Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Bex sucks in a breath, her grip tightening on the soaked folder. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re wet.” I nod at her blouse. “You should probably change before the meeting. Oh wait… you don’t have any other clothes here. Bummer.”
Her glare could melt steel. “You’re a horrible human being,” she says so deadly quiet, I almost don’t catch the words. And fuck if that doesn’t strike a chord within me I don’t like. “You’re a child. Nothing’s changed at all with you,” she continues to seethe.
“And you’re still a shrew,” I retort, falling back on old insults.
Bex’s free hand grips into a tight fist, her face screwing up with fury. “Calling that wedding off was the best thing I ever did.”
My chest hollows out, the bitter reminder that she’s the one who threw in the towel on our relationship. I bare my teeth at her. “That’s because… you’re… a… quitter.”
Bexley snarls, her face turning red. “I’m not the one who walked away from the sport,” she says, oh so fucking sweetly.
That was a low blow. “Fuck you.”
“You wish,” she says, batting her eyelashes.
There was a time that’s all I wanted. To fuck her and be with her and love her. It’s hard to even remember what that felt like, although I know it to be true. I have the actual memories, but none as vivid as the one where she threw us away.
I don’t think I’ve ever fought with anyone the way I fought with Bex. I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved her either. Maybe that’s why it burned so hot, why every argument felt like a war we both refused to lose.
We were golden in the beginning—perfect, even. I met her when I was racing with Bauer FI, and she was running strategy for their FI2 team. Vienna felt like a dream back then. Late-night dinners after races, stolen moments in empty garages, and the kind of chemistry that made it impossible to stay away from her. She was beautiful, outgoing, kind and funny, but more than anything… I admired the hell out of her for her racing knowledge and genius in strategy. I was a goner and proposed after just a few months because it felt so right, and she didn’t hesitate in accepting.
“Yes,” she’d screamed, launching herself into my arms.
It had felt inevitable.
It was right.
Bexley was the one.
And thus began the best year of my life. We moved in together, planned the wedding, talked about how we’d conquer the world—me on the track, her in the paddock. She worked harder than anyone I knew, trying to prove herself in a sport where women had to claw for approval. I respected the hell out of her for it.
On the flip side, she was my biggest fan. Despite her long work hours with the FI2 team, she was there in the pit for every one of my races, cheering me on. She never failed to mention her pride in me, her love for me, and she validated me in a hundred other ways.
The best year of my life… until it wasn’t.
Things started to shift and I’m not even sure I noticed it. In hindsight, I can pinpoint it to my career excelling. My star began to rise, and I was in the running for the Driver’s Championship. I got sucked into the whirlwind of fame, which included a huge American documentary series on Formula International. I got a lot of TV time, and my fan base grew to astronomical proportions. There were media appearances, sponsor events, parties with other drivers, and well… it was addictive. I’d ask Bex to come to all of it with me, but she almost always said no.
She was working late, running strategy models, tweaking simulations. I tried to understand, but I was twenty-four, riding high on the adrenaline of winning and being recognized everywhere I went. I didn’t want to spend my nights staring at her staring at a laptop screen. I wanted her by my side, and she wasn’t there.
The arguments started small. I’d tease her about being married to her job, and she’d snap back that someone in the relationship had to be focused. I’d then accuse her of being close-minded. The arguments escalated. She’d call me out for partying too much, for getting caught up in the glitz and glamour. I’d throw it back at her, accusing her of caring more about her spreadsheets than about me. We’d fight, then make up. Every time I thought we’d fixed it, the cycle would start again.
Then came the night where everything fell apart. I was at a party with some of the other drivers. It was supposed to be harmless—a few drinks, some laughs—but of course, someone snapped photos. The pictures hit social media the next morning and among them was one of me with a stupid grin on my face, half-naked women dancing in the background. I wasn’t touching anyone, wasn’t doing anything wrong, but I was there, and that was enough.