Page 35 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

I study the images more carefully, noting the angles, the timing, the way every shot seems designed to emphasize certain narratives.

This isn't random paparazzi work—this is orchestrated.

Professional.

Deliberate.

"I wouldn't be surprised if they're trying to manufacture drama between the twins," Marcus continues, his voice dropping even lower. "You know, play up the whole 'brothers divided by competition' angle. The producers are probably salivating at the ratings potential."

I sigh heavily, feeling the weight of three years' worth of compromises and concessions pressing down on my shoulders. "It's not that they don't get along," I say carefully, aware that even off-air, conversations can be recorded and leaked. "It's more like..."

I pause, searching for words that convey the truth without revealing too much. How do you explain the dynamic between Lachlan and Lucius to someone who's never seen them together? How do you describe two men who are identical in appearance but opposite in every way that matters?

"They're both dangerous flames," I finally say. "Neither would hesitate to burn the other if it meant getting to the top faster. But Lachlan's the tamed one. Controlled. Calculated."

"Until?" Marcus prompts, leaning forward with genuine curiosity now rather than professional interest.

I meet his gaze steadily. "Until you involve a certain Omega in the mix."

The words hang between us, heavy with implication.

Marcus might be a gossip, but he's not stupid. He knows there's a story there, something bigger than manufactured twin rivalry or racing drama.

"If anyone tries to bring up anything regarding Vale," I say quietly, my voice carrying the kind of threat that has nothing to do with our professional relationship, "you shut that shit down. I don't care how much they pay us. You hear me?"

He swallows hard, nodding quickly.

"I don't want to deal with that family any more than you do. Or the other ones—the Lanes and Harts. Nobody with half a brain fucks with those families or their Omega daughters."

We both know why.

The Vale, Lane, and Hart families aren't just wealthy—they're the kind of powerful that operates on a completely different level. Old money mixed with new technology, influence that spans continents and industries, the kind of people who can make problems disappear with a phone call.

And their daughters— Auren, Rory, and Wren —are protected with the fierce devotion usually reserved for national treasures or nuclear weapons.

Touch them without permission, and you don't just face legal consequences.

You face complete annihilation.

"Thirty seconds to air," the producer's voice interrupts our moment of understanding.

I straighten in my chair, pulling my professional mask back into place as the screens shift to show the pre-race preparations. The camera finds Lachlan in the garage, and my chest tightens at the sight of him.

He's suiting up with mechanical precision, every movement controlled and efficient. But I know him well enough to read the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw is set like he's preparing for battle rather than a race.

I know that look.

It's the same expression he wore the day he made his decision about Auren, about stepping back, about honoring her parents' wishes even though it was killing him.

It's the look of a man who's made up his mind and won't be swayed, no matter the cost.

He's not letting any Omega join him on the track today.

Which means by the end of this race, Lachlan Wolfe—four-time world champion, the face of Formula One, my pack brother—will be forced to step down from the sport he's dominated for years.

The unfairness of it makes me want to rage, to tear apart this glass booth and everything it represents.

We've all sacrificed for the sport, given up pieces of ourselves in pursuit of speed and glory. But Lachlan gave up more than most. He gave up Auren, gave up the future they'd planned, gave up everything that mattered because it was the "right" thing to do.

And now the sport is asking him to betray that sacrifice by bonding with another Omega, even temporarily.

The ON AIR light flashes red, and Marcus launches back into his commentary with renewed enthusiasm. But I find myself staring at the screen, at Lachlan's stoic expression as he slides his helmet on, and I know what he's thinking.

He's thinking about her.

About the way she used to kiss him before every race, a good luck ritual that became as essential as breathing.

About how she'd trace the number on his car with one finger, claiming it as hers.

About the plans they made for after he retired—a house on the coast, maybe kids, definitely a garage full of classic cars they'd restore together.

All of it gone because of one night, one accident, one moment that shattered everything.

"Dex?" Marcus's voice pulls me back to the present. "Your thoughts on Lachlan's strategy for today's race?"

I clear my throat, falling back on professionalism when emotion threatens to overwhelm.

"Lachlan's always been a strategic driver. He calculates risks, plans his moves three steps ahead. Today won't be any different."

What I don't say is that his biggest strategic move already happened.

He chose her over glory, love over victory, loyalty over legacy. And in a sport that measures success in trophies and podiums, that kind of choice is incomprehensible to most.

The engines roar to life on the track below, that distinctive Formula One scream that used to make my blood sing. Now it just reminds me of everything we've lost, everything we gave up, everything we can't get back.

Marcus continues his commentary, building excitement for the viewers, but I find myself thinking about later. About the drink we'll all need when this is over, when Lachlan's career officially ends not with a crash or a defeat but with a quiet refusal to compromise his principles.

It's not the ending any of us imagined for him.

The man who conquered Formula One, who made the impossible look easy, who turned racing into art— reduced to a footnote about the champion who walked away rather than accept the new rules.

But that's Lachlan.

Stubborn, principled, loyal to a fault. He'd rather lose everything than betray the memory of what he and Auren had.

Even if she can't remember.

Even if she's currently in his brother's bed, living a half-life built on carefully constructed lies.

Even if it's killing all of us to watch.

The race is about to begin, and I force myself to focus on the technical aspects, on tire strategies and fuel loads and all the things that used to consume my every waking thought. But part of me is already mourning what's about to happen, already preparing for the aftermath.

Because after today, everything changes.

The pack dynamics, the team structure, the careful balance we've maintained for three years—all of it will shift and realign around Lachlan's absence.

And that shift will be enough to finally crack open the secrets we've all been keeping.

Maybe losing Lachlan from the track will be the catalyst that brings Auren back into our lives, memories or no memories.

Or maybe it'll drive the final nail into the coffin of what we used to be.

Either way, by the end of today, the four-time world champion will be just another cautionary tale about the price of love in a sport that demands everything and forgives nothing.

A shame, indeed.