The sunglasses slide across the leather seat toward me like a peace offering wrapped in designer frames.
"Put these on," Blair says, not looking up from her phone. "So you don't look tired on camera."
I take the sleek black Balenciaga sunglasses, turning them over in my hands. They probably cost more than my entire streaming setup. The lenses are so dark they're almost opaque, perfect for hiding the bags under my eyes from last night's ill-advised stream.
"Thanks," I manage, slipping them on just as the SUV slows to a crawl. Outside the tinted windows, a sea of people parts around our vehicle like water around the bow of a ship. The Albert Park Grand Prix circuit entrance looms ahead, already swarming with fans in team colors, journalists with oversized cameras, and security personnel trying to maintain some semblance of order.
Blair finally pockets her phone and turns to me, her eyes scanning my face with clinical precision. She reaches out, adjusting the sunglasses slightly on the bridge of my nose.
"Better," she declares.
The driver pulls up to the VIP entrance, and I can already see the flash of cameras through the windows. Blair's hand suddenly finds mine, her fingers intertwining with a powerful grip that makes my pulse quicken despite everything.
"Ready?" she asks, a hint of her earlier warmth returning to her voice.
I nod, giving her hand a squeeze. "Born ready."
The door opens, and the world explodes into noise and color. Blair exits first, emerging into the chaos like she was born for it. I follow, momentarily blinded by camera flashes despite the sunglasses. Thank god she gave them to me.
The moment my feet hit the pavement, Blair's arm snakes around my waist, pulling me close against her side.
"Blair! Blair! How are you feeling about today's race?" A woman with a microphone thrusts herself forward, practically vibrating with excitement.
Blair's media smile appears, perfect and practiced. "Confident. The car feels good, the team's done amazing work, and I'm ready to show everyone what I can do."
More questions fly at us as we move through the crowd, Blair's arm never leaving my waist. She navigates the gauntlet with ease, answering some questions, strategically ignoring others, all while maintaining that camera-ready smile.
"Blair! Can I get your autograph?" A young woman with purple streaks in her hair pushes forward, waving a Zenith cap frantically in the air.
Blair releases my waist, her smile shifting from media-polished to fan-friendly as she takes the cap. "Of course. What's your name?"
"Ellie! I've followed your whole career from karting!" The girl is practically vibrating with excitement as Blair signs the cap with a flourish.
The floodgates open. Suddenly, we're surrounded by fans, predominantly women in their twenties, all clamoring for Blair's attention. She handles it with practiced ease, moving through the crowd like she's done this her entire life.
I drift slightly to the side, watching as she works the crowd. This is her element, the adoration, the attention. Security forms a loose perimeter around us, but they're letting the fans get close enough for autographs. Blair's PR training is evident in how she makes each interaction feel personal while keeping the line moving.
"You're going to crush it today!" A college-aged boy with perfectly styled hair and a crop top showing off his toned midriff slides forward with a poster. His eyeliner is impeccable, and he's somehow making the Zenith team colors look runway-ready.
"That's the plan," Blair says with a wink that makes him blush furiously.
"Maybe I could get a picture?" he asks, batting his eyelashes. "For my Instagram?"
"Of course," Blair hands me the marker she's been using. "Nick, would you mind?"
The boy hands me his phone without even looking at me, his eyes fixed on Blair as she slides an arm around his shoulders. He leans into her touch, practically preening.
"Make sure you get my good side," he says to me with a flirtatious glance at Blair. "Though with Blair, every angle is a good angle, right?"
"You know it," she responds with a laugh that sounds like it belongs in a different conversation than the one I'm part of.
I take several photos, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach. This is part of the job, the fans, the talking, the performance. I know this.
I hand the phone back to him with a tight smile. "Got a few good ones."
He barely glances at me before turning back to Blair. "You're going to beat Ivy Hunt today, right?"
Before Blair can answer, a commotion ripples through the crowd behind us. The sea of fans parts, creating a corridor of space as if Moses himself commanded it.
"Move! I said move your ass!"
The voice cuts through the noise like a knife, sharp and impatient. I turn to see Ivy Hunt striding through the crowd, her purple and white racing suit immaculate, those famous purple highlights in her black hair catching the morning sun. Unlike Blair, who's working the crowd, Ivy looks like she's wading through sewage.
"Jesus Christ, do you people understand English? Get the fuck out of my way!"
A security guard rushes to clear a path as Ivy shoves past a teenager who didn't move quickly enough. The girl stumbles backward but doesn't look upset, if anything, her eyes widen with excitement as she fumbles for her phone.
"Oh my god, Ivy just pushed me!" she squeals to her friend. "Did you get that on video?"
The crowd's reaction is bizarre. Instead of being offended, they seem energized by Ivy's hostility, phones raised higher, voices calling her name more urgently. It's like watching people getting excited about being insulted by a celebrity chef.
Blair's expression darkens as she watches her teammate cut through the adoring masses like they're nothing but obstacles. Her media smile slips for just a moment, revealing something harder underneath.
"Excuse me," she says to the crop-top fan, her voice suddenly tight. "I need to catch up with my teammate."
She grabs my hand again, pulling me after her as she moves toward Ivy. Blair holds onto me more firmly as she leads me through the throng of people., her stride purposeful and quick. I stumble slightly, trying to keep up while dodging enthusiastic fans who seem oblivious to the fact that they're blocking our path.
"Blair! Ivy! Can I get a photo of both of you together?" A teenage boy with braces lurches forward, phone extended hopefully.
Before Blair can respond, Ivy whirls around, her purple eyes flashing with barely contained fury.
"Don't fucking touch me!" she snarls, jerking away from the boy's outstretched hand that had barely brushed her arm. The kid recoils like he's been slapped, his expression crumpling.
"I-I'm sorry, I just wanted…"
"I don't care what you wanted," Ivy snaps, already turning away. "Keep your hands to yourself."
Blair's pace falters for just a second, and I catch a glimpse of something like calculation in her expression before she tugs me forward again, following in Ivy's wake as security finally manages to create a proper corridor for us.
We make our way through the VIP entrance and into the paddock, that exclusive inner sanctum where teams prepare for battle. The atmosphere shifts immediately, less chaotic, more purposeful. Engineers in team uniforms hurry past with tablets and equipment, people huddle in serious conversation, and PR handlers coordinate with media personnel.
Blair comes to a stop a few meters away from Ivy, who's conversing with what appears to be a senior engineer. The conversation looks intense, with Ivy gesturing emphatically at something on the woman's tablet.
Blair stands perfectly still, her silver eyes locked on Ivy's back. The tension radiating from her is almost palpable, like heat waves off hot asphalt. I shift uncomfortably beside her, not sure if I should say something or maintain the silence.
The engineer nods at whatever Ivy is saying, then hurries off toward the garage. Ivy remains where she is, scrolling through her phone, her back still to us. Despite the fact that we're standing barely ten feet away, she gives no indication that she's aware of our presence.
Blair's jaw tightens, and I can see her weighing her options. Approach her teammate? Wait to be acknowledged? The seconds stretch uncomfortably.
Just as Blair takes a half-step forward, Ivy suddenly turns, not toward us, but toward another team member who's approaching from the opposite direction. She engages in conversation, effectively cutting off any opportunity for Blair to insert herself.
The snub is so deliberate it's almost comical. Almost.
Blair's fingers flex against mine, her knuckles whitening. I give her hand a gentle squeeze, a silent show of support.
I'm about to whisper something encouraging to Blair when Ivy's purple gaze suddenly shifts, landing directly on me. It's like being caught in the tractor beam of a particularly hostile alien spacecraft. For a split second, I freeze, pinned by those unusual eyes that seem to assess and dismiss me in the same heartbeat.
"You. Boy." Ivy's voice cuts through the ambient paddock noise with laser precision. She points a manicured finger in my direction. "Can you fetch me coffee? Black, two sugars."
There's nothing particularly harsh in her tone, it's casual, almost conversational, but the expectation is unmistakable. She's not asking. She's telling. And the way she says "boy" makes me feel about twelve years old despite being firmly in my twenties.
Blair's hand tightens around mine to the point of pain. I can practically feel the fury radiating off her in waves, though her face remains eerily composed.
"He's not a coffee runner," Blair says, her voice carrying that dangerous calm that I've learned precedes her most spectacular blow-ups. "He's my boyfriend."
Ivy's expression shifts, her purple eyes flickering between Blair and me with something like amused contempt. Her lips curl into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"Oh," she says, dragging the syllable out. "This is Blair's boyfriend? How... quaint."
She looks me up and down with the casual disinterest of someone appraising furniture they have no intention of buying. I fight the urge to fidget under her gaze, suddenly hyper-aware of how my team shirt hangs just a little loose around my shoulders.
"I'm Nick," I offer, extending my hand on reflex. "Nice to meet you."
Ivy glances at my outstretched hand like I'm offering her a dead fish. After an excruciating moment, she returns her attention to Blair without acknowledging my gesture.
"I'm happy the rookie thinks she has time for romance," Ivy says with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "While I'm over here with exactly one thing on my mind, West." Her purple eyes narrow. "Winning."
The words land like precision strikes, each one calculated to wound. Blair's fingers tighten around mine again, but this time I can feel a slight tremor in her grip.
"Funny," Blair replies, her voice steady despite the tension I can feel thrumming through her. "I've always found I perform better when I'm balanced. All work and no play, you know?"
Ivy's laugh is sharp and entirely without humor. "Is that what they're calling P5 these days? 'Balanced'?" She leans in slightly, dropping her voice. "I've won three championships by understanding what matters and what doesn't. But please, continue with your... distractions."
Her gaze flicks to me again, dismissive, before returning to Blair. "The team briefing starts in twenty minutes. Try not to be late because you're playing house."
With that, she turns and strides away, the purple highlights in her hair catching the sunlight as she moves through the paddock with the confidence of someone who owns every inch of ground beneath her feet.
I exhale slowly, only now realizing I'd been holding my breath. "Well, she seems... nice."
Blair's hand finally releases mine, leaving behind an ache where her fingers had dug in. Her silver eyes are still fixed on Ivy's retreating back.
Blair steps closer to me, her gaze intense. "You want to know how to support me right now?"
"Of course," I say without hesitation, meaning it completely despite the morning's earlier tension.
She reaches up and removes my sunglasses, folding them deliberately before slipping them into her pocket. Now there's nothing between her gaze and mine, nowhere to hide.
"Then hate her with me, Nick."
The request hangs between us, simple and devastating. I blink, caught off guard by the naked intensity in her voice.
"I... what?"
"Hate her," Blair repeats, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Don't make excuses for her. Don't try to see her side. Just hate her, completely, the way I do."
I stare at her, searching her face for any sign that she's joking, that this is some pre-race hyperbole. But all I find is deadly seriousness, a burning need for alignment that brooks no compromise.
"She's my enemy," Blair continues, eyes never leaving mine. "And anyone who supports me needs to understand that. No middle ground. No 'she's just competitive' bullshit."
The vehemence in her voice sends a chill down my spine.
"Okay," I hear myself say, the word feeling foreign on my tongue. "I hate her."
Blair studies my face for a moment longer, searching for any hint of reservation. Whatever she sees must satisfy her because her expression softens slightly.
"Good," she says, leaning in to press a quick kiss against my lips. "That's my boy."