Chapter 1

Phoenix

I know I’m in trouble the second I check my phone and see fifty missed calls from my agent. My screen’s still lit with his name, “Gareth (Don’t Ignore Me),” when the team’s PR manager, Clarissa, slips into the garage like she’s on a stealth mission.

She’s breathless, clutching a tablet, eyes darting around as if paparazzi might pop out from behind the tires. “Phoenix, we’ve got a situation.” Her voice is low, urgent.

I’m leaning against the side of my race car—gleaming black with gold accents, Aether emblazoned across the chassis—still smelling of rubber and engine oil from the morning test laps. My heart’s thrumming with leftover adrenaline, but I push off the car with a sigh.

“Clarissa, I literally just stepped out of the cockpit. Can it wait until I grab a shower?” I’m half-joking, half-hoping. The tension in her eyes says no.

She shoves the tablet in my face. “This is already blowing up. The sponsors are calling an emergency meeting in an hour. You need to see it.”

It’s a video paused on some social media feed. I tap the screen, ignoring the black grease staining my fingertips. The clip flickers to life. There I am—tangled in satin sheets, shirtless, my tattooed arm slung over the body of a grinning woman with too-white teeth. She’s pouting at her phone camera, the image shaky like she’s filming on a whim. My hair’s a blond mess, half-covering my eyes, and my smirk is as arrogant as ever.

The worst part is I can see the date stamp in the corner. The night before my last race. Damn it.

The woman, Melody Trask, an influencer with more followers than brain cells—giggles in the video. “Phoenix, baby, say hi to my fans.” Then I look at the camera, winking. My voice is slurred with champagne. “Last night’s my secret weapon,” I say, tapping my temple like it’s an inside joke. “Every race, every time.”

I jam my thumb on the pause button. “For fuck’s sake.” My chest tightens. My so-called ritual is not exactly a secret—at least not within the racing world—but I’ve always been careful. Clearly, Melody had other ideas.

Clarissa clears her throat, eyes flitting over my scowl. “Phoenix, the sponsors want answers. The league wants answers. This went viral two hours ago.”

My jaw works. I was at the track, phone on silent while I did practice laps. In that short time, everything exploded. “Great.”

She steps back as though I might snap at her. “There’s more.” Her voice trembles, just a little. “The influencer gave a statement. Claimed you... used her for your ‘night-before’ ritual, then kicked her out the morning after. She’s playing the victim.”

“Of course she is.” I toss her tablet onto the nearest workbench, ignoring how the mechanics look away, pretending they aren’t listening. Everyone’s always pretending in this world. “I’m not letting one random fling blow up my entire career.”

Clarissa’s eyes flick down. “She’s not random, apparently. She’s... connected. Family in entertainment. Agents. This is trending on every major social platform, and the sponsors are pissed. They’re talking about pulling your deals if we don’t do damage control now.”

A hot pulse throbs behind my temples. The last thing I need is to have my main sponsors walk. Without them, I’m basically a free agent with no seat. That’s not an option. “I’ll handle it,” I mutter.

“Please do,” Clarissa says tightly, then checks her watch. “They’ve called an emergency meeting in the boardroom. One hour. Shower, suit up, and brace yourself. The league will be on that call, too.”

She leaves me alone in a swirl of tension. I exhale a slow breath, glancing down at my grease-streaked hands. There’s a mirror off to the side of the garage, angled for checking driver’s gear. I look up and catch my reflection: tall, lean build from hours in the gym. My hair, dusty from the track, curls over my forehead. Tattoos snake down my left arm—coordinates of race victories, a stylized broken crown, a phoenix in flight. I stare into my own ice-blue eyes, see the flicker of panic there.

I crush it down. No one sees me panic. Ever.

Forty-five minutes later, I’m in the Team Aether boardroom, fresh from the fastest shower of my life. My black polo shirt is crisp, the embroidered team logo near my heart. I run a hand through my still-damp hair as I sink into a leather chair, scanning the faces gathered: Clarissa, Gareth (my agent, looking exhausted), Ingrid “Indie” Lutz (the team owner, perched at the head of the table like an ice queen). On the wall screen, several sponsor reps pop into view via video call, expressions grim.

Indie doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Phoenix,” she says in her clipped accent, “we have a serious PR crisis.” She folds her arms over a fitted blazer. “That video is racking up views, and the league has concerns about your moral conduct clause. Are you aware the Board wants an immediate statement?”

I force a smile. “I’m aware, yes. I can handle the media if that’s what it takes.”

A different sponsor rep chimes in from the screen, a man with a severe haircut. “It’s not that simple. We’ve poured millions into your brand. This scandal implies your focus is on partying, not performance. Add that you publicly cited this ‘ritual’ as a crutch for racing success? It’s not just bad press—it undermines the sport’s integrity.”

I’m seething inside, but I keep my face neutral. It’s not the first time I’ve been told I’m too wild. My entire career’s been overshadowed by the rumor that I’m a playboy who sleeps around before races. I’ve never exactly denied it, but I never wanted it plastered online like this, either.

“Look, I’m the top driver on the grid,” I say, leaning forward. “I’ve won the last two championships. My performance speaks for itself. This video is a distraction, but let’s remember who gets you those podium finishes.”

Indie’s mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile—or a scowl. Hard to tell with her. “No one doubts your talent, Phoenix.” She adjusts a pen on the table with razor precision. “However, I’ve been informed by the league that they want you in a mandatory therapy program for ‘performance and behavioral concerns.’ If you don’t comply, you’ll be suspended from the next race.”

A stunned hush falls. Even Clarissa—who’d mentioned an ‘emergency measure’—didn’t say it’d be this severe. Therapy? For me?

“That’s ridiculous,” I bite out. “I’m a driver, not some—”

Gareth cuts in, his voice tired. “Phoenix, the league’s not asking. They’ve already assigned a new in-house psychologist. She’s specialized in sports performance. You meet with her once a week, or you’re out.”

I shoot him a glare. “I won’t be forced into therapy by a bunch of suits. This entire league thrives on scandal. Look at half the grid—drugs, affairs, street racing—why am I singled out?”

A sponsor rep pipes up again. “Because you’ve flaunted your behavior as part of your ‘winning formula.’ It’s public now. We have to show we’re taking a stance.”

My pulse pounds. My foot taps the floor—fast, restless. “So I meet some shrink, and that magically fixes everything?”

Indie’s eyes narrow. “Your personal life is your own. But the league can’t ignore the video. They want to protect the brand, especially after that influencer’s claims. She’s insinuating you pressured her, used her.”

That hits a nerve. “I never pressure anyone,” I snarl. The memory of that night is hazy, but I know enough: Melody was eager, starry-eyed at the prospect of hooking up with the infamous Phoenix Reeve. Now she’s flipping the script to get attention. “I’m not a saint, but I don’t coerce women.”

Indie exhales, softening just a fraction. “Then prove it—to the press, to the sponsors, to the Board. Cooperate with the therapy directive. Release a statement acknowledging you’re taking steps to... recalibrate. Focus on your performance, not on chasing headlines.”

My teeth grind, but I catch Gareth’s warning look. If I fight this, I’ll be off the grid. Racing is all I have.

“All right,” I manage, though it tastes bitter. “If that’s what it takes to keep me in the cockpit, I’ll do it.”

Clarissa quickly slides a document across the table. “Sign here. This is the immediate PR statement, plus the agreement to attend therapy sessions with Dr. Zahra Cole.” Her gaze flickers. “She’s new, just brought in by the league a few weeks ago to support driver mental health. Word is she’s... tough.”

“Tough?” I echo, bristling. Last thing I need is some holier-than-thou shrink telling me how to live. “Fantastic.”

I scribble my signature. My chest feels tight, like I’m handing over something intangible—my freedom, maybe. But I have no choice.

After the meeting, I storm down the hall, Gareth close behind. My shoulders are tense, every muscle coiled. The press is already crowding the lobby, cameras flashing behind the tinted glass doors.

Gareth matches my stride. He’s short, balding, but unstoppable. “We’ll do a controlled press statement,” he mutters. “You’ll show regret, promise to do better. We spin it as personal growth, a new chapter—”

I clamp a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “Enough, Gareth. I’ll say what I need to say. Just not now.”

He lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t push. We both know I’m not great at toeing the line. “All right. But no more stunts, Phoenix. We’re on thin ice.”

I nod curtly, then step into the driver lounge. It’s empty, thankfully, just the hum of the mini-fridge and the faint rumble of engines from outside. I cross to the mirror near the lockers, pressing my palms on the counter’s edge. My reflection stares back at me—messy blond hair, a perpetual smirk that’s absent now. My eyes look flat, a storm brewing behind the ice-blue.

I swipe water from the tap, splash my face. I can’t believe I’m in this position: forced to see a psychologist because of a leaked video. It’s not like I’m addicted to the ritual— I can quit anytime. Could I, though?

I shake off the thought. Racing is my lifeblood. The night-before ritual is just how I keep the nerves at bay. Everyone has their methods, right? Some drivers meditate, some watch race footage, some pray. I sleep with a random woman. Big deal.

But now... it’s out in the open, and it looks bad. The sponsors see a reckless playboy. The league sees a PR nightmare. My team sees me as a liability.

I straighten and roll my shoulders. Screw them. I’m still the fastest man on the circuit. Therapy can’t change that.

Outside the lounge, I run into Marco Villanueva, our lead engineer and the closest thing I have to a real friend here. He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, expression grim.

“Heard the news,” he says, his voice low. “They got you in therapy, huh?”

I cock an eyebrow. “I’ll manage.”

Marco’s dark eyes flick over me, reading the tension. “Just... don’t blow up at the doc, okay? We need you on the track.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Since when did you start playing team shrink, Marco?”

He smirks wryly. “If it keeps you behind the wheel, I’ll moonlight as your damn motivational coach. IndyCar is sniffing around for a new driver, and I’d hate to see you jump ship because the FIA booted you.”

I clench my fists, forcibly relaxing them before he notices. The fear is there, under all my bravado. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Marco’s gaze lingers on me. He might suspect the reason behind my so-called ritual—I’ve never told him, but he’s not stupid. He opens his mouth like he wants to say more but just nods. “Right. Let’s keep it that way.”

He pushes off the wall, leaving me alone with the weight of the world pressed between my shoulder blades.

The rest of the day passes in a blur: a team debrief where no one mentions the scandal but everyone knows about it; a dozen side-eyes from mechanics who suddenly can’t meet my gaze; text messages from unknown numbers, tabloids wanting statements. I switch my phone to airplane mode and bury myself in the cockpit for an hour, running over sensor data with Marco. At least data doesn’t judge me.

By the time evening rolls around, I’m exhausted from the tension, from the forced smiles, from the knowledge that tomorrow I’m apparently meeting this Dr. Zahra Cole. The league’s new in-house psychologist.

I’ve heard rumors about her: brilliant, unflappable, rumored to have worked with top athletes in hush-hush capacities. Some say she’s cold as ice, others say she’s ferociously protective of her clients. None of that matters to me. I don’t need analyzing. I just need to keep my seat.

I slump in the driver’s lounge again, lights dim now that most of the staff has gone home. My phone pings with a single text from Gareth: Therapy tomorrow, 9 A.M. Sharp. Don’t be late.

I stare at the message until the letters blur. Then I type a quick reply: Fine.

My reflection in the dark window stares back at me. My hair is spiked in every direction, the faint bruise-like circles under my eyes betraying my lack of real sleep. I can’t remember the last time I had a decent night’s rest without the ritual. Sex is always the easiest way to quiet the noise in my head.

With a low curse, I yank my duffel bag over my shoulder and head into the corridor. Team Aether’s facility hums with overhead lights. Posters line the walls showing me in triumphant poses—arms raised on a podium, champagne spraying. A highlight reel from last season’s championship, me beaming with the trophy. My grin in those photos looks real. I wonder if I could even replicate that expression now.

I push open a glass door that leads to the parking lot. The night air hits me, surprisingly cool. My black Aston Martin waits under a lone streetlamp. Sliding behind the wheel, I pause, letting the seat mold to my body. It’s a comfortable fit, but something inside me feels off, like a rattle in the engine that’s barely noticeable but still there.

Tomorrow I face some shrink who’s supposed to dissect my life. I can already picture the routine: She’ll ask standard therapy questions, try to empathize, try to label me with some neat psychological jargon. I’ll say whatever I have to, keep it superficial, and get out. End of story.

I fire up the engine, the roar thrumming in my chest. Normally that sound soothes me. Tonight, it just reminds me of everything on the line—my sponsors, my team, my entire career. And for what? Because of a cheap phone video and a woman who wanted her fifteen minutes of fame.

Biting back another curse, I peel out of the lot. The city lights flicker by as I weave through traffic, ignoring the speed limit. My mind runs wild with scenarios of tomorrow’s meeting: If this Dr. Cole thinks she can fix me, she’s wrong. There’s nothing to fix. I’m not broken—I just have my own ways of coping.

But a sliver of doubt worms through my chest, the same doubt that’s hounded me for years. If I’m so fine, why do I cling to that ritual like it’s my only shot at winning?

I grip the wheel tighter. Doesn’t matter. All I know is driving. I live for speed, the rush of adrenaline in my veins, the taste of victory on my tongue. If therapy is the cost to stay at the top, I’ll play along. For now.

The city blurs past in neon and shadows. Eventually, I arrive at my high-rise apartment, tossing the keys to the night doorman with a terse nod. Inside, floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the glittering skyline. My reflection stands out: tall, tense, tattoos half-hidden under the polo’s short sleeves, hair in messy disarray. I’m every inch the cocky F1 star on the outside. Underneath? A million conflicting feelings I’d rather ignore.

I drop onto the sleek, modern couch, rub a hand over my face. The news outlets are probably having a field day with that leaked video. In the morning, I’ll get in front of a camera and issue some half-baked apology about focusing on my mental health and making better choices. My sponsors will calm down for now, as long as I show up for therapy. The fans will eat up the drama, or at least enjoy the show.

And I’ll keep telling myself it’s all fine. That the ritual never defined me, that I don’t need it. But the truth gnaws at me: if I don’t have that ritual, how will I handle the next race? The panic that grips me before I strap into the car? That’s the part I keep locked away, hidden behind confident grins.

The phone rings again, Gareth, presumably. I don’t answer. I’m too drained for another lecture.

Eventually, I force myself off the couch, shuck my clothes, and stand under a hot shower. Steam swirls around me as I press my palms to the tiles, letting the water course down my back. Images flash uninvited: that damn video, the sponsor’s angry faces, the tabloid headlines that are probably spreading like wildfire. And overshadowing it all, the looming appointment with Dr. Cole, the woman designated to pry into my psyche.

Am I furious? Hell yes. But there’s a flicker of something else beneath that anger. Curiosity. The league is serious about her, or they wouldn’t have assigned me to her so quickly. Maybe she’s as tough as they say. Maybe she’ll see the real me hidden under the cocky front.

Then again, maybe no one truly wants to see that. Sometimes I’m not sure I want to see it myself.

By the time I collapse into bed, the city lights blinking outside my window, I’m too restless to sleep. I lie there, one arm slung over my eyes, replaying everything. Tomorrow, my fight for control begins. A fight for my career, my freedom, my identity as Phoenix Reeve, unstoppable F1 champion.

I’ll face whatever Dr. Zahra Cole throws at me—and I’ll win. Because in my world, losing isn’t an option. The roar of engines, the cheers of the crowd, that moment of perfect stillness right before the lights go out—that’s what I live for. And if therapy is a hoop I have to jump through, I’ll do it. No shrink is going to break me.

That’s what I tell myself, over and over, until finally sleep comes. But even in my dreams, the echo of revving engines can’t quite drown out the worry burrowing into my chest.