Kendall's story. Description to come.
Tropes: strangers to friends to lovers, new adult, good girl/bad boy, ballerina, street racer, Formula One, diabetes awareness, she saves him
The aquamarine sea is a solid line on the golden horizon, the two distinct colors like oil and water. Our limousine carves through the windy streets. Mediterranean architecture bursts from the ancient ground, steeped in prestige and legend. Yachts bob in the infamous Port Hercule, flying flags from dozens of countries. The weather is calm in Monte Carlo. Hot, but not windy. That bodes well.
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I brush my palm across my race suit, ensuring the fit is forgiving. I'll be making an announcement today, and I don't want the news to be stolen ahead of time.
On the bench seat opposite me, Darius ignores the picturesque landscape. Instead, he chooses to flip through an issue of American Vogue. My husband's face smolders from the cover, his tattooed hands pressed together in prayer. It's a close-up. In his heterochromatic eyes, there's a reflection of a checkered flag, indicating he's worshipping a finish line.
The title reads—
"'The God of Speed,'" Darius narrates with a smirk. "'How River Boone made America fall in love with Formula One.' If he's a god, what does that make you?"
"Nauseous," I huff, swallowing the excess spit in my mouth. The driver turns onto a cobblestone path, and the slight change in gravity does little to settle my stomach.
"Oh, no." Darius leans forward, tossing the magazine aside. "Should I get the bucket?"
"Just a sec," I plead, holding my fingers to my lips as if I can physically keep the vomit inside.
I breathe through the wave of sickness, refusing to panic. I hate throwing up. I should've remembered that before deciding to go off birth control. It was the last thing on my mind when River filled me with cum, then whispered to my vagina, demanding it let his sperm do their job.
They did their job.
I'm thirteen weeks pregnant. Morning sickness is rumored to get better in the second trimester, but this baby is doing a number on me. I'm not even showing yet. How can something so small bring me to my knees?
"It went away," I whisper.
"Thank God." Darius sighs with relief, notching his chin toward the tinted window behind me. "Because we're here."
My personal bodyguard exits the passenger seat, rounds the limousine, and opens my door. I take his hand, sliding off the bench. The moment my sneakers touch the pavement, cameras start clicking, and people begin to shout. Darius sidles up next to me, grinning wide for the photographers. He gets a kick out of the attention, even if he's most often referred to as 'Kendall Boone's dance friend.'
As the wife of the highest-paid driver both on and off the track, I'm accustomed to media, but the environment here isn't something I can ever prepare myself for. The Monaco Grand Prix is the pinnacle of racing. The cheapest seat is ten grand. Celebrities, tycoons, presidents, and foreign princes flock to the Riviera for the competition. They try to outshine one another, they manage to drink themselves stupid, and proceed to sunbathe in the private suites.
