Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
It’s been a whirlwind since we arrived in Bahrain. Lex and the team got to work almost immediately. While I was trying to keep a low profile, Lex was dragged into a string of PR events—photo ops, fan meet and greets, sponsor meetings and media interviews.
Harley had me tag along with her for a few hours as she checked in on the logistics crew setting up the portable garages and paddock, building a Crown Velocity headquarters right here in the middle of the desert. The engineers have been busy tweaking the cars, making sure everything is in perfect shape for the race.
The sheer efforts to coordinate all of this is mind-boggling and it makes me respect this industry all the more. There are hard days ahead as they close in on the event, but tonight is different. Tonight it’s about the glitz and glamour of Formula International, the part that’s always felt surreal to me.
We step out of the elevator and into the sleek black car waiting outside. It’s a short ride to the Bahrain World Trade Center where the party is being held, and Lex’s hand stays on mine the entire way, a silent reassurance that I’m not alone in this. Plus it’s the last opportunity for him to touch me until later.
When we pull up to the buildings, my jaw drops at the sleek, towering structures. The twin sail-shaped towers rise high into the evening sky, their modern glass facades gleaming under the soft glow of the city lights. Connecting the two buildings are three massive wind turbines, a striking architectural feature that feels futuristic and bold.
The entire area is lit causing the towers to glow, and our car pulls up behind other limos at the end of a red carpet. I see camera flashes and hear reporters shouting questions, while fans stand behind barricades screaming at the drivers, celebrities and royals walking into the buildings.
“Oh wow.” I breathe out and resist the urge to rub at the tightness in my chest.
“You got this,” Lex says as our car inches forward and a valet moves to open our door. Lex gives me a swift, dazzling kiss and to my surprise holds my hand as we exit the vehicle.
He gives it a last squeeze before dropping it and buttoning his coat. Lex waves at the crowd, flashes his killer smile at the cameras and I try to not be blinded by all the lights. But then there’s his steadying hand on my back and he guides me up the carpet and into the lobby.
We take an express elevator to one of the sky lobbies where the party is already in full swing. The walls are floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a breathtaking panoramic view of the Manama skyline beyond which stretches to the Arabian Gulf, its dark waters shimmering with reflections of the lights from the towers.
It’s hard to reconcile the conservative nature of this Islamic country with this ultramodern event. I had learned that while alcohol is prohibited to Muslims, in some circumstances it is allowed in specific licensed establishments such as hotels, bars and clubs, primarily for tourists and expatriates. Maeve explained to me that this allowance was balanced with the country’s Islamic laws, which encourage moderation and have strict punishments for drunken behavior. As such, I plan to only have one drink tonight.
The lights are low, illumination provided by neon orbs, and techno music pulses softly in the background so as not to disrupt conversation. It has a dance club vibe to it and everyone is dressed in designer clothes and sparkling jewels. Sleek, polished floors reflect the light, and large, abstract sculptures made of chrome and glass stand strategically throughout the room, adding to the cutting-edge atmosphere.
“There’s the crown prince,” Lex says, pointing to a man in the traditional long flowing robe known as a thobe, complete with the ghutra headscarf. I did my research on Bahrain, as it will make a beautiful, culturally vibrant addition to my novel and I want to paint a vivid picture.
Lex and I walk around and he shakes hands with people, introducing me to everyone simply as “my friend, Posey Evans.” The room is filled with drivers, team principals, sponsors and enough media to make it feel like we’re at the Oscars. The hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses fill the air, and I’m a little breathless as I take it all in. There are tables adorned with glowing centerpieces—clear glass vases stuffed with illuminated crystals, their soft blue and gold hues providing ambient light. Plush, angular couches and chairs are scattered around the edges of the room, inviting guests to lounge in style.
Everything is ultramodern with the pulse of glamour, which is so anti-Posey that I want to giggle over how strange it is for me to be here.