Page 116 of Knot So Fast
PRESSURE POINTS
~AUREN~
Hiding in the toilet stall before signing yourself onto a multi-million dollar contract isn't how you should be starting a Monday morning, but here I am, trying not to have a panic attack while sitting on a closed toilet lid in what's supposedly one of the most prestigious facilities in motorsport.
The marble walls of the stall feel like they're closing in, even though this bathroom is probably bigger than most people's apartments. Everything here is excessive—gold fixtures, heated floors, those fancy bidets that I'm still not entirely sure how to use properly. It's the kind of bathroom that screams money and success and everything I should be excited about.
Instead, I'm in here having a crisis while clutching the official contract Terek handed me twenty minutes ago like it might spontaneously combust.
This morning was supposed to be straightforward. Get officially introduced to the organization behind Wolfe's fame—Titan Racing International,a name that carries sixty years of legacy and more championships than any other team in Formula One history. Founded by Alessandro Titan in 1964, built on the principles of "Speed, Honor, and Absolute Victory," expandedinto an empire that doesn't just race cars but shapes the entire sport.
The presentation had been overwhelming. Slide after slide of victories, technological innovations, drivers who became legends wearing Titan colors. The wall of champions in the main lobby, where Lachlan's photo appears four times in succession, each one marking another year of dominance. The trophy room that's literally a room—floor to ceiling displays of gold and silver, each one representing someone's dream achieved under the Titan banner.
Then came the tour of the facility, which is so massive it needs a damn map. Actually, they gave us tablets with GPS tracking because apparently people have gotten lost in the wind tunnel complex before. The main building alone has twelve floors, not counting the underground testing facilities. There are three separate cafeterias, because heaven forbid the engineers have to eat with the mechanics, or the executives have to mingle with the pit crew.
The design studios where they're currently working on next year's car look like something out of a sci-fi movie. Holographic displays, 3D printers that can fabricate parts in real-time, a simulator room that apparently cost more than most countries' defense budgets. They showed us the telemetry center where they can monitor every aspect of a car's performance down to the temperature of individual bolts.
But the moment that really got me—that made this all feel too real—was seeing the new build they're creating specifically for Lachlan and me. Two cars, identical in every way except for our individual setup preferences, painted in Titan's signature black and gold with new accent colors: purple and silver for mine, blue and white for his. Our names already stenciled on the cockpits in elegant script.
"These will be the fastest cars we've ever built," the chief engineer had said with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious experiences. "Designed specifically to accommodate an Alpha-Omega racing pair. We've adjusted everything—the electromagnetic fields, the ventilation systems to handle pheromone concentration, even the seat materials to prevent scent marking during long races."
The reality of it all—the money being spent, the expectations being set, the history I'm about to become part of—hit me like a physical blow.
And then, like an idiot, I'd opened my phone.
Maybe I was looking for distraction. Maybe I wanted to see if anyone had noticed the announcement about me officially joining Titan Racing. Maybe I'm just a masochist who can't resist poking at bruises to see if they still hurt.
What I found was a viral surge of hate campaigns that made my stomach drop to somewhere around my ankles.
The hashtags alone were enough to make me want to throw my phone into the Mediterranean:
#OmegaDontBelong#GetBackInTheKitchen#ValeWhore#DiversityHireDisaster
But it was the specific posts that really got to me. Twenty thousand people—twenty thousand—had liked a post suggesting I should "jump off a cliff into a pit of snakes" all because I'm the first female Omega to actually do well in a Formula One race. The comments underneath were worse. Detailed descriptions of what they hoped would happen to me on the track. Photoshopped images of car crashes with my face superimposed. Death threats creative enough to make me wonder if these people had too much time or genuine psychological issues.
One particularly charming individual had created an entire thread breaking down why my second-place finish was "clearlyrigged," complete with conspiracy theories about how the Vale family had paid off other drivers to let me pass. Never mind that I'd started from dead last. Never mind that every move was captured on camera. Never mind that Dmitri Volkov was still complaining loudly to anyone who'd listen about how I'd outmaneuvered him.
No, clearly it was all a feminist conspiracy to destroy the sacred masculine space of Formula One.
I pinch my nose, taking a few more breaths that don't seem to bring enough oxygen to my lungs. The panic is creeping up my spine like cold fingers, making my hands shake and my vision blur at the edges. This is what I didn't miss during my memory gap—this crushing weight of public scrutiny, the knowledge that every mistake I make won't just be my failure but will be held up as proof that Omegas don't belong in racing.
My phone dings with a message, the sound too loud in the bathroom's acoustic perfection.
Lachlan:You okay? You've been gone for a bit.
I stare at the message for a moment, debating whether to lie and say everything's fine. But what's the point? He'll know. He always seems to know when I'm struggling, even when I'm trying my hardest to hide it.
Me:Oh nothing, just on the verge of a panic attack on the toilet. Nothing to see here.
I watch the typing bubble appear immediately, then pause like he's reconsidering what to say. Then it disappears entirely, and a second later my phone rings. His contact photo fills the screen—a picture I don't remember taking but that makes my chest tight with something between longing and loss.
In it, my arms are hooked around Lachlan's neck, my lips pressed against his cheek while he grins with the kind of pride that could light up stadiums. We're both in racing gear, sweaty and exhausted but radiating joy. The photographer caught us ina moment of pure, unfiltered happiness—my eyes are closed but there's a smile on my face that speaks of absolute contentment, while Lachlan looks like he's won something far more valuable than any race.
I can't recall the instance when the picture was taken, what race we'd just finished or what victory we were celebrating. But the pure joy in my eyes is so different from the terror I feel now. That version of me believed she belonged there. That version of me had already proven herself, had already faced down the doubters and won.
Clearly, I've gone through this before. I was signed, doing well, believed in. The photo is proof that I've stood in winner's circles, that I've earned my place through skill and determination.
So why is it different now? Why am I so afraid?
