Page 187 of First in Line

We watch the interview unfold, and I can’t rip my eyes from the screen any time Jackson’s on it. He’s the most absurdly handsome man I’ve ever seen. Even looking a little tired as he does. And even with the quiet sadness that lingers on his perfect face.

Hopefully, I’ll get to erase it completely if he agrees to talk to me. Which I think he will. He has the patience of a saint, and while I probably don’t deserve a third chance at this, I suspect he’ll give it to me.

I’ve decided what I want, and I won’t let anything take it away from me. Not anymore.

Once the media frenzy died down, I realized it wasn’t as awful as my anxiety had made it out to be. Or maybe it was, but I’d grown a tougher skin by the end of it. And much like Jackson, who’s now unfazed by all that, I’ll eventually become immune to it, too.

I may not like the world he lives in or feel comfortable in it, but I love him far more than I hate it. And if the price of being with this man is a few uncomfortable weekends every year, I’ll face them with my head held high. As for all the online hate and harassment, I’ll steer clear of it. I was never on social media before, and I won’t come close to it now. They can say whatever the heck they want about me. I don’t care. Jackson Reyes wants me, and there’s nothing their jealous keyboard rage can do about that.

I hear my name on the TV, which pulls my attention back to it. “… may have influenced that change. Would you care to confirm or deny whether there’s any truth to that?”

“Did he just ask a question about me?” I wonder. A quick glance to either side gives me my answer. Cynthia and Wesley are both looking at me instead of the television, waiting to see how I’ll react.

On the screen, Jackson visibly tenses up. He doesn’t answer personal questions. He made that very clear to me. For a second, I think the moderator will move on.

Then Jackson starts talking. The room falls silent around him. So does ours. I quickly lose track of what the journalist originally asked because this isn’t an answer.

It’s a love letter.

And with every word, my vision blurs a little more.

He’s correcting the narrative. Explaining who I am. Telling people how things actually happened. But somewhere along theway, it becomes something else entirely. Something raw and unfiltered. The words don’t sound rehearsed. They don’t sound strategic. They sound like they’ve been trapped inside him for months, maybe years, and he simply can’t hold them back anymore.

And the strangest part is that while what he says resonates deeply, it’s not meant for me. I already know all of it. I know how much he loves me. I know what those years meant to him. I know the sacrifices we made together. None of this is for me.

It’s for everyone else. The strangers who turned me into a headline, the people who decided who I was without knowing me, and everyone who mocked me, insulted me, reduced me to some caricature they could laugh at.

He hates this. The interviews. The speculation. The way every careless word gets taken out of context. He built his reputation on refusing to participate in that game, refusing to give them anything they could twist or weaponize.

Yet here he is. Sitting on that white couch, in front of cameras broadcasting live to millions of people, voluntarily handing them pieces of himself. For me.

By the time he’s done, I’m a wreck. If I weren’t in public, I’d be bawling my eyes out, overwhelmed by love for this man. Now I’m sure. I know he’ll take me back. And the feeling is so liberating, I want to scream. But I can’t because the people around us, even Louis Descamps on the other side of the circular bar, all stare at me.

The silence that follows Jackson’s tirade only lasts for a moment before the journalists erupt with follow-up questions.

“Hm, we should probably get you somewhere private before word of your presence gets out and they storm this place like rabid dogs,” Wesley notes, turning to me.

Wiping my cheeks, I nod. “You should probably return to Yasmine,” I tell Cynthia. “This might take a while, and I don’t want to keep you away from your wife longer.”

“I can stay.”

“No, I’ll be okay. I promise.”

“I’ll finish my drink and head back, then. Call me if you need me, Vivi.”

“Thank you,” I say as we give each other a side hug.

Ignoring the stares, I follow Wesley. He takes me one level below, to a door that says “Authorized Personnel Only,” and opens it with a security code.

“You should be okay in here. There’s Rosie’s office over there, this is what we call the strategy room, where they have meetings before the races, and the drivers’ rooms are a little farther down the hallway. I’ll go downstairs and see if I can catch Jackson when he returns to send him to you straight away.”

“Thank you, Wesley. Truly.”

“Of course. Earlier this season, when you and Jackson were getting close again, I… I said some things that might have been a little heartless to him. I reminded him of his responsibilities and told him he had to fix his priorities. It was… uncalled for and unfair. I genuinely like him as a person, and I hope he’d consider me a friend after all these years—despite being his boss and forty years older than him. As a friend, I should have known better. He deserves love. He deserves to have you in his life. And I’ll make sure you two get a fair chance this time around, alright?”

All I can do is nod, touched by his endorsement. When the impulse to express my gratitude strikes, I don’t fight it and wrap him in a hug. “Thanks, Wes. You’re a good friend.” His smile is bright when I let go.

Finding myself alone in this private section, I suddenly feel out of place. Especially in the middle of the hallway like this. I consider the team principal’s office, but it seems invasive, andthen the strategy room. Worrying anyone might come into the latter, I walk down the corridor, seeking the one room that calls to me. When I find it, I pass my fingers over the gold letters on the charcoal door.