Page 6 of Speed

“Stop!” Sadie snapped, but her husband—my idiot brother—wasn’t listening.

He leaned forward, his expression hard. “Well, poor Mr. Millionaire. You could start by not acting like the world owes you something just because you got dealt a bad hand.”

“Fuck you,” I snapped, the words out before I could stop them. “You think I like this? Do you think I enjoy sitting around waiting to see if my brain decides to kill me? I went to see Doc last week, okay? You know what he said? More waiting. More watching. No answers. No solutions. Just me, stuck in limbo while everyone else gets to move on with their lives.”

Logan paled, and I could see the regret in his expression, but before he could start all the typical bullshit, I held up a hand. “Don’t you dare pity me, you asshole!”

“Enough. Both of you,” Sadie snapped.

Her words hung in the air like a lifeline, cutting through the tension threatening to choke us. Logan leaned back, exhaling, and I slumped against the seat, exhausted, pressing fingers to my temple where a headache threatened.

“Are you okay?” Logan asked because he was watching me and asked me that same question every move I made.

I dropped my hand.

“That’s a relative term,” I murmured.

Sadie shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Logan. I didn’t have to see her face to know she silently told him to ease off. But Logan was like a dog with a bone when it came to me.

“Did he say there was any news about what’s next?”

I turned to look at him, my jaw tight. “There is no ‘next.’ They keep watching, and I keep living with a time bomb in my skull. That’s it, Logan. That’s my life now.”

Silence filled the car, heavy and oppressive. Logan didn’t say anything, but I could feel his disappointment, his frustration. He didn’t get it. He couldn’t.

Sadie glanced between us, her tone softening. “You both need to stop taking it out on each other.”

She was right. Logan wasn’t the enemy here.

“He needs to back the fuck off,” I snapped.

“And he needs to?—”

“Enough!” Sadie snapped at Logan, and for a moment, I felt smug, then she turned to me. “You too!”

The rest of the ride passed in heavy silence. I knew Logan was getting tired of my shit. Hell, I was getting tired of my shit. But I didn’t know how to fix it.

The limo slowed to a stop, the grand entrance of The Hay-Adams glowing in the golden light outside. The buzz of conversation and the flash of cameras seeped into the car, but none of us moved.

I wish I’d managed to slip under the radar here in the States. Sure, America was home, but F1 didn’t capture attention the way NASCAR did. While dedicated fans followed every race, the average American would recognize a NASCAR champion over an F1 driver any day. Anonymity here could have been a blessing, but I’d ruined that by dating Jemima—a popstar, Insta-goddess, and fashion icon who was constantly in the spotlight. Being labeled “Jemima’s ex” stuck with me long after we split. For a time, I’d loved the attention that came with being on her arm, reveling in the envy and adoration we attracted.

But that was then, when I was younger, cockier, and naive enough to think fame meant happiness. Now, the spotlight felt suffocating. It wasn’t just the intrusive headlines or constant speculation about my personal life—it was the loss of control, my story shaped by others without my consent.

No matter how hard I tried to escape, that world kept pulling me back. The press speculated endlessly about my retirement; social media analyzed every move. Wherever I went, whispers followed: “Brody Vance—Jemima Wren’s Ex.”

Truthfully, I wasn’t sure how to reconcile my past self with who I was now. Before, the crowds and cameras had fueled my drive to succeed. Now, they felt like a burden, a constant reminder of everything I’d lost and of someone I wasn’t sure I wanted to be anymore.

“Smile for the cameras,” I muttered under my breath. Before I could reach for the door handle, Logan leaned over, his hand landing on my arm.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quieter than I expected.

I nodded, still staring at the tinted glass. “It’s all good.”

“It’s not,” Logan pressed. “I worry about you, Brody.”

I let out a slow breath and turned to meet his gaze. His pale gray eyes—our dad’s eyes—were filled with a mix of frustration and something else I couldn’t quite place.

“I get it,” I said, my voice as soft.

---