Page 145 of Knot So Fast
"Magic," she repeats, amused. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"What would you call it?"
She thinks about it, camera raised to catch the way the light falls through the windshield. "Truth," she says finally. "I'd call it truth."
And maybe that's what this is—the truth of us, stripped of paddock politics and corporate obligations. Just two people in a car, racing toward something neither of us can name but both of us want.
I squeeze her hand again and press harder on the accelerator, chasing the morning into afternoon, carrying her away from whatever threat that SUV represents. She doesn't need to know about that yet. For now, she just needs this—the wind and the music and the promise of terrible food eaten with expensive hands.
The rest will come soon enough. It always does in my world. But today, we're nobody and everybody, flying down a French highway with the windows down and our hearts on our sleeves.
Today, we're just us.
And maybe that's enough…at least for now.
NEON NIGHTS AND DARK DESIRES
~AUREN~
Sponsor after-parties are predictable in the way that car crashes are predictable—you know they're coming, you can see all the warning signs, but somehow you still end up in the middle of the wreckage wondering how the hell you got there.
Tonight's designated disaster zone is Eclipse, one of Monaco's most exclusive clubs where the drinks cost more than most people's rent and the VIP section requires a DNA test, three references, and possibly a blood sacrifice. It's supposed to be our second group activity—a "casual" night out to celebrate our continued dominance on the track and show sponsors that we're not just fast, we're marketable.
The car pulls up to the red carpet that someone has unironically laid out for a Tuesday night, and I can already see the pack of photographers circling like vultures who've spotted fresh meat. Their cameras are raised before we've even stopped moving, the rapid-fire clicking audible even through the bulletproof glass of the Bentley.
"Ready for this?" Lachlan asks, his hand finding mine in the darkness of the backseat.
He's in full professional mode—charcoal suit that costs more than some cars, watch that could fund a small country's economy, that particular mask of controlled confidence that makes him look untouchable. But his thumb traces circles on my palm, a tell that he's not as calm as he appears.
"Born ready," I tell him, checking my reflection one last time in my phone screen.
Katie had arranged for a full glam team tonight, and they'd outdone themselves. The dress is sleek dark maroon that hits mid-thigh, with a neckline that's just shy of scandalous and a back that doesn't exist until it reaches my tailbone. My lips are painted dark purple—almost black in certain lights—and my skin gleams with some kind of glitter setting spray that makes me look like I've been dipped in stardust.
The sunset is doing me favors too, all golds and purples and reds bleeding across the Monaco skyline, creating the perfect backdrop for what's about to be a thousand Instagram posts.
Lachlan exits first, buttoning his jacket with practiced ease before turning to help me out. The second my heels hit the carpet, the cameras go absolutely feral. The clicking intensifies to machine-gun frequency, and reporters surge forward against the velvet ropes, shouting questions that blur together into white noise.
"Auren! How's pack life treating you?"
"Is this arrangement real or just for the cameras?"
"Any response to Mercedes' comments about your last race?"
"When's the wedding?"
I slide my hand into Lachlan's arm, letting him guide me forward with the confidence of someone who's done this dance a thousand times. My smile is practiced but genuine—I've learned that the best way to handle media attention is to give them just enough to satisfy without actually revealing anything real.
Behind us, the rest of the pack emerges from the second car. Luke and Kieran flank the group, both looking devastating in their own ways—Luke in dark jeans and a button-down that shows off his Beta build, Kieran in all black that makes him look like danger personified. The fact that they're actually engaging with reporters, tossing out teasing comments and charming smiles, has the media losing their collective minds.
"Luke! Kieran! This is the first time you've spoken at an event!"
Luke grins, that easy charm that makes people forget he's actually calculating every word. "Well, someone's got to keep these Alphas in line."
"And someone's got to make sure the Omega doesn't burn the place down," Kieran adds, throwing me a wink that's definitely going to be gif'd within the hour.
We're inside before the vultures can recover, the heavy doors closing behind us and muffling the chaos to a dull roar.
The club is exactly what you'd expect from Monaco excess—all black marble and gold accents, with smoke machines creating an atmosphere that's one part mysterious, two parts trying too hard. The bass from the sound system is a physical presence, vibrating through the floor and into my bones like a second heartbeat.
