Chapter 11: Tetsuo The Iron Woman

[Ivy's POV]

I walk out of the trailer with my spine electrified, like someone's replaced my blood with liquid mercury.

The paddock swirls around me in vivid technicolor, crew members scurrying, journalists hovering, fans pressing against barriers, but they might as well be underwater. I'm floating above it all, detached from the chaos yet seeing it with unprecedented clarity. Every sound, every movement, every molecule of air against my skin registers with crystalline precision.

I've never felt this way before a race.

My body moves on autopilot toward the garage, each step lighter than the last. The usual pre-race anger that claws at my throat is conspicuously absent. In its place, a strange serenity pulses through me, as if I've tapped into some hidden frequency of existence.

"Fifteen minutes, Ivy!" my race engineer calls out, her clipboard clutched against her chest like a shield. Smart woman. On any other day, I'd have snapped at her for stating the obvious.

Today, I merely nod, a benevolent goddess acknowledging a faithful servant.

The garage buzzes with intense activity, mechanics making final adjustments to my car while data analysts huddle around screens. I glide past them all, their movements seeming comically slow compared to the heightened tempo of my perception.

Blair stands by her car, already suited up except for her helmet. When our eyes meet, her silver gaze narrows with that familiar competitive hatred. Then something shifts in her expression, confusion, perhaps suspicion, as she registers something different about me. She forces a smile, probably for the benefit of the Netflix cameras hovering nearby.

I smile back, genuinely amused by her pathetic attempt at gamesmanship. Poor Blair, thinking she understands power, thinking she knows what it means to truly dominate. She has no idea what just happened in that trailer, how I've claimed something that was hers and transformed it into something better.

As I slip into my cockpit, the carbon fiber seat embraces feels like an old friend. My team swarms around, connecting cables, checking systems, murmuring technical specifications I normally obsess over. Today, those details seem trivial. I know, with bone-deep certainty, that the car will perform perfectly.

The race suit clings to my body as I settle deeper into the seat. That's when I feel it, the warm, viscous reminder of what transpired minutes ago. Nick's essence shifts inside me as I adjust my position, a delicious secret weight low in my abdomen. It trickles slightly, a teasing sensation that sends an unexpected shiver up my spine.

I should be disgusted. I should be concerned about the extra grams of weight, in a sport where some shave their eyebrows to save milliseconds, carrying someone else's bodily fluids is practically sacrilege.

Instead, I feel... completed. Like I've been running on premium fuel my entire career but just discovered what it means to be truly high-octane.

My race engineer leans in, attaching the steering wheel. "You good, Ivy? You seem different."

I secure my helmet, the world narrowing to the confined view through my visor. "I've never been better," I reply, my voice echoing strangely in my ears.

As I tighten the final strap of my six-point harness, Nick's seed moves again, a pleasant warmth spreading through my lower body. The sensation isn't sexual exactly, it's more primal, more fundamental. Like I've absorbed some essential male energy that balances and enhances my own power rather than diluting it.

The garage crew steps back. Engines roar to life around me. I engage my own power unit, feeling the vibrations travel through the chassis and into my body, mingling with that other, more intimate pulsing sensation.

"All set," my engineer reports through the radio.

I smile behind my visor. She has no idea how ready I truly am.

The car rolls forward toward the grid, and with each movement, that forbidden fluid inside me creates a rhythmic, almost musical counterpoint to the mechanical symphony surrounding me.

As I take my position on the starting grid, I realize I've transcended into something new, not just a driver, not just a champion, but something far more perfect.

The five red lights appear above the track, and time stretches like taffy. One by one they illuminate, each a heartbeat. In this moment of perfect suspension, I feel Nick's essence slosh inside me again, a secret talisman.

When darkness falls and twenty engines scream to life, I'm already three moves ahead. My start is flawless, not just good, not just great, but supernatural. The car responds to my inputs like it's hardwired to my nervous system. I slip past the Blair and the Ferraris before the first corner as if they're standing still.

Turn 1 arrives and I brake at a point that would send any other driver careening into the gravel. But my car sticks, rotates perfectly, and launches down the straight. The g-forces should be crushing me, but today, they feel like Nick's embrace.

"Incredible start, Ivy!" my engineer's voice crackles through the radio.

I don't respond. I don't need to. Words are for people who haven't transcended.

By lap three, I've built a five-second gap to second place. The Shanghai circuit unspools before me like a purple ribbon I'm simply following home. The famous turn sequence, that endless, tightening spiral that destroys tires and tests courage, feels like dancing through water. My hands float on the wheel, making micro-adjustments before my conscious mind even registers they're needed.

"Ivy, your pace is... I've never seen data like this," my engineer sounds genuinely stunned. "Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

What I'm doing is channeling something ancient and powerful. With every corner, every apex I clip with millimeter precision, I feel Nick's presence within me, not just physically but somehow spiritually. His surrender in that trailer has given me something I never knew I was missing.

Lap Twenty, and I'm lapping backmarkers already. They scatter before me like frightened animals, sensing a predator in their midst. I slice through the field with surgical precision, not losing a tenth, not even acknowledging their existence.

"Pit this lap, Ivy. Box, box," my engineer's voice cuts through my reverie. "We're switching to hards."

I acknowledge with a slight nod no one can see. The pit lane entrance appears before me like a portal to another dimension. I navigate it perfectly, my car slowing precisely to the speed limit as if guided by supernatural forces.

The pit crew swarms around me in their choreographed dance. The vibrations cease as my car lifts, wheels detaching and reattaching in a blur of motion. Hard compound tires, built for longevity rather than outright pace, now connect me to the asphalt. In theory, I should be slower.

I am not.

The gap I've built is so monstrous that I emerge still in first position, the second-place car a distant speck in my mirrors. These new tires should feel different, more rigid, less compliant, but under my touch, they sing the same song of absolute dominance.

"Incredible, Ivy! You've maintained a gap through the pit stop. Just bring it home now."

The circuit continues to unfold before me. The laps blur together, each corner executed with inhuman precision. I'm no longer driving the car. I am the car. The distinction between machine and flesh dissolves completely.

Time becomes meaningless. My consciousness floats somewhere above the cockpit, watching my body perform with mechanical perfection. Turn after turn, lap after lap, the world outside my visor smears into streaks of color and light.

I blink.

The checkered flag waves before me, though I have no memory of the final laps. I've gone beyond time itself, skipping forward like a stone across the surface of reality.

I blink again.

I'm standing on the podium, the top step. The Chinese national anthem plays, but it sounds distant, underwater. The weight of the trophy in my hands feels insignificant compared to the power coursing through my veins. Below me, Blair and Piastri driver whose name escapes me stand on lower steps, looking up with expressions of bewildered awe.

The champagne bottle is in my hands now. I shake it methodically, the motions familiar yet somehow new. When I spray the golden liquid across the podium, it arcs through the air like liquid sunshine. The crowd roars, but their adoration feels trivial, expected, deserved.

"Ivy! Ivy! Ivy!" they chant, their voices merging into a single worshipful drone.

The champagne spray slows, bottle emptying as reality crashes back into me like a concrete wall at 300 km/h. The world snaps into focus, the roaring crowd, the sticky sweetness coating my race suit, the photographers jostling below. My heightened state dissolves, leaving me suddenly, achingly aware of an absence.

Nick. I want Nick here.

The thought blindsides me with its intensity. I want to see his face, to drench him in victory champagne, to watch it soak his brown hair and run down his neck. To make him part of this moment.

I glance down at Blair on the third step of the podium, her silver eyes narrowed as she maintains that plastic media smile. Something possessive and primal surges through me.

"Where's your boyfriend Nick?" I ask the question emerging more sharply than intended.

Blair's smile flickers but doesn't fade. "Why?"

The evasion ignites something dangerous in me. I move closer, looming over her from my higher position. "I said, where is he?" My voice cuts through the celebration noise like a blade.

Blair's eyes dart to the cameras, calculating her response. "I broke up with Nick before the race," she says, her voice carrying a practiced nonchalance. "He's probably gone."

The words hit me with physical force. My grip tightens on the empty champagne bottle as understanding dawns. Nick wasn't lying in the trailer. They had actually broken up. The sex wasn't revenge, it was... something else entirely.

"Whoops," I mutter, the inadequate word escaping before I can stop it.

"Why do you care?" Blair asks, suspicion darkening her features. "What did you do?"

I regain my composure, a slow smile spreading across my face. "Nothing that concerns you, apparently."

The race director gestures urgently from the side, signaling it's time to leave the podium. I descend the steps with new purpose, ignoring the microphones thrust toward me and the shouted questions from journalists. My eyes scan the crowd, hunting for a specific face.

"Ms. Hunt! Can we get a comment on your dominant performance today?" A reporter blocks my path, recorder extended.

"Not now," I brush past her without breaking stride.

Through the press of bodies, I spot Bridgette hovering near the team's hospitality suite, tablet clutched to her chest, eyes tracking my approach with growing unease. Perfect.

I snap my fingers sharply in her direction, the sound cutting through the noise. Her head jerks up like a startled animal, and I watch her swallow hard as I close the distance between us. Everyone gets nervous around me, it's a natural response to apex predators.

"Where's Blair's boyfriend?" I demand without preamble, my voice pitched low enough that the hovering journalists can't catch it.

Bridgette blinks rapidly. "You mean Nick? He's Blair's ex-boyfriend now. They broke up this morning."

Something tightens in my chest, confirmation that makes my blood run hotter. I lean closer, my height advantage forcing her to tilt her head back.

"I didn't ask about their relationship status. Where. Is. Nick?"

"I don't know," she stammers, taking a half-step backward. "He wasn't in the garage during the race. Nobody's seen him since before the start."

I grip her arm, my fingers digging into the expensive fabric of her blazer. "Listen carefully, Bridgette. If you don't want me walking out of this team tonight, you will find him." The threat hangs between us, deadly serious. "And I want everything you can get on him, background, family connections, previous relationships before Blair, everything."

Her eyes widen. "What? I don't understand…"

"I'm dead fucking serious," I cut her off, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I want him found before I leave China."

Something shifts in Bridgette's expression, confusion giving way to calculation. She's smart enough to recognize this isn't just a whim. "This seems... personal."

"It is." I release her arm, smoothing the wrinkle I've left in her sleeve with deliberate care. "Consider it my victory bonus."

Bridgette nods slowly, her professional mask sliding back into place. "I'll make some calls. But Ivy... what exactly is your interest in Blair's leftovers?"

The word "leftovers" ignites something primal in me. I lean in until my lips nearly brush her ear. "Call him that again, and you'll be looking for a new job before your next breath."

She pales, nodding quickly. "Understood. I'll have something for you within the hour."

"Good."