Chapter 3: The Brat Taming
The Monaco humidity had given way to the sterile, recycled air of the Barcelona paddock. It was a different kind of pressure here. Less intimate, more brutally professional. The hospitality suite thrummed with a low, expensive buzz. Glass clinked. Laser-printed schedules were handed out. Someone laughed too loudly by the espresso machine.
Aya moved through it like a scalpel.
Her mood was a live wire, sparking since dawn. She’d snapped at a press officer for mispronouncing her surname, corrected a junior engineer’s grammar in three languages, and had thrown a clipboard—not dropped, thrown—onto a table when she saw the revised marketing itinerary. It was a masterpiece of controlled fury.
Lando watched it from a plush sofa, doing a poor job of pretending to listen to his team principal. His eyes tracked her. Black tailored trousers, a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her hair was in a severe knot. Every line of her was tight, defensive. She was dismantling a clumsy floral arrangement left by a sponsor, jabbing the stems into a different vase with sharp, angry thrusts.
“—so we need you media-ready by 14:00, understand?” the principal finished.
“Yep. Got it,” Lando said, not having heard a word. He stood up, cutting off further talk with a clap on the shoulder. He weaved through the crowd, his smile easy and automatic for the people who called his name, but his focus was narrow.
He cornered her by the secluded glass wall overlooking the team garages. The noise of the suite faded to a murmur here.
“Alright,” he said, his voice low, cutting through her furious floral rearranging. “What’s the malfunction?”
“There is no malfunction.” She didn’t look at him, stabbing a calla lily into place. “The distribution of hydration drinks is inefficient. The branding on the new caps is off-center. The itinerary is an illogical mess. I am fixing things.”
“You’re scaring children,” he said. He reached out, his hand closing around her wrist. He stilled her movement. Her skin was warm. He could feel her pulse rabbit-fast against his thumb. “Stop.”
She tried to pull away, a sharp jerk, but he held firm. “Let go, Lando. I have work.”
“Not like this, you don’t.” He used his grip on her wrist to turn her, stepping into her space, using his body to block them from the room’s view. The move was pure instinct, born of speed and proximity. He cupped her chin with his other hand, forcing her furious, furious eyes up to meet his. Her breath hitched, surprise cutting through the anger.
He held her gaze, his own voice dropping to a graveled tone he barely recognized. “Enough.”
She stared, defiant, but a tremor went through her jaw where his fingers held her. The chaos in her eyes swirled—anger, embarrassment, something else, something raw.
He brushed the pad of his thumb slowly, deliberately, across her trembling lower lip. The gesture was intimate, wholly inappropriate, and it shattered the last of her professional composure. A tiny, shaky exhale escaped her.
He leaned in, his words a rough whisper meant only for her. “You want to be difficult today? Fine. But you’ll take your attitude straight to my motorhome after this meeting.” His thumb stilled, pressing gently. “Where I’ll decide if you’ve earned the privilege of sitting down for dinner.”
Her defiance didn’t just crumble; it vaporized. The fight left her shoulders. Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth, then to the floor. The blush that crept up her neck wasn’t the furious red of before, but something hotter, deeper. Her submission was absolute, and it rocked him more than any resistance ever could.
Her whisper was almost inaudible. “Yes, sir.”
He released her chin, his hand falling away. The air between them was charged, thick. He took a half-step back, the world rushing back in—the chatter, the clinking, the distant whine of an engine on track. He’d crossed a line. He’d drawn a new one. There was no going back.
“Good,” he said, his normal voice feeling foreign. “Now go get my media briefing notes. And try not to stab anyone with a pen.”
She nodded, turned, and walked away, her movements precise but softened. The storm had been replaced by a strange, quiet calm.
The marketing meeting was interminable. Lando sat through presentations on social engagement metrics and brand synergy, his leg jiggling under the table. Aya sat beside him, perfectly still. She handed him documents before he asked, murmured corrections to the presenter’s data, her voice calm and professional. But he saw the way her fingers tightened on her pen. He saw the occasional, fleeting glance she shot him from under her lashes—a look of wary, thrilling uncertainty.
He played it cool. He joked with the marketing head. He debated a photo-op location. All the while, his blood hummed with a single, focused goal. The motorhome. After.
As the meeting adjourned, his phone buzzed in the quiet room. He pulled it out.
The group chat, ‘Aya’s Filthy Mind’, had a new message.
> George: Heard Aya reorganized the entire hospitality suite with her mind today. Like Professor X but pissed off. Is she okay?
> Kelly: She didn’t even curse at me in Dutch when I called. Just said ‘hello, Kelly’ in a voice that could freeze hell. What did you do, Lando?
He thumbed a quick, lying reply.
> Lando: Jet lag. And the coffee here is shit.
He stood, the chair scraping. Aya stood with him, gathering her tablet and folders. They walked out of the suite together, into the brighter, noisier tunnel leading to the team areas. The roar of an F2 car on track vibrated through the concrete.
“The notes for the engineer debrief are in the green folder,” she said, her voice even. “I highlighted the tire degradation concerns from the last session.”
“Great.”
They reached the fork. Left to the engineering hub. Right, down a quieter corridor, to the private driver motorhomes.
He stopped. She stopped beside him.
He didn’t look at her. He watched a mechanic wheel a tire past. “Debrief is in twenty minutes.”
“I know.”
“Meet me after.”
A pause. He could feel her looking at him.
“Where?” Her voice was small. It wasn’t a challenge. It was a genuine question.
He finally turned his head. Her expression was beautifully, terrifyingly open. All the sharp edges were gone, leaving something vulnerable and expectant.
“You know where,” he said softly.
He saw her throat move as she swallowed. That single, nervous gesture sent a jolt of pure heat through him. She gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He turned and walked towards Engineering, not looking back. He didn’t need to. The image was seared into him: her standing at the crossroads, understanding exactly what path she had chosen, waiting for his permission to follow.
The next twenty minutes were a blur of technical speak and data points. His mind was elsewhere, meticulously constructing the quiet, private space of his motorhome. The soft lighting. The closed door. The weight of what happened next.
He was the last to leave the debrief. He walked the now-familiar corridor, his boots echoing. His motorhome door was just ahead, slightly ajar.
He pushed it open and stepped inside, shutting the world out with a soft, definitive click.
He pushed it open and stepped inside, shutting the world out with a soft, definitive click.
The lock engaged with a satisfying thunk.
Silence enveloped him, a stark vacuum after the paddock’s relentless engine scream and chatter. The motorhome was cool and dim, blinds drawn against the Spanish sun. He could smell the faint, clean scent of lemon disinfectant and the leather of the couches.
He turned.
She was perched on the far end of the large sectional sofa, back straight, hands folded in her lap. She looked like she was waiting for a job interview. Her gaze lifted to his, wide and uncertain. The fierce assistant who managed his multi-million dollar contracts and verbally sparred with team principals was gone. In her place was a woman out of her depth.
“The engineering report is on the counter,” she said, her voice too high, too formal. “I compilated the tire data first, though the method they used for the temperature gradients is fundamentally flawed, obviously. I mean, who uses that sampling rate? It’s practically amateur.”
She was babbling. The technical jargon was a shield.
He just watched, slowly unzipping his team jacket. He said nothing.
“And the catering for the VIP lounge is still subpar,” she continued, picking at a thread on her trousers. “The canapés are soggy. It’s an embarrassment. I should go and deal with that right now, actually.”
She made a move to stand.
He was across the room in three strides. His hand shot out, not rough but utterly decisive, and gripped the nape of her neck. Her words cut off in a gasp. Her skin was warm under his palm, the small hairs at her hairline soft.
“We’re done talking about canapés,” he said, his voice low and quiet.
He guided her up, his grip firm, turning her. There was no violence in it, only absolute purpose, an unyielding physical certainty that bypassed all argument. She was pliant, her body following the pressure of his hand without resistance, her breath coming in short, sharp pulses.
In one fluid motion, he sat on the couch and pulled her across his knees. Her weight settled over his thighs. He adjusted her position, his arm anchoring around her waist. The black fabric of her trousers was smooth under his other hand.
She stiffened. “Lando, I—”
The first spank landed with a sharp, crisp sound that broke the quiet. It wasn’t a strike of anger, but one of intent. She jolted, a shocked inhale torn from her.
“You’ve been a menace all day,” he said, his tone conversational, almost mild, as his hand came down again on the other side. “Snapping at people who don’t deserve it. Throwing things like a child.”
Another. The heat was beginning to bloom through the fabric.
“I let it go on too long,” he continued, the rhythm of his words matching the steady, measured cadence of his palm. “I enjoyed watching you burn. But that’s my mistake to correct.”
She whimpered, a soft, broken sound. Her fists clenched against the couch cushion.
“This is who you are for me right now,” he said, his voice dropping, becoming more intimate, possessive. The spanks continued, methodical and unrelenting. “Not the hyper-competent assistant. Not the polyglot. Mine. My responsibility. And I don’t let things I care about fray at the edges.”
A sob escaped her. It wasn’t a sound of pain, but of shattering. Her whole body went loose, melting over his lap, the fight and fear pouring out of her in a quiet flood of tears. She buried her face in the leather.
He gentled his hand, rubbing the warmed curve of her backside through her trousers. “There it is,” he murmured. “That’s all I wanted. Just this. You, without the armor.”
He kept talking, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “You carry everything for me. You think I don’t see it? The schedules, the translations, my own chaotic life. You hold it all. And then you get so wound up you forget how to put the burden down.”
He helped her up, carefully, turning her to face him. Her cheeks were streaked, her eyes red and swimming, but she looked ceaceless, lightened. She looked at him with a raw, unguarded awe that made his chest ache.
She didn’t speak. She simply leaned forward, resting her forehead against his shoulder, her body shaking with the aftershocks of her release. He held her there, his hand cradling the back of her head, his own breath finally easing.
Outside, the distant roar of a car on track was a world away. In here, there was only the sound of her breathing steadying, and the profound, terrifying quiet of a line crossed for good.
In here, there was only the sound of her breathing steadying, and the profound, terrifying quiet of a line crossed for good.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, her forehead pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, his hand anchored in her hair. The motorhome’s air conditioning whirred. Somewhere outside, a hydraulic tool hissed. The real world lingered at the door, waiting.
She shifted first, a small, deliberate movement. Instead of pulling away, she turned her body, twisting slowly until she was sideways across his thighs. Then, with a wince that was more acknowledgment than pain, she carefully climbed into his lap, straddling him. The leather couch creaked softly under their combined weight.
She settled there, her knees bracketing his hips, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. She was close enough that he could see the flecks of amber in her brown eyes, the damp trails on her cheeks. She let out a sharp, involuntary hiss as she made contact, her body tensing.
“Sore,” she whispered, the word a factual complaint.
“I know.” His hands found her hips, his thumbs making slow circles on the linen of her shirt. “You were supposed to be.”
She didn’t look away. Her gaze searched his face, as if mapping new territory. She leaned forward, her nose brushing his, her breath warm against his lips. She nuzzled into him, a soft, seeking gesture that was entirely instinctive.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured into the space between them. Her voice was rough from crying, stripped bare. “For being such a brat today. I was… everything was too much. The noise. The people. The stupid, incorrect data. I just…”
She trailed off, shaking her head slightly, as if the explanation was inadequate.
“You don’t have to explain the ‘why’ to me,” he said, his voice low. He slid a hand up her back, feeling the tense line of her spine through her shirt. “I just need you to trust the ‘what’. Trust me with it. All of it. Even the messy, sharp parts.”
“I do.” The answer was immediate, airless. Her eyes widened, as if surprised by her own certainty. “That’s the terrifying part. I really, really do.”
He pulled her closer then, until her head tucked under his chin, her body a warm, pliant weight against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of her head. He could feel the steady, strong beat of her heart through his own ribs.
“Then it’s simple,” he murmured into her hair. He kissed the crown of her head, a soft press of his lips. “You don’t have to carry it alone. You funnel the chaos to me. I’ll handle it. Or I’ll handle you. But it stops here, with us. It doesn’t get to poison anyone else, especially not you.”
She let out a long, shuddering sigh, her entire body going boneless against him. It was a surrender more complete than any that had come before. This was giving up a burden, not a fight.
“Okay,” she breathed, the word muffled against his neck.
They sat in the quiet, the processed air cooling the sweat at his temples. He could feel the gentle, persistent throb of heat coming from her, a reminder of his handprint. It was a possessive, intimate knowledge that coiled something deep and satisfied in his gut.
His phone vibrated on the couch cushion beside them, skittering against the leather. The screen lit up with a notification from the engineering channel. Debrief follow-up. The world was knocking.
She felt him tense and lifted her head. Her eyes were clear now, focused. The competent, analytical gleam was returning, but it was softer, warmer. “You have to go.”
“I know.”
“I should go and… actually fix the caterers.” A ghost of her old smirk touched her lips. “The soggy canapés are a legitimate crisis.”
He grinned, relieved to hear the dry wit resurface. “See? Back to saving my world from sub-par pastry.”
She didn’t move immediately. She leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t passionate or desperate; it was a seal. A gentle, closed-mouth press of lips that felt like a promise and a punctuation mark all at once. Then she climbed off his lap, another soft hiss escaping her as her feet hit the floor.
She straightened her shirt, smoothed her hair. With a few blinks, she reassembled the mask of the impeccable assistant, but it was different now. He could see the woman beneath it, the one he now knew in an entirely new way.
He stood up, his body aching with a weird fatigue, as if he’d just driven a double stint in blistering heat. He grabbed his phone and team cap.
At the door, she paused, her hand on the latch. She looked back at him, her head tilted. “Dinner? Or did I… lose the privilege?”
He reached out, hooking a finger under her chin. “You earned it back. My motorhome. Eight o’clock. And for God’s sake, wear something comfortable.”
Her smile was real, brilliant, and just for him. “Yes, sir.”
She slipped out, the door closing with a soft click behind her. He stood alone in the sudden silence, the scent of her perfume lingering. His phone buzzed again, more insistently this time. The engine of his professional life was revving, demanding fuel.
He had a race to prepare for, a championship to defend, a world watching. But for the first time, the noise of it all felt like it was on the other side of a very thick, very quiet wall. He took a deep breath, turned the handle, and stepped back into the roar.