Page 165 of Knot So Fast
"Why don't you just ask for our help?" She steps closer, and I can see the determination in those impossible eyes—purple-blue like storm clouds before lightning strikes. "Your brother's help? I could get my family involved. Hell, they have the resources to get you out of this shit. The Vales have more money than God and connections that?—"
"NO!" The word explodes out of me, loud enough to echo off the windows. "I'm doing this my way. I don't need anyone's help, and you better mind your fucking business."
"You're really going to let these fuckers paint you like an evil stalking prick?" Her voice rises to match mine, that competitive fire that makes her magnificent on the track turning into righteous fury. "The threats, the surveillance—they're making it look like you're the one threatening me!"
"What?" The word comes out sharp, confused, because that wasn't part of the plan, wasn't something I knew about?—
"Why are you the one making the threats?" she demands, stepping closer, and now I can see the bruises still healing on her face from the crash, the exhaustion she's hiding behind anger.
Everything clicks into place with horrible clarity. They're not just using me to fix races—they're setting me up as the fall guy. If anything goes wrong, if anyone investigates, all the evidence will point to me. The jealous ex who couldn't let go, who stalked and threatened until someone got hurt.
"So you stay away from me!" The words tear from my throat, raw and desperate. "Stop coming here, stop interfering. Be a good little Omega and get out of my life!"
"You still love me!" She screams back, and the truth of it hits like a physical blow. "You're only being like this because you're being blackmailed! Let us help?—"
"NO!"
The glass leaves my hand before I realize I've thrown it. Time slows as it arcs through the air, catching the light like a crystal meteor. I see the moment she realizes it's coming, the slight widening of her eyes, the beginning of a dodge that's not quite fast enough.
The glass explodes against the wall next to her head.
The silence that follows is deafening. We both stand frozen, staring at the glittering shards scattered across the marble floor. Then I see it—the thin line of red tracking down her cheek where a piece of glass has cut her. Just a small wound, barely more than a scratch, but it might as well be a mortal blow for how it makes my heart stop.
Blood. Her blood. On my floor, caused by my hand, because I couldn't control my temper, couldn't find another way, couldn't?—
"Fuck... Aur—" I start, taking a step toward her, hand already reaching to help, to fix, to somehow undo this moment.
"Don't." The word is quiet, final, colder than anything the voice on the phone could manage.
She turns and walks out, each step measured and deliberate. No running, no dramatic exit, just a quiet leaving that's somehow worse than if she'd screamed or thrown something back. The door closes with a soft click that echoes like a gunshot.
I stand there, staring at the blood on my floor, the broken glass that sparkles like accusations. My hands are shaking—from alcohol, from adrenaline, from the knowledge that I've just crossed a line I can never uncross.
The phone. Fuck, the phone.
I lunge for it, but even before I pick it up, I know it's too late. The call timer is still running. They heard everything. Every word, every accusation, every truth that Auren spoke into the darkness of my penthouse.
"Guess we have to get rid of the mouse," the voice says, and now there's something else in it beyond smugness. Anticipation. Pleasure. Like they've been waiting for this excuse.
"No," I say, but it comes out as barely a whisper. "She doesn't know anything. She's not involved?—"
The line goes dead.
I stand there, phone in hand, surrounded by broken glass and the lingering scent of whiskey and Auren's perfume—that vanilla and wildflower combination that's haunted me for three years. The blood on the floor looks black in the dim light, and I can't stop staring at it.
This is how it happens. This is how you become the villain in your own story—not all at once, but piece by piece, choice by choice, until you're standing in a penthouse you paid for with dirty money, having just hurt the one person you swore to protect.
I need to warn her. Need to call Lachlan, tell him everything, throw myself on their mercy and hope they can protect her better than I have. But even as I think it, I know it's too late. They'll be watching now, waiting for me to make that move. The moment I break, the moment I try to actually help, is the moment they'll strike.
The race is in five days. The Grand Sphynx, where everything will be decided. Where I'm supposed to ensure my brother loses, supposed to guarantee their bets pay off, supposed to play the villain one last time.
But now Auren knows. She knows I'm being blackmailed, knows I'm not the monster they've painted me as. And thatknowledge has just painted a target on her back bigger than any threat they've manufactured before.
I sink onto the couch, my head in my hands, trying to think through the whiskey fog. There has to be a way out. Some move I haven't seen, some card I haven't played. Three years of being their puppet, and I've learned nothing about who they really are, what they really want beyond money and control.
The city lights blur through my tears—when did I start crying?—turning Monaco into an impressionist painting of wealth and excess. Somewhere out there, Auren is probably driving back to her apartment, touching the cut on her cheek, thinking I'm lost to her forever.
She's not wrong.
