Page 82 of Knot So Fast
But I'm smiling.
Grinning like a maniac beneath my helmet as I look up at the timing board to confirm what I already know:
1st - Lachlan Wolfe
2nd - Sugar & Spice
The tears come then, hot and unexpected, blurring my vision as the reality of what I've just accomplished crashes over me.I did it.Despite the memory loss, despite the year away, despite everyone trying to protect me from my own capabilities—I fucking did it.
But this is just the beginning.
The real show starts now, the moment I climb out of this car and show the world who's behind the mysterious pseudonym. The moment I stop being Sugar&Spice and reclaim my identity as Auren Vale.
My parents are probably watching. Hell, the entire racing world is watching, holding their breath to see who the mystery Omega is that just put on one of the most spectacular performances in recent memory. They wanted drama? They wanted a story?
Well, they're about to get one.
I reach for the release mechanisms on my helmet, my hands steady now despite the emotional storm raging inside me. Time to face the music. Time to deal with the consequences. Time to stop hiding and start living.
Time for me to reintroduce myself.
THE REVEAL
~AUREN~
I lift myself out of the cockpit with practiced ease, my muscles remembering the motion even if my mind doesn't recall the thousands of times I've done this before.
The helmet stays firmly in place for now—a barrier between me and the chaos that's about to unfold.My legs are slightly shaky from the adrenaline and g-forces, but I manage to stand on the car's nose, taking a moment to admire the machine that just carried me from 23rd to 2nd place.
The carbon fiber bodywork is scarred with evidence of our battle—rubber marks from where I kissed the barriers just close enough to gain those precious tenths of seconds, scratches along the sidepods from my calculated contact with Volkov. She's not pristine anymore, but she's beautiful in her battle damage.
"You did me good," I tease the car, running my gloved hand along the warm engine cover as if she can hear me, feel my gratitude for not failing when I pushed her beyond reasonable limits.
People might think I'm crazy for talking to my rides, for naming them and treating them like living beings instead ofmere machines. But I've always been like that—at least, I think I have. Everything feels more alive when you match name with personality, when you acknowledge the spirit that seems to inhabit these magnificent beasts of speed and engineering.
"I think I'll call you Phoenix," I murmur, patting the car one last time. "Because we both rose from the ashes today, didn't we?"
The sound of stampeding feet draws my attention, and I look up to see a horde of reporters racing toward me like hungry wolves scenting fresh meat. Their cameras are already rolling, microphones extended like weapons, each one desperate to be the first to unmask the mysterious Sugar&Spice who just gave them the story of the year.
I glance over to where Lachlan's car sits further down the straight, already surrounded by his crew. They're helping him out even though it's abundantly clear he doesn't need assistance—he could probably climb out of that car in his sleep after four consecutive championships. But it's tradition, part of the choreographed dance of victory that Formula One has perfected over decades.
No one's rushing to help me, of course. I'm the mysterious nobody, the last-minute substitution who shouldn't even be here. The crew is keeping their distance, probably unsure of protocol when dealing with an unknown Omega who just crashed their exclusive party. Understandable, really. They don't know if I'm about to collapse from exhaustion, burst into tears, or bite someone's head off for getting too close.
All valid concerns, honestly.
I smirk at the thought before finally jumping down from the car, my racing boots hitting the asphalt with a satisfying thud. The impact sends a small shock through my legs, reminding me that I'm not as young as I used to be—though at twenty-five, that's probably more about the year of inactivity than actual age.
I make a show of dusting off my racing suit, brushing away imaginary debris as if that wild ride hadn't left its mark all over the previously pristine surface. The suit is streaked with tire rubber, oil spots, and god knows what else from the chaos of overtaking twenty cars in fifty laps. But that's what makes it perfect—battle scars that prove I earned my position through skill and audacity, not luck or favoritism.
The thundering footsteps are getting closer, and I can make out individual voices now—reporters shouting questions in multiple languages, photographers cursing at each other for better positions, the general mayhem that follows any spectacular racing performance.
My grin widens. This is it. The moment I've been building toward since I first decided to steal that car and remind everyone who Auren Vale really is.
Time for the PR stunt that's going to go viral in 3... 2... 1...
I drop into a low stretch, bending forward to touch my toes in a move that's part genuine muscle relief, part calculated performance. The position makes my hair bunch up inside the helmet, adding pressure that I use to my advantage. As I rise from the stretch in one fluid motion, I reach up and pull off my helmet with theatrical precision.
The effect is immediate and exactly what I intended.
