Page 80 of Knot So Fast
The moment everything changes.
The light goes green.
RESURRECTION
~AUREN~
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're down to the final two laps and the mysterious Omega who started in 23rd place is now in THIRD!" Marcus's voice booms through the track speakers, his excitement palpable even through the static and engine noise. "This is absolutely unprecedented! Who IS this driver?"
I continue to chew the gummy that I popped in my mouth right before the start of the race, the slightly sweet, herbal taste coating my tongue as I navigate turn fourteen at speeds that would terrify most people. The gummy is already half-dissolved, its calming effects spreading through my system like honey through my veins, taking the sharp edges off the anxiety that's been clawing at my chest since I first sat in this cockpit.
Thank god for Rory and her backup plans. She knows me better than I know myself sometimes, understands that beneath all my bravado and determination, the reality of being back in a Formula One car could easily trigger the PTSD that's been my unwelcome companion for the past year. I may act tough—may project confidence and rebellion like armor—but mental healthis a different kind of battle entirely. One that can't be won with speed or skill or sheer stubbornness.
A year off the track.
Twelve months of careful recovery, of therapy sessions I barely remember, of everyone walking on eggshells around me like I might shatter at any moment. All the simulation racing, all the virtual competitions with my mysterious gaming partner—none of it compares to this.
To the violent vibration of a real engine beneath me, to the g-forces trying to tear me sideways through every turn, to the knowledge that one wrong move at these speeds doesn't result in a respawn but in twisted metal and fire.
The thought tries to trigger something—a flash of heat, the phantom smell of burning—but the gummy's effects wrap around my mind like a protective blanket, keeping the panic at bay. Letting me focus on what matters: proving to everyone that I'm not finished.
Not by a long shot.
I downshift aggressively into turn fifteen, the car responding to my commands with a precision that feels like coming home. My body knows this dance even if my mind has gaps. Muscle memory guides my hands on the wheel, my feet on the pedals, finding the perfect racing line through each corner like I never left.
I need to prove to the world that I'm not out of the game. That whatever happened to me, whatever accident tried to steal this from me, it failed. I need to show my parents that their perfectly controlled daughter isn't meant for Pilates classes and suitable Alpha marriages—that the track is where I belong, where I've always belonged, even if they tried to erase that truth.
But more than that, I need to remind the men I've sadly forgotten that I don't want to be left behind while they're stuck in their cycles of stagnancy. The thought brings back the imagethat changed everything, the photograph I discovered just before climbing into this car.
It had been tucked behind a technical manual in the garage, missed during whatever thorough cleansing of my racing history my parents had orchestrated. A single image that offered me a glimpse of what I'd once had: five people in racing gear, standing in front of a car with championship badges gleaming in the background.
Lachlan stood to the left, his arm around Kieran's shoulders, both of them grinning with the kind of joy that comes from achieving the impossible. Caspian was on the right, his usually serious face transformed by a smile that made him look years younger. Dex was crouched in front, making victory signs with both hands like an excited kid rather than the composed commentator I'd seen on screen.
And in the center, held up by all four of them like a conquering queen, was me. My racing suit was unzipped to the waist, revealing a sports bra underneath, and I was laughing—really laughing, with my head thrown back and my arms spread wide like I was trying to embrace the whole world. The star crescent tattoo under my eye was clearly visible, and there were champagne stains on everyone's suits from what must have been one hell of a celebration.
The golden team. That's what someone had written on the back in faded pen. The date showed it was taken just two weeks before my accident.
The realization that everything—every photo, every article, every piece of evidence that I'd been part of this world—had been systematically wiped clean could only be thanks to my powerful parents and their equally influential friends. They'd tried to erase not just my career but my entire existence in this sport.
But what couldn't be erased was what I saw in those men's eyes in that photograph. The spark of genuine happiness, thepride in their expressions, the thrill of victory that went beyond trophies or prize money. They'd been alive in that moment, truly alive in the way that only comes from doing what you were born to do alongside people who understand that calling.
And now? The contrast is heartbreaking.
Kieran looked miserable when he'd mentioned teaching spoiled rich kids, his whole demeanor screaming of dreams deferred and passion slowly dying. Dex, despite not having direct interaction with him, shows it even through the commentary screen—the way his eyes track the cars with a hunger that speaks of wanting to be in the action, not just describing it. His voice carries passion for the sport, but his body language screams of a man trapped in a glass box, watching life happen to other people.
Caspian, in that brief confrontation at my parents' house, had seemed hollow compared to the vibrant man in the photograph. The technical genius who'd orchestrated record-breaking pit stops reduced to... what? Corporate meetings and diplomatic missions? The light in his eyes had dimmed to barely an ember.
And then there's Lachlan. The photocopy of the twin brother I've been fucking, yet I'm only now realizing how dramatically different they truly are. Where Lucius is chaos and sharp edges and taking without asking, Lachlan is controlled passion and careful touches and the kind of patience that comes from truly caring about someone's wellbeing.
Our one night together—god, was it really just last night?—had shown me how addicting his particular brand of passion could be. The way he'd touched me like I was simultaneously unbreakable and precious, the way he'd looked at me like I was his whole world condensed into a single person. It made me crave more, made me desperate to learn about him all overagain, hoping that maybe rediscovering who we were together could trigger the memories locked away in my mind.
Or maybe we could just make new ones. Start fresh without the weight of a past I can't remember but that clearly haunts everyone around me.
I may not want to admit it out loud, but I want to see these men thrive again. Want to see that spark return to their eyes, that purpose return to their movements. Maybe that's the real reason I called Rory and Wren at three in the morning with this insane plan. Not just for me, but for all of us.
The car in front of me suddenly moves to block my attempted overtake, and I have to fight the instinct to flinch. Instead, I feint left before diving right, using the slipstream to my advantage as I power past another competitor. Twenty-third to third in less than fifty laps—not bad for someone who's supposedly forgotten how to race.
"Maintain your speed, Sugar&Spice!" Harrison's voice crackles through the radio, tense with barely controlled excitement. "You're doing brilliantly! Don't take any unnecessary risks trying for second place!"
