Page 37 of Knot So Fast
"Is this some kind of audition?" I murmur to myself, studying the official-looking pass.
The timing can't be coincidental—not with the Formula One announcement this morning and now this mysterious invitation appearing in my mail. Someone clearly wants me to participate in whatever this event is, but who? And more importantly, why?
I pout my lips, turning the ticket over in my hands while my mind races with possibilities.
The photograph suggests I was not only involved in professional racing but was good enough to be partnered with someone like Lucius, who I'm starting to suspect might be more important in the racing world than anyone has told me.
The message about potential not being wasted feels like both an encouragement and a challenge.
Someone out there believes I have abilities worth developing, skills worth nurturing despite my memory loss.
But participating in whatever this is would mean stepping back into a world I can't remember, trusting instincts I'm not sure I can access.
My phone suddenly rings, interrupting my internal debate, and I glance at the caller ID to see "Mom" displayed on the screen.
Perfect timing, as always.
I sigh and set the mysterious ticket aside, my mind still spinning with questions about who could have sent it and what they expect me to do with it. The idea of getting behind the wheel of a real race car is both terrifying and exhilarating, triggering something deep in my chest that feels like recognition mixed with hunger.
But I need to think about this carefully. Getting involved in racing again—assuming I was ever involved in the first place—could be exactly what I need to trigger my lost memories. Or it could be a dangerous step backward into a world that nearly killed me once already.
The phone continues ringing, and I know I can't avoid my parents forever. They're probably calling to confirm tonight's dinner plans, which means I'll have to face their protective concern and carefully worded questions about my recovery progress.
Maybe tonight I'll finally get some real answers about my past.
Or better yet, I'll work up the courage to ask the hard questions about why everyone seems so determined to shield me from my own life story.
As I reach for the phone, I steal one more glance at the racing photograph.
The woman standing next to Lucius looks confident and fearless, like she belongs exactly where she is. She looks like someone who was born to race, who found her purpose in speed and competition and the rush of pushing limits.
If that woman is really who I used to be, then maybe it's time I stopped letting other people decide what I can and can't handle.
It's time I figured out what "potential shouldn't be wasted" actually means.
The phone rings again, and I know I have to make a decision—not just about answering my parents' call, but about whether I'm brave enough to find out what I'm truly capable of.
Looking at the driver admission ticket one more time, I feel something shift inside me. Something that feels like the beginning of remembering who I used to be, even if I can't access the specific memories yet.
I think about the Formula One announcement this morning, about Rory hiding her true identity to survive in a world that doesn't want her, about the way Kieran and Luke seem to know more about my capabilities than they're willing to share.
“It's time I stopped being a passenger in my own life and started taking back some control,” I whisper to myself.
Time I found out whether the confident woman in that photograph is still somewhere inside me, waiting to be rediscovered.
The decision feels both terrifying and inevitable as I finally reach for my phone, ready to face the revelations tonight's dinner might bring. But first, I need to figure out whether I'mbrave enough to use that mysterious ticket and find out what kind of driver I really am.
Because something tells me that discovering the truth about my racing abilities might be the key to unlocking everything else I've lost.
GILDED CAGES
~AUREN~
The tension at the dinner table is so thickI could cut it with the steak knife I'm currently gripping with more force than necessary.
My eyes stay focused on my plate as I methodically work on cutting my steak into precise, uniform pieces—a mindless task that keeps me from having to make prolonged eye contact with my parents while they undoubtedly analyze every micro-expression on my face.
I'm wearing a tight-fitting black gown that hugs every curve of my body from chest to floor, strapless and elegant in the kind of way that screams expensive taste and old money. The color choice feels appropriate, like I'm attending a funeral—possibly my own.
