Page 70 of Knot So Fast
"And we're back in five, four, three..." The producer counts us down, and I feel the familiar shift as my public persona clicks into place.
The ON AIR light flashes red, and Marcus launches into his spiel with characteristic enthusiasm.
"Welcome back, racing fans, to what's shaping up to be the most controversial preliminary race in Formula One history!" His voice carries that perfect blend of excitement and drama that viewers eat up. "The inclusion of Omega partners has thrown the entire paddock into chaos, with teams scrambling to reveal their chosen Omegas before today's race."
I nod along, waiting for my cue while my mind races ahead to what I know is coming. We've been building to this moment all morning, dancing around the elephant in the room with increasingly obvious hints.
"It's certainly been a challenging adjustment," I offer when Marcus pauses for breath. "The logistics alone of integrating new team members this close to race day?—"
"But that's not the real story, is it, Dex?" Marcus interrupts with a grin that makes me want to punch him. "The real story is that only one team has yet to reveal their Omega partner. And not just any team—we're talking about the four-time consecutive champions!"
Here we go.
I keep my expression neutral, professional, even as my hands clench beneath the desk where the cameras can't see.
"Lachlan Wolfe's team has remained surprisingly silent on their Omega selection," Marcus continues, leaning forward with the kind of conspiratorial air that suggests he's about to share state secrets. "One has to wonder—is this strategic planning, or is the championship team facing a deal-breaker with these new regulations?"
He pauses dramatically, and I can practically see the viewers leaning closer to their screens.
Marcus has many flaws, but the man knows how to work an audience.
"Now, as many of our long-time viewers know, Lachlan's history in the romance department has always been rather... secretive." The way he draws out the word makes my skin crawl. "But sources suggest he may have already committed to an Omega—one he's yet to share with the public or even his own pack."
Marcus turns to look at me, one eyebrow raised in a silent question that's really more of a command. He wants me to bite, to take the bait and run with whatever narrative he's building. I can see the gleam in his eyes, the anticipation of drama and ratings and all the things that make modern sports broadcasting more about entertainment than athletics.
I arch an eyebrow in response, keeping my expression carefully neutral.
Two can play at this game, and I've had three years to perfect my poker face.
Undeterred, Marcus barrels onward.
"For those just joining us, let's talk about the golden team that has dominated Formula One for the past four years. Lachlan's pack isn't just talented—they're a perfectly calibrated machine of racing excellence."
He gestures to the screens behind us that display team photos and statistics.
"We have Kieran Cross as second driver, whose technical precision perfectly complements Lachlan's aggressive strategies. In the pit, Caspian Thorne has orchestrated record-breaking tire changes that have literally redefined what's possible in those crucial seconds."
His gaze slides to me, and there's something almost apologetic in his expression that immediately puts me on guard. "And of course, we have our very own Dex Ryder, whose tactical genius could calculate the perfect strategy to get his team into first place no matter the conditions."
I feel my jaw tighten at the use of past tense, at the reminder of what I used to be versus what I am now. Three years might as well be three decades in racing terms. Three years of watching from the sidelines, of analyzing races I should be strategizing, of pretending I'm content with this consolation prize of a career.
Marcus catches my expression and mouths "sorry" even as he continues his monologue. But I know that look—he's not sorry at all.He's building to something, and whatever it is, I'm not going to like it.
"But here's where things get really interesting," he says, his voice dropping to that conspiratorial tone that makes millions of viewers feel like insiders. "What if Lachlan isn't the twin we'll see on track today? What if we're about to witness a racing debut from his brother?"
And there it is.
The bomb he's been waiting to drop, delivered with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the skull.
I force myself to lean forward with interest rather than the dread that's pooling in my stomach.
"Twin brother?" I ask, injecting just the right amount of surprise into my voice. "I think you might be confusing?—"
"Oh, didn't you know?" Marcus laughs, the sound bright and fake as cubic zirconia. "Lachlan has a twin! The hot discoverywas announced this morning, making waves across social media. And get this—he was recently spotted being fitted for racing gear at the elite VIP athletic wear boutique in Monte Carlo!"
The screens behind us light up with images that make my blood pressure spike.
It's definitely Lucius, not Lachlan, and the differences are obvious to anyone who knows them. Where Lachlan carries himself with controlled precision, Lucius radiates danger like a warning sign. He's all sharp edges and barely leashed chaos, the kind of man who looks like he'd either kiss you or kill you depending on his mood.
