Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The screen still glows with her text message.
Darling, we simply must discuss your recent behavior. Drinks at the Fairmont?
“Of course I didn’t agree to a fucking TV interview in the garage with her.
” I’m on the phone with Dad. “And do not let her anywhere near the place.” As I stride through the paddock with Rigo, the familiar race weekend bustle makes the cold dread in my stomach feel worse. “I mean it. Not after last time.”
Last time meaning when she gave interviews claiming I was struggling with “mental health issues” and needed maternal support, then showed up in the Nitro garage on a “rescue mission.” I very nearly proved she was right about my mental health failing when I went ballistic and threatened to shove a wrench up her arse.
Guess who was fined for that incident? Hint, not KHM.
Dad says, “Already handled.” I hear the tension in his voice. It gets tight like this whenever she surfaces. “Security’s been updated. But Pet...”
“What’s she after this time?” I know I’m snapping at him, but I can’t help it. “Why’d she move up her semi-annual reminder that she technically contributed DNA to a successful F1 driver?”
A group of fans calls my name. I manage something approximating my usual wave while maintaining speed toward our hospitality unit. Whatever Kelley wants, whatever chaos she’s planning to unleash, I need to contain it before—
“Petra!” Richard is striding across the paddock.
He wears his usual faded jeans and ancient CalTech university shirt, looking exactly like what he is, an engineer who accidentally ended up becoming a billionaire and owning an F1 team.
Shadowing him is Kilian Flores, Jove Morrison Racing’s newest driver.
Tattooed and sharp, and missing nothing, Kili reminds me of a galgo, a Spanish hunting dog.
He’s got the same sleek appearance and quiet power, and I liked him the moment I met him.
“Hey, Rich.” The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. “Bit far from your garage, aren’t you?”
“Wanted to catch you before things get sloppy.” He runs a hand through his perpetually messy silver hair. “She’s in a mood.”
“When isn’t she?”
Kilian hovers uncertainly, like he’s not sure if he should witness this conversation. Poor guy. Half a season into his F1 career and he’s already caught in Kelley’s orbit. “Petra.” He nods. His Spanish accent is heavier than Nico’s. “Your practice times were incredible.”
“Thanks, Kili.” I smile. “You looked good too. Really consistent times. I think you have the Ravns sweating.”
He lights up at the praise, reminding me why I like Richard’s approach to driver development. JMR might be mid-field, but they give genuine talent time and space to find their feet.
“Pet.” Richard’s voice drops. “She’s seen the Singapore footage and is obsessing over online Blue Wall rumors. She’s talking about ‘managing your image’.”
I barely stop myself from snorting. “My image? That’s a joke coming from her.” I hate to speak ill of his wife… Oh, wait, no I don’t. And he knows it.
“Darling!”
The familiar voice cuts across the paddock like expensive crystal hitting a marble floor.
I look at my feet and shake my head. “Fucking kill me now.”
Kelley Hayter-Morrison sweeps toward us like she’s entering a Monaco gala rather than a working paddock.
Louboutins, white Chanel suit, jewelry that probably costs more than Kili’s yearly contract.
The perfect ex-wife of a racing legend, current wife of a team owner, and absolutely nothing like a mother.
Also zero fucks given, which I can almost admire except she’s such a piece of shit.
I hate that I look so much like her. That’s another reason for the pink in my hair.
“Petrina.” She air-kisses near my cheek. “We simply must discuss this unfortunate situation. The press are having an absolute field day with your moment of passion.”
Richard winces. Kili looks like he wants to disappear into his fireproofs. Rigo shifts closer to me. I’m pretty sure he’d throw her under a bus if I asked.
“Petra. My father named me Petra.” I step back. “And I have to prepare for sprint qualifying. You remember that, right? Racing? The thing I do for a living?”
“You can spare a moment for your mother.” She manages to make it sound like an accusation. “Especially when I’ve come all this way to help manage this little incident.”
“Kel,” Richard says quietly. “Maybe now’s not—”
“Richard, darling, please. This is between me and my daughter.”
My daughter. Like she hasn’t spent the last twenty years treating me like an occasional PR opportunity, and the six years before that like an accessory that went out of style quickly.
“No. It’s not.” I’m pleased with how steady my voice is. “Whatever you’re planning, whatever angle you’re working, I’m not interested, Kelley. I have a race to prepare for.”
“Petra.” Her smile turns sharp. “The cameras caught everything at that bar. Your physical response to criticism. We really must discuss damage control.”
“Damage control?” I laugh. “That’s what you’re calling it? Funny, I don’t remember you being concerned about damage when you left a six-year-old to chase Richard’s money.”
Kili makes a small choking sound. Rodrigo touches my elbow, which is his signal to be ready to move.
Richard steps forward, always the peacemaker, bless the man for his lunacy. “Ladies—”
“I’ve always had your best interests at heart, Petrina.” Kelley actually believes this shit. “Which is why I’ve already scheduled an interview. We’ll clear the air and show a united front. Mother and daughter discussing the pressures of being female pioneers in motorsports.”
The absolute nerve of this woman.
“No.” I step back. “No interviews. No united front. And stop using Dad’s name. We both know you only trot out ‘Hayter’ when you want something.”
“Really, darling.” Kelley’s smile doesn’t waver, but her eyes go arctic. “There’s no need for dramatics. I’m only trying to help your career. After all, what will sponsors think? A Hayter brawling in bars like some common—”
I raise my hand. “Stop.”
Her gaze jumps to something over my shoulder and I know Dad’s approaching.
I barrel on. “First, I’m a Hayter because of him, not you. Second, my career’s doing just fine without your kind of help. And third...” I smile, matching her arctic for arctic. “When is my birthday?”
She falters, perfectly manicured hand fluttering to her throat. “Pet, you know I’m terrible with dates—”
“January seventh.” Richard’s quiet voice cuts through her protests. “She turned twenty-six this year, Kel. I sent flowers.”
I shoot him a grateful look. He did, beautiful flowers with a card that managed to be warm without overstepping. Unlike his wife, who’s currently doing mental arithmetic, probably trying to figure out how to spin her way out of this.
“Time flies when you’re setting lap records.” My smile is not sweet. “Or, you know, abandoning children for richer prospects.”
“Petra.” Dad’s warning is gentle. He doesn’t disapprove of my anger, but he knows how much these encounters cost me. “You’re needed in the garage.”
Rigo grabs my hand, which means he’s concerned about my safety. It’s the only reason he ever touches me, and I’ve learned to pay attention when he does. I glance around and, yeah, we’ve drawn a crowd.
“Right.” Squared shoulders. Lifted chin. “Rich, always good to see you. Kilian, catch me if you can. Kelley, cancel that interview and don’t bother scheduling any more. I’m busy winning races.”
Her face does something complicated. “This isn’t over, Petrina.”
God, I fucking hate when she calls me that.
“It’s been over for twenty years.” I let my bodyguard draw me away.
Rodrigo drops my hand as we put space between me and the media. Dad falls into step beside me, and his silence says more than words. He knows how the carefully constructed walls I’ve built around those old wounds develop hairline cracks every time Kelley rises from the grave of my childhood.
He finally speaks when we reach the rear of the team building. “Are you okay?”
Rigo’s stopped at a distance, giving us space.
“Fine.” The word comes out too sharp. I try again. “I’m fine. Just... why now?” I glance back, running a hand through my hair. I’m cognizant of all the media and visitors in the paddock, but I can’t quite contain this level of irritation. “Why does she always—”
“Show up when you’re about to achieve something significant?”
“Yes, and taint that victory.”
“Because that’s what Kelley does. Uses other people’s success to make herself relevant.” Dad has two decades worth of protective anger.
The truth of what he said hits me hard. Championship contention. First woman with a real shot at the title. Of course Kelley’s here, positioning herself for the narrative.
“I won’t let her make this about her.” My voice is steady and the certainty of that statement centers me. Racing has taught me control, if nothing else.
“No, you won’t.” Dad squeezes my shoulder, and in that gesture is everything we’ve built without her. Everything we’ve become. “You’re a Hayter. The real kind.”
My smile is grim. “When did you get so bloody insightful?”
“About the time I realized being your dad was the best thing that ever happened to me.” He checks his phone. “Now, Cin is looking for you.”
“How does she know I need her?”
“Because she’s a real Hayter too.” He gives me a gentle push toward the near door. “You’ve always been enough, with or without Kelley’s presence, Petra.”
I make it to my driver’s room before the shaking starts. Not obvious—I’ve had years of practice hiding reactions to Hurricane Kelley—but Cin spots it the instant I step through the doorway.
“Ah, shit.” My cousin takes one look at my face. “She caught you?”
I nod, jerky and stiff. “And went full Kelley Hayter-Morrison mode.” My voice catches on the name because fury makes it hard to breathe. “Complete with Chanel suit and career advice.”