she greets me, her voice is sickeningly polite.
I don’t return the smile.
Jacques, on the other hand, is fucking delighted.
"The man of the hour!" He grins, lifting his glass in an exaggerated toast. "Congratulations, mon frère. Beautiful performance out there today!"
Around the table, the others murmur their agreement.
Attention shifts. All eyes on me.
I know that Jacques expects me to sit by him. Hell, he probably thinks that I’m here for him.
It’s what he wants - what he’s always wanted.
For years, Jacques was more than just an old family friend. He was my trainer, my mentor - the man responsible for honing my discipline, sharpening my focus and pushing me to my absolute limits.
And yet, he was never satisfied with his own place in this world.
That’s the thing about Jacques. He never wanted to be the man behind the driver.
He wanted to be the man himself.
And he’s spent his whole life trying to make that happen.
But I don’t give a fuck about what he wants, nor do I give a fuck about what anyone else expects of me.
So, I don’t sit near him.
Instead, I sit myself down right next to her.