[Melissa's POV]
I pace the sterile hospital corridor, my racing boots clicking against the linoleum floor in an anxious rhythm. The plastic visitor's chair had become unbearable since we were banished, now I'm burning nervous energy while my brother lies broken in that room with his terrifying wife.
The hospital's antiseptic smell burns my nostrils. It's not unlike the paddock, chemicals, rubber, and stress, but without any of the excitement. Just dread. I've been in my fair share of hospitals after crashes, but it hits differently when it's your little brother in there.
Nick shouldn't have been in that car. The weight of that truth sits heavy on my chest. I pushed him into it, dangled his childhood dream in front of him like bait, all because I wanted to see him happy. Because I wanted to be the one to give him something Mom never would.
And now he's paying the price for my stupidity.
The door to Nick's room swings open abruptly. Ivy emerges, her face a mask of terrifying calm that doesn't match the redness around her eyes. She takes a deep breath, filling her lungs like she's preparing to dive underwater.
She marches directly toward Cecilia, who straightens from her position against the wall.
"Next time I tell you to do something," Ivy says, her voice low and dangerous, "I expect you to do it."
Cecilia doesn't flinch or lower her gaze. Her posture remains perfect as she meets Ivy's glare head-on.
"I warned him as thoroughly as possible," Cecilia responds coolly. "Any further action I could have taken would have been illegal."
My eyebrows shoot up. Did she just stand up to Ivy Hunt? The woman who reportedly made Enza Venturi quit racing? The same woman who beat the shit out of my mother?
"Illegal?" Ivy scoffs, stepping closer until they're almost nose to nose. "Since when has that stopped you before?"
"Physically restraining your husband against his will crosses a line."
Ivy's jaw tightens, and for a terrifying moment, I think she might actually lunge for Cecilia's throat. Instead, she draws in a slow breath through her nose, her knuckles white as she clenches her fists at her sides. After what feels like an eternity, she gives a curt nod.
Then her gaze swings toward me like a sniper finding its target.
"You," she says, the single word carrying more venom than a pit of vipers.
My heart hammers against my ribs. "I'm so sorry, Ivy," I stammer, my voice sounding pathetically small in the sterile corridor. "I just wanted to make Nick happy. I was such a bad sister growing…"
"You let him get inside a fucking deathtrap because you felt guilty about your childhood?" Ivy cuts me off. She steps toward me, and I instinctively back against the wall. "Your brother is lying in there with both legs shattered, six broken ribs, and a concussion because you wanted to ease your conscience?"
I swallow hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. "He loves Indianapolis," I manage, meeting Ivy's furious gaze. "Wouldn't you do anything to make him smile?"
Her eyes narrow, purple irises blazing with barely contained rage. "If I was going to help him achieve that goal, I would have trained him MYSELF, PROPERLY." She steps closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Not just thrown him into a car he wasn't ready for."
My spine straightens against the wall. I've faced down opponents on track going 200 mph; I can face this woman. "Lots of people do a test lap with no problems," I counter, gaining confidence. "And Nick's driven this circuit on the simulator way more than they have. He knows every inch of that track."
"WELL THOSE PEOPLE WEREN'T FUCKING WIRED UP BY YOUR MOTHER, WERE THEY?" Ivy roars, her voice thickening with fury as she gestures wildly toward Mom, who's been cowering nearby.
Mom steps forward, wringing her hands. "I'm on your side, Ivy," she says, her voice uncharacteristically meek. "I begged him not to get in that car."
Ivy whirls toward her, her expression morphing into something so cold it makes my blood freeze. "You," she says, pointing a finger at Mom's chest, "are the worst of the bunch."
The corridor falls silent. Even the distant hospital sounds seem to fade away as Ivy's accusation hangs in the air.
"Me?" Mom's voice rises an octave. "I tried to stop him! I was protecting him!"
"After spending his entire life telling him he wasn't good enough," Ivy spits back. "After making him believe he was fundamentally incapable. You didn't protect him, you broke him. And you," she turns back to me, "gave him a chance to prove his worth in the most dangerous way possible."
"I didn't know," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I just thought... he's always been so good on the sim. I thought he'd be fine."
"He's not fine," Ivy says, her voice suddenly quiet. "He's broken in ways that will take months to heal."
Cecilia clears her throat. "Ivy, we should discuss the press statement. They're already reporting your withdrawal from Monaco."
Ivy's eyes flash with a dangerous fire as she rounds on Cecilia. "I don't give a shit about the press right now!" she snaps.
Then her gaze locks back onto me, burning with such intensity I have to resist the urge to step back. "You need to get going," she says, each word clipped and final.
"What?" I blurt out, completely stunned. "You can't seriously expect me to just leave. My brother is lying in there with…"
"Nick already blames himself for me missing Monaco," Ivy interrupts, her voice dropping to something raw and vulnerable. "If you miss the Indy 500 because of this, it'll destroy him."
The truth of her words hits me like a physical blow. Nick would blame himself. He'd carry that guilt along with everything else, because that's who he is, always shouldering everyone else's burdens. The realization makes my chest ache.
"I want to stay," I insist, but my voice lacks its earlier conviction. "He's my brother."
Ivy steps closer, her purple eyes glittering with that dangerous intensity that's made her famous on track. "I'm his wife. He doesn't need, or even want, anyone else here right now."
Her gaze shifts past me, landing on Mom with laser-like focus. "And you," she continues, her voice dropping to that terrifying whisper, "just stay the fuck away from me and my husband, or I swear to God..."
She doesn't finish the threat. She doesn't need to. The implication hangs in the air between them, heavy and unmistakable.
Mom raises her hands in surrender, all the fight gone from her posture. "Alright, alright," she mumbles, backing away several steps.
I watch my mother, the woman who terrorized us for two decades acting like a kicked dog before Ivy Hunt.
Ivy's intimidating display makes me feel both terrified and oddly proud. She's a force of nature defending my brother in a way I never could.
I take a deep breath and straighten my racing jacket.
"Alright," I say, making my decision. "I'll go back to training."