The Perfect Formula (The Secret Formula #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

GRIFFIN

“Iswear to God, if you throw that camera in my face one more time, I’m going to cram it up your—”

Usually, I had the patience to deal with paparazzi. A smirk, a wink, a well-placed one-liner, and they’d piss off. But I’d just stepped off a flight, I was running on fumes and champagne, and my patience had fucked off somewhere over the English Channel.

Tonight’s post-race celebrations in Zandvoort had spiraled the way they always did.

Too many drinks, not enough sleep, and a reckless need to chase the high of victory long after the podium had cleared.

Now, my body ached like I’d gone ten rounds in a street fight, exhaustion clawed at me, and some twat with a camera was making everything significantly worse.

Another flash. My jaw twitched.

The photographer either didn’t sense my annoyance or simply didn’t give a shit. Probably the latter. I exhaled hard, reined in my temper, and pushed through the small crowd, barely restraining myself from ripping the camera out of his hands.

“Welcome back, Mr. Michaels,” Jace said when I finally reached him. He held the car door open for me with a smile.

“Thanks, Jace,” I muttered, climbing in.

The door shut and I sagged into the seat, pressing my fingers to my temple while he rounded the front bumper and took the wheel. My body ached, my head throbbed, and my stomach turned from too little sleep and too much champagne.

All I wanted was silence and a chance to rest my eyes. No shrieking fans, no endless camera flashes, no press officers reminding me to smile more and drink less. Just the soothing hum of the car’s air conditioning and the knowledge that I’d soon be home.

But lately, rest had become as elusive as a clean lap in Monaco. Between racing, sponsorship commitments, and a personal life that made headlines more often than my podium finishes, there hadn’t been a spare second to breathe, let alone sleep.

I must’ve dozed off, because the next time I blinked, the SUV was gliding past the tall hedges of my North London house. The place was sleek, modern, and too pristine for someone who spent most of his life living out of hotel suites.

Jace pulled to a stop on the circular drive. “Home sweet home,” he said, cutting the engine.

My stomach twisted with a weird cocktail of relief and dread.

Relief because I could finally crash somewhere that wasn’t a penthouse suite or a team motorhome.

Dread because for the first time in four days, there’d be nothing to drown out the noise in my head.

No engine screaming through a corner, no debriefs, no sponsors demanding a soundbite.

Just silence.

And my own thoughts, which could be more vicious than any tabloid headline.

I dragged myself out, and Jace led the way up the path with my luggage. At the top of the short stairway, he stopped so abruptly I nearly collided with him.

“What’s up?”

He didn’t answer. Just bent down, setting my suitcase aside, his whole body stiff.

I followed his gaze. Something sat on my doorstep, partially hidden by one of the potted shrubs near the door. A blanket? A bag? My fatigued brain couldn’t make sense of it.

Jace spoke again, sounding a little unsteady. “Mr. Michaels… there’s… there’s a baby here.”

“A what?” My heart jolted.

I pushed past him to take in the car seat and its blanket-shrouded occupant.

“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Tell me this isn’t some kind of twisted prank.”

Even as I said it, I knew. No one went to this much trouble for a joke.

A crumpled piece of paper clung to the car seat handle, my name scrawled in rushed handwriting. The baby let out a soft sound, a little cry that made my chest tighten.

Jace hovered behind me, all his usual composure gone. “Should I call the police?”

I ignored him, tearing the note free. The paper crinkled as I unfolded it.

Griffin,

I can’t do this. She deserves better than what I can give her.

You might hate me for this, but I know you’ll take care of her.

Her name is Hazel.

- I.C.

My stomach hollowed out. “No cops.”

“Alright. Do you need anything, sir?” His voice was careful. Professional.

Yeah. Answers. A drink. A different fucking reality.

I clenched my jaw. “No.”

Jace nodded, hesitating just long enough to make me wonder if he was going to say something else, but then he grabbed my suitcase, and carried it inside. He left the door open.

I stood frozen on the step, fingers curling tighter around the note. I couldn’t bring myself to let it go. Not yet.

The baby… Hazel… shifted under the blanket, making a small, restless noise.

My stomach twisted.

She was mine.

I’d only slept with Isolde Callaghan once. One night at the end of last season. One fucking mistake, and now I was a father?

The thought alone sent my pulse hammering. I didn’t move for a solid ten seconds. I just stood there, staring at her, willing my brain to make sense of this. I was a driver, a racer, a reckless idiot who barely kept his own life in check. How the fuck was I meant to be a father?

I needed to get inside before some wanker photographer tried his luck. One blurry photo of me standing on my doorstep with a baby, and the internet would set itself on fire.

I forced myself to breathe and my fingers to loosen around the crumpled note before I tore straight through it. I stuffed it into my pocket and picked up the car seat.

It was heavier than I expected and awkward in my grip.

The second I moved, she stirred, her face scrunching up. A sharp, hiccupping breath. The warning signs of an impending disaster.

I froze.

But she didn’t cry.

I sighed and carried her inside, nudging the door shut behind me with my foot.

The house was dark, still, and too quiet after the ruckus of airports and cameras and the ever-present hum of a racing season in full swing.

I set the car seat down carefully on the coffee table, next to my untouched, overpriced sofa.

And then I just… stared.

She was so small. Tiny fists curled near her face, her features scrunched in restless sleep. Dark wisps of hair peeked from under the blanket. She barely looked real.

The note burned in my pocket.

What was I supposed to do now?

A pulse of nausea curled in my gut. My fingers twitched at my sides, itching for something, anything, to ground me. A drink. A distraction. A time machine.

If I’d just made a different choice that night after Qatar, found another woman…

A sharp wail shattered the silence.

My whole body locked up.

Hazel screwed up her tiny face and unleashed another ear-splitting cry, her little limbs flailing against the blanket.

Oh, fuck.

Panic shot through me, fast and electric. I had no clue what to do.

I fumbled for my phone, my fingers clumsy, my breath coming too fast. There was only one person I could call right now.

I hit the name before I could overthink it. My best friend and trainer answered on the second ring.

“Oi, if you’re calling to bitch about jet lag, I swear to—”

“There’s a baby in my living room.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Liam wasn’t often lost for words, but when he was, I usually caused it.

Material rustled on the other end, like he was sitting up, followed by a sharp inhale. “Right. Either I misheard you, or you’ve finally lost your last functioning brain cell. Say that again.”

I stared at Hazel, her tiny fists flailing in the air as she unleashed another full-throated scream. My stomach clenched.

“There’s. A. Baby. In my living room.”

Silence.

“Is it your baby?”

I ran a hand through my hair, gripping the strands at the back of my head. “Allegedly.”

A strangled noise, halfway between a cough and a laugh. “Allegedly?”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Hazel’s cries drilled into my skull, each one slicing through my already fragile grasp on the situation. “Liam, I swear to God—”

“You absolute menace, you can barely take care of yourself. Who the hell let you have a baby?”

That was the million-pound question, wasn’t it?

Hazel screamed louder, her tiny face going an alarming shade of red. I stared at her, frozen. “She’s… she won’t stop… how do I make her stop?”

Liam cursed under his breath. “Did you try picking her up?”

“Of course not. She’s fragile.”

“So’s your car, but that doesn’t stop you from slamming it into a wall at 200mph.”

“She’s not a fucking car, Liam.”

“Brilliant observation. I’ll be there in ten. Pick her up, you idiot.”

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone, then at Hazel, who was now crying so hard her tiny body trembled.

My hands hovered over her, hesitant. I wasn’t afraid of much.

I hurtled around corners at speeds that should’ve been illegal, stared down rival drivers who’d rather see me crash than win.

But this? This felt like standing on the edge of a cliff with no parachute.

I sucked in a breath, braced myself, and slid my hands under her, lifting her out of the car seat. She barely weighed anything.

The moment she settled against my chest, her wails faltered, then softened into hiccupping sniffles. My whole body locked up.

I’d spent my life surrounded by noise: engines, applause, the hum of the paddock, but this unraveled something I didn’t want to name.

And I had no fucking clue what to do with it.

“Mate, that’s an actual baby,” Liam said when he stepped into my living room ten minutes later.

I hadn’t moved since we hung up, too afraid to jostle Hazel awake. The only thing keeping me tethered to reality was the steady rise and fall of her tiny chest against mine.

A baby. My baby.

I was completely and utterly fucked.

Liam raked a hand through his hair. “Where’s the manual? They do have manuals for these things, yeah?”

I shot him a deadpan look. “Yeah, they hand them out at the hospital. Right next to the gift shop.”

“Brilliant. And yours is…?”

“Missing.” I glared at him.

Liam whistled low. “So, what’s the plan?”

I stared at Hazel, my fingers twitching at my sides. “Haven’t figured that out yet.”