Page 121 of Knot So Fast
"We're trying it out."
My phone rings then, Lachlan's ringtone cutting through the moment.
My mother doesn't miss a beat.
"Tell him you're at the elevators."
I arch an eyebrow at the seemingly random instruction but answer the call. "Hey, I'm at the elevators."
"Why?" Lachlan's voice is confused but not suspicious.
I think quickly, grateful for my mother's quick thinking. "The washroom is out of order so I had to use the other one that's near the entrance."
"Okay, I'm coming." The line goes dead, and I look at my mother with renewed panic.
"How am I going to get to the elevators? He's literally on his way there right now and I'm?—"
She's already moving, walking to the far end of the washroom where I hadn't even noticed another door, painted to blend seamlessly with the marble walls.
She knocks twice—a specific pattern that speaks of pre-arrangement—and the door opens to reveal a security guard I don't recognize.
Beyond him is a service corridor that clearly leads toward the main entrance, a path I had no idea existed.
I whistle again, genuinely impressed by the level of preparation this required.
"I forgot about how mysteriously scary we are."
"The Vale family has resources," she says simply, but there's pride in her voice. "Use them wisely."
We walk quickly through the corridor, my heels clicking against the concrete floor so different from the marble luxury of the public spaces.
The guard leads us through a series of turns that would be impossible to remember, finally emerging through another hidden door near the elevator banks.
"I'll be watching your rise," my mother declares, and the words carry weight—promise and threat and love all wrapped together.
I give her one last squeeze, breathing in her familiar scent and trying to memorize this moment when everything shifted between us.
When she chose my happiness over her fears.
When she chose to support me despite the risks.
"I love you," I whisper against her shoulder. "Thank you for everything."
SHADOWS START TO LINGER
~AUREN~
Morning air off the harbor bites clean through the open garage doors as I slip into the simulator, the familiar weight of the racing harness settling across my shoulders like armor. The rig is state-of-the-art—Titan Racing International doesn't do anything halfway—with hydraulics that can simulate every bump, every g-force, every violent correction that comes with pushing a Formula One car to its limits.
I run Monaco at quali pace, the virtual streets of the principality flowing past in a blur of barriers and barely-controlled violence. The tire model is set to C5 softs—the grippiest compound Pirelli makes, perfect for the slow-speed technical precision Monaco demands but prone to overheating if you push too hard through the swimming pool complex.
Lachlan watches from behind the halo, one hand braced on the carbon fiber frame of the rig, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His other hand hovers near my wrists, not quite touching but ready to guide if needed. When I jerk the wheel too aggressively through Massenet, his fingers ghost over mine, showing me how to roll the steering input instead of stabbing at it like I'm trying to murder the car.
"Smooth," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear in a way that makes my Omega instincts want to purr. "The car wants to dance, not fight."
He's maddeningly calm, every instruction delivered in that measured tone that speaks of absolute confidence. As we approach the harbor chicane, he leans closer, his chest barely brushing my spine as he reaches around to point at the brake bias display.
"Fifty-four/forty-six into the Swimming Pool," he says, his voice low enough that it feels like a secret between us. "Then shift it back to fifty-three/forty-seven for Rascasse. The elevation change affects weight transfer."
