CHAPTER ONE
GRIFFIN
“Iswear to God, if you throw that camera in my face one more time, I’m going to cram it up your?—”
Usually, I had the patience to deal with paparazzi. A smirk, a wink, a well-placed one-liner, and they’d piss off. But I’d just stepped off a flight, I was running on fumes and champagne, and my patience had fucked off somewhere over the English Channel.
Tonight’s post-race celebrations in Zandvoort had spiraled the way they always did. Too many drinks, not enough sleep, and a reckless need to chase the high of victory long after the podium had cleared. Now, my body ached like I’d gone ten rounds in a street fight, exhaustion clawed at me, and some twat with a camera was making everything significantly worse.
Another flash. My jaw twitched.
The photographer either didn’t sense my annoyance or simply didn’t give a shit. Probably the latter. I exhaled hard,reined in my temper, and pushed through the small crowd, barely restraining myself from ripping the camera out of his hands.
“Welcome back, Mr. Michaels,” Jace said when I finally reached him. He held the car door open for me with a smile.
“Thanks, Jace,” I muttered, climbing in.
The door shut and I sagged into the seat, pressing my fingers to my temple while he rounded the front bumper and took the wheel. My body ached, my head throbbed, and my stomach turned from too little sleep and too much champagne.
All I wanted was silence and a chance to rest my eyes. No shrieking fans, no endless camera flashes, no press officers reminding me to smile more and drink less. Just the soothing hum of the car’s air conditioning and the knowledge that I’d soon be home.
But lately, rest had become as elusive as a clean lap in Monaco. Between racing, sponsorship commitments, and a personal life that made headlines more often than my podium finishes, there hadn’t been a spare second to breathe, let alone sleep.
I must’ve dozed off, because the next time I blinked, the SUV was gliding past the tall hedges of my North London house. The place was sleek, modern, and too pristine for someone who spent most of his life living out of hotel suites.
Jace pulled to a stop on the circular drive. “Home sweet home,” he said, cutting the engine.
My stomach twisted with a weird cocktail of relief and dread. Relief because I could finally crash somewhere that wasn’t a penthouse suite or a team motorhome. Dread because for the first time in four days, there’d be nothing to drown out the noise in my head. No engine screaming through a corner, no debriefs, no sponsors demanding a soundbite.
Just silence.
And my own thoughts, which could be more vicious than any tabloid headline.
I dragged myself out, and Jace led the way up the path with my luggage. At the top of the short stairway, he stopped so abruptly I nearly collided with him.
“What’s up?”
He didn’t answer. Just bent down, setting my suitcase aside, his whole body stiff.
I followed his gaze. Something sat on my doorstep, partially hidden by one of the potted shrubs near the door. A blanket? A bag? My fatigued brain couldn’t make sense of it.
Jace spoke again, sounding a little unsteady. “Mr. Michaels… there’s… there’s a baby here.”
“A what?” My heart jolted.
I pushed past him to take in the car seat and its blanket-shrouded occupant.
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Tell me this isn’t some kind of twisted prank.”
Even as I said it, I knew. No one went to this much trouble for a joke.
A crumpled piece of paper clung to the car seat handle, my name scrawled in rushed handwriting. The baby let out a soft sound, a little cry that made my chest tighten.
Jace hovered behind me, all his usual composure gone. “Should I call the police?”
I ignored him, tearing the note free. The paper crinkled as I unfolded it.
Griffin,
