Chapter 13
Ava
@LIGHTS_OUT_GOSSIP
Buongiorno, babes. It’s Italian Grand Prix time!
Today is media day, and sweet treat queen Stella Margaux Maxwell-Brown is back .
. . weirdly with Ava Farahani by her side.
Strange link-up, but okay. Stella stunned walking into the paddock today (swipe through for full outfit photos) in a little white linen dress, ungodly high espadrilles, and a stack of jewelry on her wrist that probably cost more than most people make in a decade.
But hey, if you’re rich and married to a man who’s even richer, why not flaunt it?
Ava went a more casual route in jeans and a loose white blouse – very quiet luxury in comparison to other paddock guests in some terribly gaudy outfits.
But, girl, pull those shoulders back and don’t look so scared to be here!
Then again, maybe someone’s afraid of running into her ex for a second time . . .
Imola
I scan my credentials at the swipe gate of the Imola paddock with Stella by my side and a lump in my throat.
As my photo pops up on the little screen, allowing me to pass through the turnstile, some of my anxiety morphs into excitement.
It’s been so long since I was last here – in any paddock, really – that I can’t help but smile at the colorful team motorhomes lining the pathway and all the uniformed team members buzzing around like worker bees. It’s like coming home.
Today’s paddock pass is courtesy of McMorris, the team Stella’s husband, Thomas, drives for.
I briefly considered getting in touch with my old contacts at Specter Energy to see if they could grant me access, or even asking Zaid to figure something out with Mascort, but Stella told me she had it handled.
Honestly, showing up with a McMorris WAG is probably the least attention-grabbing thing I could do.
It’s media day, the Thursday before the race weekend, which means the paddock is the calmest it will be until the grand prix is over.
A few photographers snap our picture as we enter – let’s be real, they’re focused on Stella, owner of a thriving international bakery chain and the hottest F1 wife – but it’s nothing like the chaos of walking in with a driver on race day.
Stella takes it all in stride, waving at a few people she knows as we pass them, and I tell myself that the eyes that linger on us are because of her.
She’s model beautiful and her white minidress strikes a stunning contrast against her dark brown skin.
Her hair falls across her shoulders like a curtain of silk while my own waves have decided that the warm and breezy Italian weather is their absolute worst enemy, expanding to twice their normal size.
Self-consciously, I tuck my hair behind my ears and then move to smooth out any wrinkles in my top, but I stop myself at the last second.
While my nearly fifteen-week bump is still small, it’s definitely getting bigger, and I’ve gone up a jeans size thanks to the combination of it and the couple of pounds I’ve gained.
I don’t think most people would notice, but I’m not interested in any scrutiny.
We keep a leisurely pace as we walk, mostly for my benefit.
I’m sure Stella could sprint in those wedges that lace up her toned calves, but whoever said you get more energy in your second trimester was a liar.
I’m still exhausted and nauseated, and now I’m constantly craving ice cream, which has the added bonus of helping with my newest pregnancy symptom of heartburn.
Thankfully, we’re in the land of gelato, and I plan to eat some for every meal.
We’re passing the Mascort motorhome when my phone buzzes in my hand, and when I see Zaid’s name on the screen my heart does a silly little tumble. It apparently hasn’t gotten the message that we’re trying to keep things friendly.
It’s been doing that every time he calls or texts, which certainly can’t be healthy, but I can’t seem to stop it.
Our text history is short but growing longer by the day, and I’m up to date with how his mother and brother took our news – ‘Surprisingly well,’ he said on our last call, sounding just a tad suspicious.
‘Mum was only a little bit dramatic and my brother barely taunted me about him finally becoming Mum’s favorite because of this. ’
I wish I could have been there, but losing my mom so early in life has given me a complex when it comes to other people’s mothers.
I’ve panicked and bolted the few times the moms of my friends have shown me affection or offered me motherly advice, and I didn’t want to risk that happening with her.
I also couldn’t have faced the chance that she might shun or reject me and my child, either because of my family being Iranian or simply because she found something else about me to dislike.
Not that I thought she would, but the idea that it could happen was enough to scare me off.
I’m not going to be able to avoid the Yousefs forever, though, so it’s something I’ll have to work through – and quickly.
I motion for Stella to hold on as I slow to a stop outside of the D’Ambrosi motorhome, but she’s already been swept into conversation with a petite curly-haired woman dressed in head-to-toe Scuderia D’Ambrosi red.
‘How is it being back?’ Zaid asks when I answer the phone.
I skim over the commotion of the paddock, the sound of his voice loosening some of the lingering tension in my shoulders.
It’s strange not being here in a working capacity.
I’m so used to being in team kit with my laptop under my arm, listening to a harried social media admin explain to me what kind of asset they need for their race-day post right this second.
Being a spectator makes me feel like a giddy kid again.
‘It’s amazing,’ I reply, because even with the curious glances I’m getting, nothing beats the energy of being here. ‘I missed it more than I thought.’
I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, ‘I’m glad you decided to come.’
I feel the same, and hearing Zaid say it has my heart tumbling again. I do my best to wrangle it back under control and shift the conversation to something safer. ‘Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in the drivers’ press conference right now?’
‘They can wait on me.’ It’s a confident statement but somehow not cocky. ‘I’d rather talk to you.’
‘Wow, the ego makes a triumphant return,’ I tease, pointedly choosing to ignore the last part of what he said lest I melt on the spot.
‘I’ve earned the right after seven titles,’ he boasts, but there’s a hint of a laugh behind it.
‘So full of yourself.’ I’m grinning, unable to help it, and I’m sure I look like a blushing teenager with an overwhelming crush to anyone who’s watching. ‘Don’t get too cocky, though. Don’t want to jinx yourself and lose this weekend.’
‘You think I can’t live up to my own reputation?’ he challenges playfully.
Not in the slightest, I want to tell him, because I know he could win a race blindfolded, but I still say, ‘Mm, I’m not answering that.’
He laughs, and the sound wraps around me like a warm embrace.
‘Fine, then how about this? If I get pole on Saturday, you have to wear my number on Sunday for the race. I want everyone to see you cheering for me instead of Axel. We can consider it a soft launch before we put out an official press release.’
A burst of laughter escapes me, briefly drawing Stella’s attention, but she glances away quickly. ‘Oh, that’s just asking for trouble,’ I say.
‘Come on, princess,’ he coaxes. ‘If I can’t do it, then you have nothing to lose.’
Problem is, I know he can do it. But just like all the racing drivers I’ve lived my life around, I can’t back down from a challenge. ‘Okay, fine. I’m in.’
‘That’s my girl.’
The air in my lungs seems to disappear at the praise, leaving me unexpectedly breathless.
Thankfully, there’s a little commotion in the background, and I take the opportunity to recover, but I’m back to being unable to breathe when he speaks again, his voice quieter. ‘Have you spoken to your father?’
I grimace at the reminder of what I’m here to do – and what I’m currently avoiding with this conversation. ‘Not yet.’
‘Ava,’ he says gently, and it feels like he’s taking my hand and pulling me in the direction I need to be heading. ‘Go tell him.’
I groan but he’s right. I need to go get this over with. ‘Can you do me a favor?’ I ask him before I can stop myself, no matter how silly I feel over what I’m about to request.
‘Anything.’
‘Can you – can you tell me everything’s going to be okay?’
He doesn’t hesitate. ‘Everything is going to be okay, princess.’
Before I can thank him for obliging me, there’s a voice calling for him to hurry up. It’s Thomas Maxwell-Brown, if the posh accent and the Bloody hell, get on with it that follows are anything to go by.
‘I’ll come to your room later,’ Zaid murmurs, and the low, warm words have butterflies taking flight in my chest. ‘See you then.’
I mumble my goodbye before turning back to Stella, who has wrapped up her conversation and is nodding for me to keep moving. We’re only a few yards away from the Specter Energy motorhome when we stop again.
‘This is where I leave you,’ Stella says, bending to press a kiss to my cheek before whispering, ‘Good luck. And if your dad needs his ass kicked, I’m willing to help.’
After one last wink, she strides off toward the McMorris garage, and I’m left staring up at the sleek glass-walled front of Specter Energy’s home in the paddock.
It’s a gamble as to whether the nondescript security guys stationed by the doors will let me enter, but as I make my way up the wide steps, they both nod in recognition and make no move to stop me.