Page 75 of Knot So Fast
"Probably," I admit. "But can I really continue playing this stupid game of hide and seek when I know I can help Lachlan keep doing what he loves? When I have the ability to make a difference and I'm sitting on my ass pretending to be some delicate flower who needs protection?"
The silence that follows is heavy with understanding. We've all made sacrifices, all chosen paths that our families might not approve of. But this feels bigger somehow. More final.
"Even though you don't remember what you shared with him," Rory says quietly, "you're willing to put yourself back in the spotlight? Risk everything on a possibility?"
I turn back to face them, slipping my helmet on but leaving the visor up so they can see my eyes. The determination I feel must show because both of them straighten slightly.
"No matter what happened in the past, I can tell from one look at that man that racing is his life," I say, my voice steady despite the nerves dancing in my stomach. "It's what makes him breathe, what gives him purpose. If he's forced to stop not because of his own skills declining but because he can't find an Omega willing to partner with him? That's going to kill him slowly. Do I really want that on my conscience?"
I shake my head, answering my own question. "No. Not for him or his pack. I don't remember them or whatever we shared, but who knows? Maybe doing this will trigger something. Maybe it'll bring back the memories everyone seems so desperate to keep from me."
My hands clench into fists at my sides. "I can't let my parents dictate this reality anymore. Can't keep living in fear because death came knocking on my door and I was lucky enough to not answer."
I look away, taking a deep breath that's slightly muffled by the helmet. "I know I was born to ride, to drive fast, to push limits and break barriers. No one is going to dictate what I'm destined to be except fate herself. So, sorry Mama and Papa, but your daughter can't be a perfect heir without living out her dreams first."
Turning back to my best friends, I flash them a peace sign with my fingers, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy mood. "Let's hope I don't die a second time, yeah? That would be super inconvenient."
"Don't even joke about that!" Rory groans, pointing a finger at me threateningly. "Make sure you're properly buckled in, all safety gear double-checked. And take the gummies if you feel panicked—just one! These aren't your regular anxiety meds. They're... special."
"Yes, ma'am," I say with a mock salute. "You two should totally check on me afterward. Assuming I survive and don't end up splattered across the track like an abstract painting."
"I think we'll be the least of your problems after the stunt you're about to pull," Wren interjects with a knowing look. "Because we both know whose attention you're going to capture after you win this race. And it's not going to be pretty when certain people realize what you've done."
I smirk, feeling the adrenaline starting to build in my system. The familiar pre-race energy that I didn't even know I'd missed until this moment. As I walk away from them, I raise my hand and give them both the middle finger without looking back.
"Bitch!" Wren calls after me, but she's laughing.
Rory gasps in mock offense. "The disrespect! And after we helped plan this whole thing!"
Their bickering fades as I move deeper into the garage, my entire demeanor shifting with each step. The slouching, casual Auren disappears, replaced by someone who moves with purpose and confidence. My spine straightens, my stride lengthens, and by the time I round the corner toward the main staging area, I've transformed into someone who belongs here.
The garage is chaos—organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Mechanics rush back and forth, making last-minute adjustments. The air is thick with the scent of high-octane fuel, hot metal, and burning rubber. It should be overwhelming, but instead, it feels like coming home.
I navigate through the maze of equipment and personnel with an ease that surprises me, my body apparentlyremembering the layout even if my mind doesn't. No one gives me a second glance—just another suited figure in a helmet among dozens of others.
The cars are lined up in their starting positions, engines warming up with that distinctive Formula One growl that sends shivers down my spine. I can see car number 1, Lachlan's car, surrounded by his crew making final preparations. Car number 2 should be next to it, but there's a conspicuous gap and a flurry of activity that suggests something's gone wrong.
Perfect.
I head toward car number 3, my backup position, knowing that the "unexpected error" in car number 2 is about to work in my favor. Rory's mechanic connections have paid off, ensuring that the second car would develop a mysterious electrical issue at just the right moment. Nothing dangerous, nothing that would raise too many suspicions—just enough to create an opening.
As I approach the car, I can feel the energy shifting around me. The buzz of preparation, the controlled chaos of the final moments before a race. My heart rate picks up, but it's not fear—it's anticipation. This is what I was made for, what my body remembers even if my mind has gaps.
The crew around car 3 barely glances at me as I approach. They're too focused on their tasks, too caught up in the pre-race routine to question the suited figure who seems to know exactly where to go and what to do. The helmet hides my face, the suit disguises my figure enough to pass casual inspection, and my confident movements sell the illusion.
I run my hand along the side of the car, feeling the smooth carbon fiber beneath my gloved fingers. The number 3 is painted in bold strokes, and something about it feels right. Like this was always meant to be my number, my car, my moment.
In the distance, I can hear the announcement system crackling to life, the voice of the commentators building excitement for the crowd. They're probably discussing the drama of the missing Omega partners, speculating about which teams will be disqualified, turning our sport into entertainment for the masses.
They have no idea what's about to happen.
I think about Lachlan, probably in his car by now, resigned to this being his last race. I think about my parents, sitting in their perfect house with their perfect plans for my perfect life. I think about the memories locked away in my mind, waiting for the right key to release them.
Maybe this is that key. Maybe getting behind the wheel, feeling the power of the engine, the g-forces, the pure adrenaline of competition—maybe that's what I need to remember who I really am.
Or maybe I'll create new memories, better ones, ones where I'm not just a passenger in my own life but the driver.
The crew chief for car 3 approaches, clipboard in hand, probably to discuss strategy with who he thinks is his driver. I nod at him, keeping my visor down, and he launches into a rapid-fire breakdown of tire strategy and fuel loads that I understand instinctively despite having no conscious memory of learning these things.
