Time drags like a broken leg across hospital linoleum. The pain meds make everything a bit softer, but my thoughts remain razor-sharp, cutting me open from the inside. Thirty minutes since my conversation with Cecilia, and the tension in the room has thickened to something you could slice with a scalpel.
Mom hasn't stopped pacing since the doctors left. Five steps toward the window, pivot, five steps back. Melissa slouches in the corner chair, thumbing through her phone but not really seeing it. Cecilia stands guard by the door, a perfect statue except for her eyes, which track Mom's every movement like she's calculating the exact force needed to neutralize her if necessary.
No one's speaking. What is there to say? I've broken myself in spectacular fashion, and now my wife is throwing away the Monaco Grand Prix because of it.
The door swings open without warning.
Ivy walks in like she's entering her own kingdom.
My breath catches in my throat. Even after all this time together, she still hits me like a physical force. Her purple-tinged hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, highlighting the sharp angles of her face. She's wearing her Zenith team jacket, the purple fabric making her eyes seem to glow in the harsh hospital lighting. Those eyes sweep the room with predatory assessment, cataloging every person, every potential threat.
But her expression... there's nothing there. No rage, no sorrow, no relief. Just a perfect, terrifying blankness that makes my stomach clench tighter than any of my broken bones.
I open my mouth, but fear steals my voice.
Melissa breaks first, rising from her chair with hands raised in placating surrender.
"Ivy, look, please don't be mad at Nick. This is my…"
"Everyone leave the room," Ivy cuts her off, voice flat as a frozen lake. "I'll talk with you later, Melissa."
For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then, like a spell has been cast, they all begin gathering their things. No arguments, no protests. Melissa catches my eye as she slips past Ivy, mouthing a silent "sorry" before disappearing through the doorway.
Cecilia follows next, exchanging a brief, meaningful look with Ivy that I can't decipher. Mom hesitates longest, her mouth opening like she might actually challenge Ivy's authority in this moment.
One look from those purple eyes changes her mind.
The door clicks shut behind them, leaving me alone with my wife.
The silence stretches between us like a chasm. I watch Ivy take one slow, deliberate step toward my bed, then another. Her face remains that perfect mask, but something in her eyes shifts as she takes in the full extent of my broken body, the casts, the bandages, the monitors tracking my vital signs.
She reaches the edge of my bed and just... stares. For a long, excruciating moment, she doesn't move, doesn't speak. Then I see it, a single tear escaping down her cheek, a lone betrayal of the emotion she's fighting to contain.
The sight of that tear breaks something inside me.
"Ivy," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I'm so sorry I fucked up Monaco for you."
Something changes in her expression, the mask slipping, cracking, shattering. Her purple eyes blaze with a fury I've never seen aimed at me before.
"YOU THINK I GIVE A FUCK ABOUT A RACE RIGHT NOW?" she roars, her voice echoing off the sterile hospital walls. The sudden explosion of emotion makes me flinch, sending fresh pain through my broken ribs.
Her hands hover above me, trembling. I can see the desperate need in her, to touch me, to hold me, to confirm I'm really here and alive, warring with the fear of causing more damage. Her fingers curl into fists, then release, then curl again, a physical manifestation of her internal struggle.
"I..." I don't know what to say as I watch her come completely undone before my eyes.
"YOU COULD HAVE DIED!" Her voice cracks on the last word, the sound echoing through the hospital room like shattered glass. "Do you understand that? DIED, NICK! They called me and said you were in critical condition!"
Her whole body is shaking now, tears streaming freely down her face. I've never seen her like this. This is Ivy stripped bare of all pretense, all control.
"I was in a plane for NINE FUCKING HOURS not knowing if you were even going to be alive when I landed!" She slams her fist against the wall, making the medical equipment rattle. "Do you have ANY IDEA what that was like? Sitting there, completely helpless, imagining my husband dead or brain-damaged while I'm trapped in a metal tube?"
Her chest heaves with ragged breaths as she paces frantically beside my bed, hands raking through her purple-streaked hair.
"I couldn't… I couldn't breathe," she stammers, voice dropping to something raw and vulnerable. "I kept seeing your body, broken and lifeless, over and over. I've never been so fucking terrified in my entire life."
She suddenly whirls toward me, jabbing a finger in my direction, her face contorted with grief and rage. "Cecilia told you I said NO!" she shouts, tears streaming down her cheeks. "She told you exactly what I asked of her!"
The sight of Ivy crying is tearing me apart inside, worse than any physical pain from the crash. Each tear feels like a knife twisting in my chest. I've never seen her like this, completely undone, vulnerable in a way I didn't think possible.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, my voice catching. "I just wanted to prove that I could…"
"PROVE WHAT?" she screams, cutting me off. "That you could die? That you could leave me? Your mother doesn't fucking matter, Nick! Do you understand that? Her opinions, her bullshit about what men can or can't do, none of that matters!"
She's pacing again, wiping furiously at her tears with the back of her hand. "The only thing that matters is you. Alive. Breathing. With me."
My throat tightens, making it hard to speak. "I didn't think…"
"No, you didn't think!" She stops abruptly, her voice dropping to something dangerously quiet. "You didn't think about what it would do to me if I lost you. You didn't think about how I would live with myself knowing you died trying to prove something while I wasn't there to protect you."
She moves closer, carefully sitting on the edge of the bed, mindful of my injuries. Her hand hovers over mine, trembling before finally settling on my fingertips, the only part of me not wrapped in bandages or connected to tubes.
The gentle pressure of her fingertips against mine feels like the only thing anchoring me to this world. Her tears continue to fall, no longer angry but something deeper.
"Nick," she whispers, her voice breaking completely, "I'm so in love with you. So fucking in love it terrifies me."
The raw emotion in her words steals my breath away. Before I can respond, she leans forward, pressing her lips against mine with desperate intensity. It's not a gentle kiss, it's hungry, desperate, almost painful in its need. Her fingers trace up my arm, carefully avoiding the IV line, until they reach my face. She cups my cheek like I'm made of the most fragile porcelain, even as her mouth claims mine with fierce possession.
"Does this hurt?" she murmurs against my lips, her thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
"No," I breathe, lost in the storm of her.
Her tears fall onto my face, mingling with my own as we kiss again, deeper this time. I taste the salt of her fear, her relief, her love, all of it washing over me in waves that make my broken body feel whole again.
When she finally pulls back, her purple eyes are rimmed with red, but something has settled in them. The wild panic has receded, replaced by a fierce, focused determination that I recognize all too well.
"You're never going near a race car again," she declares, her voice hoarse but steady. "Not even a go-kart. Not a fucking bumper car at a carnival. I can't..." She swallows hard. "I can't survive this again."
I want to argue, to assert some independence, but the memory of those nine hours she spent not knowing if I was alive or dead stops me cold. What right do I have to put her through that again?
"Okay," I whisper, reaching up with trembling fingers to brush a strand of purple hair from her face. The movement sends pain shooting through my wrist, but I don't care. "I promise."
She captures my hand gently, bringing it back down to rest on the bed. "Don't move. You'll hurt yourself worse."
I lie back against the pillows, trying to absorb everything.
"When do you think you'll go to Spain?" I ask quietly, wondering about the race after Monaco. It seems like a lifetime away, but the F1 calendar marches on relentlessly.
Ivy's expression shifts, something guarded replacing her earlier vulnerability. She strokes my fingertips gently, not meeting my eyes.
"I'm not going to Spain, Nick."
"What?"
She sighs, finally looking up at me. "I talked to Cecilia about your recovery. You're going to be in a wheelchair for a while, and you'll need extensive physical therapy." Her voice softens. "You won't be fully recovered for at least six months. The doctors said it could take as long as eight, even longer if there are complications."
The room seems to tilt around me. Six months? Eight? My stomach churns violently as the implications hit me like another crash. Not just Monaco, but the entire season. Every race, every point, every chance at another championship, gone.
"You can't just pull out for the season," I manage, panic rising in my chest. "Your career... the triple crown... everything you've worked for..."
Ivy shakes her head, reaching out to stroke my cheek with a gentleness that contrasts her fierce words moments before.
"I'm already a three-time world champion, Nick," she says softly, her purple eyes meeting mine. "The triple crown is still firmly within my grasp."
My heart sinks as the reality of what she's saying hits me. "You can't…"
"I'm retiring from Formula 1 this year instead of next," she continues, her voice steady with conviction. "This way, I can get a jump on IndyCar preparations." A small smile plays at her lips. "Hell, maybe I can negotiate my way onto a team while we're in town."
The medication must be making me slow because it takes me several seconds to process what she's saying. She's giving up everything, her championship lead, her contract, her entire F1 career, for me.
"What about the deal you made with Victoria?" I ask, remembering Victoria promised to build her a car for Le Mans only if she gave them four wins.
Something dark flashes across Ivy's face. She shakes her head, and I can tell there's a lot she doesn't want to say about Victoria right now.
"Let it go, Nick," she says, her tone making it clear this particular topic is off-limits. "We can talk more about this later."
I want to press further, but the exhaustion is starting to pull at me again, dragging me back toward unconsciousness.
"You're throwing away everything you've worked for," I murmur, fighting to keep my eyes open. "Because of me."
Ivy's fingers thread gently through my hair. "No," she whispers, leaning close until her forehead rests against mine. "I'm choosing what matters most. I'm choosing us."
I try to argue, to tell her she doesn't have to do this, that I'll recover just fine without her sacrificing her career. But the words won't form properly, slipping away like water through my fingers as the medication pulls me deeper.
The last thing I see before darkness claims me is Ivy's face, beautiful and determined, watching over me like a guardian angel with purple eyes.