Chapter 4—The Grand Prix, After-Party
Miami, Florida – The Grand Prix Official After-Party
The Ritz-Carlton Hotel – Rooftop Clubhouse
The bass of the music thumped violently against the floorboards, vibrating straight through the soles of Keisuke's shoes.
The official Team Nissan after-party was in full swing at one of Miami's most exclusive rooftop clubs. Neon strobe lights sliced through the hazy, smoke-filled air, illuminating the throngs of supermodels, wealthy sponsors, and rival racers celebrating the end of the season. Champagne flowed like water, and the roar of laughter and music was deafening.
But Keisuke wanted absolutely no part of it.
He sat completely alone in the darkest corner of a velvet VIP booth, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His jet-black hair fell slightly over his intense, dark eyes, casting shadows across his sharp features. In his unbandaged left hand, he loosely held a glass of expensive whiskey on the rocks, the ice clinking softly as he swirled the amber liquid.
He was the guest of honor, the newly crowned champion of the world, and the man who had just dropped the biggest bombshell in motorsport history on live television. Yet, he looked as approachable as a loaded gun.
A few brave socialites and models had tried to approach the booth earlier, flashing brilliant smiles and offering their congratulations. But one cold, deadpan glare from Keisuke's black eyes was enough to send them retreating back into the crowd.
He took a slow sip of the burning whiskey, his mind completely detached from the chaotic party around him.
He was thinking about the interview. About the lie he had just spun to millions of viewers. "I'll be getting married soon to my girlfriend in Japan." It wasn't a lie—not to him, anyway. It was a declaration of war. A trap he had just set on a global stage. By tomorrow morning, the Japanese tabloids would be in an absolute frenzy. The news would be plastered across every screen, every newspaper, and every social media feed in Tokyo. It would be impossible for her to ignore.
"You know, Takahashi, you practically broke the internet in the last twenty minutes."
Keisuke didn't flinch as Katsushi Takemura, a Japanese Toyota racer, slid into the velvet booth across from him.
Katsushi leaned back against the plush leather, resting his forearms on the glass table with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. He held a flute of champagne, looking entirely out of place next to Keisuke's dark, brooding aura.
"So, who is the lucky bride, Keisuke-san?" Katsushi pressed, his eyes gleaming with unapologetic curiosity over the rim of his glass. "A Japanese model? A television anchor? A sports journalist? Or maybe some crazy-rich corporate heiress?"
Keisuke took a slow sip of his whiskey, his expression completely flat. "You're noisy, Katsushi."
Katsushi laughed, the sound bright against the heavy, thumping bass of the nightclub. "Oh, come on! It's not every day that the King of the circuit announces his retirement and a wedding in the exact same breath. I'm naturally curious. Which Japanese woman managed to catch you? I haven't seen a single one near you in the paddock, aside from the usual foreign socialites and supermodels, and you don't even let most of them near you... except maybe Kitagawa." Katsushi paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Wait... is it actually Kitagawa-san?"
Keisuke lowered his glass, his black eyes locking onto the Toyota racer. "Why would you think it's her?"
"Well, she's Japanese, she's a supermodel, she's gorgeous, and you two seem somewhat close," Katsushi reasoned with a careless shrug. "Or... is it someone else entirely and completely different?"
Before Keisuke could shoot down the ridiculous assumption, the heavy velvet curtain of the VIP booth was pushed aside.
Miller and Silva, the British and Spanish racers, piled into the booth, drinks in hand. They were trailed by three stunning supermodels in glittering, barely-there dresses, bringing a wave of loud laughter, flashing jewelry, and heavy perfume into the confined space.
"What are you two whispering about in Japanese?" Miller asked loudly, squeezing into the booth and slinging an arm over the back of the leather cushions. "Plotting the next season's sabotage?"
Katsushi switched effortlessly to English, pointing his champagne flute across the table at Keisuke. "I'm just digging for details on Keisuke–San mystery girl. Trying to figure out who she is... but this guy hasn't give a single peep yet."
The tall blonde model, wearing a dress practically made of silver sequins, boldly slid into the narrow space right beside Keisuke. She crossed her long legs, leaning in close enough that her heavy, sweet perfume completely overpowered the sharp scent of his whiskey.
She traced a manicured finger along the rim of her champagne glass, looking at him from under thick false lashes. "A mystery girl, huh?" she purred, her tone laced with a mix of flirtation and passive-aggressive skepticism. "Tell us, Keisuke. Is she really worth getting hitched for? Giving all this up for just one woman?"
Keisuke didn't even look at her.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, the ice clinking softly as he lowered his glass to the table. Then, he slowly turned his head. His jet-black eyes fixed on the blonde with an expression so completely frigid it could have frozen the champagne in her hand.
"That is none of your business," he said. His voice was quiet, cold, but it did cut through the heavy, thumping bass of the nightclub like a freshly sharpened blade.
The blonde actually flinched. The confident, seductive smirk vanished from her face, and she instinctively pulled her hand back, shrinking away from the sheer, suffocating hostility radiating from him.
An awkward, tense silence fell over the VIP booth, completely at odds with the chaotic party raging just beyond the velvet ropes.
Miller cleared his throat, letting out a nervous chuckle to break the ice. "Alright, alright, mate. No need to bite her head off. We're just trying to get a picture of the kind of a woman who managed to put a leash onto the fastest man on earth."
"Is she a runway queen?" Silva chimed in, leaning forward with a grin, trying to salvage the mood. "Or maybe an actress hiding out in Tokyo? I mean, she has to be someone used to the spotlight if she's marrying you."
Keisuke leaned back against the leather cushions, his dark gaze drifting away from the flashing strobe lights. The irritation in his chest faded, replaced by a sudden, distant longing and a dangerous fondness as an image flashed into his mind.
A dimly lit university library at midnight. A stubborn girl with a fierce pout, hiding her tired eyes behind towering medical textbooks. Hands that smelled of sweet milk and bitter vending-machine coffee. A fiercely driven mind that prioritized her heavy exams and strict rules over his reckless charm.
Keisuke set his glass down on the table with a firm thud.
"She is not a model," Keisuke said his voice suddenly gentler, carrying effortlessly over the club's heavy bass. "She is not an actress. And she couldn't care less about the spotlight."
"Then what is she?" Katsushi asked, genuinely stunned by the sudden, serious and gentler of his reverence in Keisuke's tone.
Keisuke looked at the other racers, a faint, incredibly rare smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.
"She is a doctor."
The words dropped into the booth like an anvil. The sheer, grounded reality of that profession completely shattered the superficial glamour of the VIP room. The models blinked, suddenly looking entirely out of place in their sequined dresses, completely out of their depth.
Miller let out a low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief. "A doctor. Bloody hell, Takahashi. You really are playing in a completely different league. Is she a childhood girlfriend? A family friend? Because racers usually don't have those kinds of women around them."
The models gazed at him, their egos visibly bruised as the realization set in. They could offer him fame and fleeting beauty, but the woman he was marrying possessed a quiet, untouchable substance they couldn't begin to compete with.
"To the future Mrs. Takahashi, then!" Silva cheered, raising his glass high, a newfound respect shining in his eyes. "The brilliant doctor brave enough to tame the undisputed champion of the world!"
The blonde model, clearly feeling slighted by the sudden shift in the room's attention, crossed her arms. She forced a tight, polite smile, though her tone dripped with thinly veiled skepticism.
"A doctor? Wow," she said, leaning back. "But is she actually pretty, Keisuke? Or is it more of a 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder' kind of a situation? No offense, of course."
Keisuke didn't bristle at the insult. Instead, he slowly rested his chin on the knuckles of his unbandaged hand, his dark eyes looking right through the glittering, heavily contoured faces of the women in front of him.
"Not the fake kind," Keisuke replied smoothly, his voice low and unwavering as his gaze flicked to the blonde. "She is a real beauty."
The model's lips twitched in irritation. Katsushi raised an eyebrow, swirling his champagne. "For real?"
"Hmm," Keisuke hummed softly, a distant, quiet reverence washing over his usually cold features. "She is beautiful... like an angel with an innocent soul and a kind heart."
The entire booth went dead silent for a full three seconds. The idea of the ruthless, aggressive Takahashi Keisuke comparing a woman to an angel was so jarring that Miller actually choked on his drink.
"Bloody hell," Miller laughed, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. "Look at him. He is a complete goner."
Keisuke didn't even try to deny it. He just kept his gaze fixed on the ice in his glass. "From day one. Sure."
Silva leaned over the table, his curiosity completely piqued. "Come on then, paint us a picture. How does she actually look? Because usually, doctors who spend their entire lives buried in hospital wards aren't exactly runway material."
Keisuke closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. The deafening bass of the Miami club, the neon lights, and the heavy smell of alcohol all vanished.
In his mind, he was standing under the shade of a blooming cherry blossom tree. He saw her bathed in soft spring sunlight, laughing a bright, carefree sound as she reached up on her tiptoes to catch a falling pink petal dancing in the wind. When it finally landed in her palm, she turned around, her bright grey eyes locking onto his with a smile that made his entire world stop.
"She has grey eyes," Keisuke murmured, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate octave that commanded the absolute attention of everyone at the table. "Long, dark black hair. Naturally rosy lips..."
He paused, a faint, genuine smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he pictured her fragile, fierce expression.
"...and pale, soft white skin," he finished quietly. "Like a little kitten."
The racers stared at him. The models sat in stunned, defeated silence. Keisuke had completely stripped the glamour out of the room with nothing but the memory of a woman thousands of miles away.
"A kitten?" Miller repeated, an amused grin breaking across his face.
Keisuke hummed softly, taking another slow sip of his whiskey. "She bites and scratches, too."
The racers around the table burst into genuine, booming laughter, the sound cutting through the heavy bass of the club.
"So the circuit King is into soft, cute things, huh?" Silva teased, nudging Keisuke's shoulder.
Keisuke's expression remained perfectly calm, but his dark eyes held an absolute, unwavering certainty. "No. It's just her."
The brunette model, sitting on the edge of the table and clearly struggling to accept that she was being outclassed by a woman who wasn't even in the room, crossed her arms defensively.
"So," she pressed, her tone sharp. "Even if she's a doctor, is she still close to supermodel standards? I mean, with your status, Keisuke, she must at least dress the part, right?"
Keisuke let out a dry, dismissive breath, not even bothering to look at the model.
"Does it matter?" he replied, his voice flat and unimpressed. "She isn't modeling, and she has zero interest in it. It's not that she hates dressing up, but she's always preferred burying her face in heavy medical books over staring into a damn mirror. Back then, I used to be the one buying her dresses and coaxing her to wear them just to get her away from her studying."
The deeply nostalgic, almost exasperated affection in his voice when he talked about their past left the models completely speechless. There was no competing with that level of grounded, unwavering adoration—a man who cherished a woman's stubborn mind just as fiercely as her beauty.
Katsushi tilted his head, leaning forward over the glass table. His curiosity had fully peaked now.
"So, Takahashi-san," Katsushi asked, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. "If she's a strict, book-obsessed doctor and you're... well, you. How exactly did you two meet?"
Keisuke stared down at the melting ice in his crystal glass. For a fraction of a second, the blinding neon lights of the Miami nightclub faded into the soft, warm sunlight of a Tokyo spring. He wasn't in a VIP booth anymore; he was standing in a quiet school courtyard, watching a girl in a crisp high school uniform crouched beneath the falling cherry blossoms. Her dark hair was woven into a neat braid, and her thick glasses slipped slightly down her nose as she gently stroked a stray cat, feeding it a piece of her morning bread.
"High school," Keisuke murmured quietly, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"High school?" Miller repeated, his eyes widening as he did the math in his head. "Bloody hell, mate. You've been together that long? Wow."
Keisuke didn't bother to correct them. He didn't mention the years of silence, or the fact that they had broken up twelve years ago.
The blonde model leaned forward, a teasing, almost patronizing smile playing on her brightly painted lips. "High school? Keisuke, don't tell us she was your first love."
She said it as if it were a childish concept—a naive little phase that a wealthy, world-famous champion should have outgrown years ago. But Keisuke didn't laugh, and he didn't brush the comment away.
He looked down at the melting ice in his glass. The dangerous, icy edge in his dark eyes melted away, replaced instantly by a profound, undeniable warmth.
"Yes," Keisuke said softly. The single word carried a quiet, heavy certainty that completely anchored the room. "She is my first love."
The sheer sincerity in his voice left the table momentarily speechless. There was no room for mockery or teasing. He wore the title of her first love like it was a crown far more important than the F1 championship he had just won.
The brunette model scoffed softly, swirling her drink to break the heavy, romantic tension. Her ego was visibly bruised, and she looked at Keisuke with genuine bewilderment, quickly summarizing the situation to make it sound as dull as possible.
"So, let me get this straight," she pressed, her tone dripping with passive-aggressive disbelief. "She's a strict doctor, she hates dressing up, and she spends all her free time buried in medical textbooks. She sounds entirely boring next to you, Keisuke. So why her?"
Keisuke slowly lowered his glass. His black eyes locked onto the brunette model, but this time, there was a dangerous, fiercely proud smirk playing on his lips.
"Why not her? She is ten thousand times better than any woman in this room," he stated bluntly, not caring if it stung. "And who said she was boring?"
His voice dropped to a low, challenging rumble, and the table fell into a state of collective confusion.
"Huh?" Katsushi tilted his head, completely lost. "Keisuke-san, you literally just described her as a rule-abiding bookworm."
Keisuke leaned forward, resting his forearms on the glass table. The neon lights caught the sharp angles of his face as his smirk widened into a full, arrogant grin.
"She races, too."
The entire VIP booth erupted.
"What?!" Miller, Silva, and Katsushi shouted in unison, their voices completely drowning out the heavy bass of the club. Even the models gasped, their eyes wide with shock.
"You're joking," Silva said, shaking his head frantically. "A doctor? Who's racing? Are you dead serious she can race, or are you just bragging about your girl?"
"I'm dead serious. And who said doctors can't race? I know a couple of wild doctors back in Japan—even their grandmothers are faster than your track cars," Keisuke said, a deep sense of pride radiating from his every word. "I taught her myself in the past. When she gets behind the wheel, she doesn't hold back. She is an absolute speed-type racer."
He looked at the three professional drivers sitting across from him, the very best in the world, and his grin turned wicked.
"If any of you ever try to go up against her on a mountain pass," Keisuke warned smoothly, his eyes flashing with the memory of her gripping a steering wheel, "you'll find out exactly why she isn't boring."
The racers were completely stunned into silence. The image of a quiet, beautiful, book-loving doctor tearing down a mountain pass at breakneck speed was too much for their alcohol-fogged brains to process. Keisuke had completely shattered every single expectation they had.
Katsushi threw his hands up in mock surrender, a wide grin breaking across his face. "Wow. Okay, Keisuke-sama, you win. Your girl is just as dangerously cool as you are." He paused, swirling the remaining champagne in his flute. "But if she's a street racer in Tokyo, why haven't I ever seen her around the mountain passes or the underground circuits in Japan before?"
Keisuke's gaze softened just a fraction, remembering the exhausting hours Kaori spent studying in the past. "Being a doctor is tiring," he said quietly, offering a half-truth. "She doesn't have the time she used to."
Katsushi nodded thoughtfully, digesting the information. "True. But seriously, Takahashi... it sounds like you completely made her like yourself. You dragged a rule-abiding bookworm right into the fast lane."
Keisuke rested his arms on the glass table, his dark eyes reflecting the neon lights of the club. "Isn't it normal for people to influence each other?" he asked, his voice smooth and unapologetic. "She is just a normal Japanese woman. She just knows how to hide her wild side better than most."
Miller shook his head in absolute disbelief, clapping Keisuke firmly on the shoulder. "You love her a lot, man. You realize you're going to break millions of hearts worldwide tomorrow morning when this interview airs, right?"
Keisuke's face remained completely impassive. "Let it be."
Silva gestured toward the hovering models. "But seriously, man. We're racers. Women are constantly throwing themselves at us. Doesn't your doctor get jealous?"
Keisuke didn't even spare the women a passing glance. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, his dark eyes entirely unbothered.
"She might," Keisuke replied coolly, his voice laced with absolute loyalty. "But I never give her a reason to if I can and aside that it's always her or no one."
He stood up afterwards, his tall frame instantly commanding the small space, and grabbed his black racing jacket.
"That's all," Keisuke announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm going back to my room to rest."
"What?" Silva protested, throwing his hands up in dismay. "Man, you're the world champion! You're leaving this soon? The night just started! What about the sponsors?"
"Tell them I died of alcohol poisoning," Keisuke said dryly, turning his back on the flashing lights and the blaring music. "Enjoy the party, gentlemen."
He didn't wait for their protests. Keisuke stepped out of the velvet-lined booth, leaving the stunned racers and the speechless models behind. He wove his way through the chaotic, neon-lit dance floor, entirely unbothered by the sea of partying celebrities that naturally parted for him.
As he neared the VIP exit, a familiar figure stepped into his path.
It was Louis Hamilton. The legendary British racer held a drink in his hand, looking at Keisuke with a mix of immense respect and competitive frustration.
"Leaving this quick, Takahashi?" Louis asked over the thumping bass, arching an eyebrow. "I thought I'd finally get the chance to defeat you properly next season. But you're just leaving after dropping a bomb and winning once? No three-time winning streak or something?"
Keisuke stopped, looking at the veteran champion. A faint, arrogant smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"I'm just leaving some room for the juniors to shine," Keisuke replied smoothly.
Louis let out a loud, appreciative bark of laughter, shaking his head. "Arrogant till the very end. Have a good retirement, Keisuke."
Louis extended his hand. Keisuke took it, and the two world champions shared a firm, respectful handshake amidst the flashing strobe lights.
To be continued —