Epilogue
ABU DHABI | DECEMBER | SUNDAY | RACE DAY
ZARA
The Abu Dhabi paddock buzzed with end-of-season energy hours ago, but now it’s mostly breakdown crews and transport teams dismantling equipment to ship back to factory headquarters.
The teams are celebrating at after-parties—champagne flowing, teammates saying goodbye for the winter break, making plans for next year.
But I’m not going to Nitro’s shindig. Instead, I massage my right wrist as I enter our hotel lobby, the familiar ache of a lupus flare-up is settling into my joints after a long weekend. The inflammation is manageable, but my fingers feel stiff and fatigue is building behind my eyes.
“Zara!” Petra waves from across the lobby as she exits an elevator with Nico, Reece, and Maiken. “You coming to the Nitro party?”
They’re all dressed to kill—impeccable dark suits and sexy jewel-toned dresses, perfect hair, expensive jewelry.
They’ve earned their success and the glamour that goes with it, so I hate the twinge of petty jealousy I feel when I see them because it’s absolute bullshit.
I know how hard Petra, Nico, and Reece worked this season and the risks they took to attain their wins.
Besides, this isn’t the first party I’ve skipped and it won’t be the last. I’ve learned to accept my limitations, surpass them, then not be a fucking whiny titty baby about the consequences.
I meet them in the middle of the lobby. “Nah. Not on my agenda.”
“Really?” Reece asks. “The team will miss you.”
“We can wait, if you want,” Maiken adds.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I shrug. “I’m pretty worn out, and parties aren’t really my thing anyway. Thanks, though.”
“Are you okay?” Petra assesses me like I’m a bit of wonky data.
I smile, though I know it probably looks pretty pathetic. “I’m good. I just need my medication, a hot bath, and about twelve hours of sleep.” I flex my fingers. They’re getting uncomfortably stiff. “I overdid it today and ignored my pacing monitor.”
“Shit. That’s not good.” She frowns. “Want me to stay? We can order room service, watch terrible reality TV—”
God, she’s sweet. “No. Hell no.” I wave her off. “Go celebrate. You earned it, and I’m used to decompressing alone.”
“Are you sure?” Nico looks like he’ll argue, bless him.
“One hundred percent, Nico. But thanks for giving a shit. You guys don’t need to worry about me. I’ve been managing this crap for years.”
Maiken links her arm through Reece’s. “She’s right, and we can stop acting like her mom now.”
Petra hesitates, but Nico gently tugs her toward the door.
Reece bumps my arm with his elbow. “Text if you need anything. We’ll make Hans bring it.”
I laugh. “I will. Thanks. Now go before I change my mind and make you all watch me drool on my pillow.”
That gets a laugh as they head for the exit. I smile and watch them push through the doors into the cool Abu Dhabi night. They’re greeted by a crowd of fans and photographers.
The lobby’s almost empty except for a few tourists checking out and staff moving quietly between marble columns.
Everyone from the F1 circus is either heading to the airport or celebrating.
Nico clinched his fifth Drivers’ Championship three weeks ago in Vegas, and tonight he and Wyn secured WolfBett’s third consecutive Constructors’ Championship.
PNW Nitro took second in both championships—Petra finished second in the Drivers’ standings with Reece in fourth.
Not a bad season, all things considered.
As I turn toward the elevators, I spot Wyn standing between them and the stairwell door.
He’s talking on his phone, and I’m surprised he’s not with Nico or already at the WolfBett party.
But he’s still dressed in his team gear.
Our gazes meet, then he glances past me to the doors his brother and teammate just exited through.
He was watching them leave.
His posture is rigid, shoulders tight. The paddock’s been talking non-stop since Mexico City—Graham’s iron grip on his media empire and his sons is collapsing.
The data breach investigation keeps turning over more dirt.
And the Bettertons and Wolfbergs forced Graham out of WolfBett.
Through it all, Wyn has stood slightly apart.
Even now, he’s separate from his own team’s celebrations, and I wonder if he thinks he hasn’t earned the right to join them.
He looks down and snarls a response to whoever’s on the other end of that call, his voice deep and angry. “That’s bollocks and you know it.” He turns sharply and yanks open the stairwell’s heavy fire door.
This is none of my damn business.
I head for the elevators, but as I punch the call button, Wyn’s voice echoes from the stairwell. The door is slightly ajar.
“—don’t need your fucking advice anymore, Dad.”
Daaamn. He’s pissed.
A distant voice responds through what must be speakerphone: “You drove like shit in sector 2 tonight. If you’d listened to me about the racing line through—”
“For fuck’s sake! I won the bloody race!”
He sounds raw.
I should get into the elevator and go up to my room. This doesn’t involve me, and Wyn and I hardly know each other.
“You got lucky, Wyn. That move on the British bitch was sloppy. Amateur hour.”
The elevator arrives, but I ignore it and edge closer to the stairwell door. Graham Pritchard, even banned from the paddock, is still poisoning his son’s victories. The fucker doesn’t know when to quit.
“One ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t fix years of this shite,” Wyn snaps. “You can’t—”
“Don’t speak to me like that. I made the sacrifices, and I’m taking the fall while you and Reece keep driving. I expect you to listen when I speak and repay me for what I’ve done.”
“What you’ve done? You mean brought a criminal into the garage and stayed silent while he stole from the teams?”
“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you and Reece. Now isn’t the time to be an ungrateful little prick. I’m not—”
The line goes dead. Wyn must have hung up.
“Fucking bastard.”
I should mind my own business, because he drives for WolfBett and I work for Nitro. Wyn Pritchard and I are not friends. But then I hear it—the sound of someone struggling to breathe, sharp and panicked.
Shit. I’m gonna be a dumbass and get involved. This is so fucking stupid of me.
Against every instinct that says this isn’t my problem and reminds me that this guy’s a menace on the track and pisses me off to no end, I push open the stairwell door.
Wyn’s sitting on the concrete steps, phone forgotten beside him, cap thrown aside.
His hands shake as he unzips his team jacket.
Anxiety’s making him its bitch. I know because I’ve been there before.
The shaking hands, sweaty brow, rapid ragged breathing.
Fuck. I know how much that feeling sucks and, damn it, I can’t leave him like this. If I do, I’ll hate myself.
“Hey.” I let the door close behind me and approach the guy like he’s a cornered badger capable of tearing my face off. ’Cause, yeah, I kinda feel like he is. “You’re okay.”
His gaze snaps to me. He’s startled and he looks like he wants to run. Which, yeah, he probably does, but he’s shaking too much to do it.
Man, those green Pritchard eyes are unfairly beautiful. I kinda hate this man and Reece for being so hot.
“We gotta get your breathing under control, WolfBett.”
I kneel in front of him, setting my laptop bag aside. He’s flexing and clenching his fists, and probably feeling fucking pins-and-needles and tasting adrenaline.
“Breathe with me. In,” I demonstrate, breathing slowly. “And out.”
He tries. It doesn’t work at first—his lungs stutter, lock up.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Slowly, his breathing begins to match mine.
In. Out.
In. And out.
We sit there in the echoing stairwell just breathing together until his hands stop shaking.
Wyn stares at me, then blinks and looks everywhere but at me. Suddenly this dipshit doesn’t want to meet my gaze and I have a feeling he’s not gonna appreciate me being here and seeing this, even if I did just help his sorry ass.
“Right.” His voice is gruff. He’s scowling and still won’t meet my eyes as he grabs his cap and phone, and stands. “I’m good.”
The sad sack can’t even admit he needed help.
“Jeez, man. C’mon—”
But he’s already moving, taking the stairs two at a time like a race is about to start and he’s not in the car.
I stand. “Don’t worry, WolfBett. I won’t tell anyone you’re only human.”
Wyn pauses at the landing above, stares down at me, and I think he’s gonna say something—like, I dunno, thanks—but no. He turns and keeps climbing.
I roll my eyes, scoff, and gather my bag.
Hot as fuck, but still a Prick-chard.
I push open the door and return to the lobby. My fingers are stiffer, joints achier. And, yeah, that was pretty fucking dumb of me, but at least I won’t feel like an asshole tomorrow morning.
I wonder if Wyn will though.
I shake my head and mutter, “Not a fucking chance.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN …
UNSAFE RELEASE