Page 171 of Knot So Fast
~LACHLAN~
The press conference room at Yas Marina Circuit is packed beyond capacity, every seat filled, reporters standing along the walls, cameras creating a forest of black lenses all pointed at me like weapons.
I sit at the center of the long table, alone. No Terek to run interference, no Harrison with his tablet full of statistics, no team representatives to deflect the harder questions. Just me, the four-time world champion, about to deliver news that will detonate like a bomb through the racing world.
My hands are folded on the table, steady despite everything. Years of media training have taught me how to project calm even when my insides are screaming. The crisp white Titan Racing shirt I'm wearing shows no wrinkles, my face freshly shaved, every external detail perfectly controlled because it's the only control I have left.
The murmur of voices rises and falls like waves, speculation and rumor mixing with the click of cameras and the hum of recording equipment. They smell blood in the water. They know something catastrophic has happened, but the details have been kept under tighter security than state secrets.
I wait. Let them exhaust themselves with their chatter, their theories, their desperate hunger for tragedy transformed into headlines. The silence, when it finally comes, is absolute.
Then the dam breaks.
"Is it true Auren Vale is in a coma?!"
The question comes from three reporters simultaneously, their voices overlapping in their eagerness to be first. The words land like physical blows, but I don't flinch. Can't flinch. Not here, not now, not when showing weakness would be like throwing chum to sharks.
"What happened last night for her car to be veered over a cliff?"
Another voice, another question I won't answer. The image flashes unbidden through my mind—security footage of her Aston Martin going through the barrier, the sickening moment when physics took over and gravity claimed another victim. The way the car tumbled, metal screaming, glass exploding, before disappearing into the darkness below.
"Did she survive the impact?"
Stupid question. If she hadn't survived, this would be a different kind of press conference. But survival is relative, isn't it? The body can continue functioning while everything that makes a person who they are hangs in the balance.
"Is she paralyzed?"
"What's her current condition?"
"Who was responsible?"
"Was this another attack?"
"How did she even get out of the hospital?"
The questions come rapid-fire now, each reporter trying to shout over the others, the noise building to a crescendo that makes my head throb. But I remain still, silent, letting them exhaust themselves against my silence like waves against a cliff.
When they finally quiet—more from running out of breath than any respect for protocol—I lean forward slightly. Just enough to trigger the microphones, to make every recording device in the room strain to catch what I'm about to say.
"I will be participating in the final race tomorrow." My voice is steady, emotionless, each word carefully measured. "A substitute Omega will be taking Auren Vale's place in car three."
The explosion of noise that follows is predictable. Every reporter shouting at once, demanding to know who, how, why. I wait them out again, my face a mask of professional composure while inside I'm screaming.
"As for Miss Vale's condition," I continue when they quiet, "I have nothing to report at this time."
It's not a lie. I genuinely have nothing I can report, nothing that wouldn't either violate her privacy or give false hope or reveal just how fucked everything has become. The truth—that she's hanging between life and death, that machines are doing the breathing her body can't manage, that the best doctors in the world can't say if she'll ever wake up—none of that belongs to these vultures.
I stand, the movement sharp enough to make several reporters step back. "This conference is concluded."
The chaos that erupts behind me as I leave is absolute, but I don't look back. Security flanks me immediately, creating a human barrier between me and the reporters who try to follow. The elevator doors close on their shouted questions, their desperate attempts to extract more blood from this stone.
The ride up to the private suite is silent except for the mechanical hum of the elevator. The security detail peels off at the door, taking positions in the hallway, leaving me to enter alone.
The suite is excessive even by Formula One standards—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the track, marble everything, abar stocked with liquor that costs more than most people's cars. It's meant to impress sponsors, to close deals, to celebrate victories.
Tonight, it's just an expensive cage for my grief.
I go straight to the balcony, needing air that doesn't taste like recycled tragedy. The track spreads out below, illuminated by thousands of lights that turn the tarmac into a river of gold. Tomorrow, twenty-three drivers will push themselves to the limit here. The championship will be decided, legacies will be made or broken, and I'll have to race while the woman I love fights for her life in a hospital bed.
