Page 54 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

PRESSURE POINTS

~ A UREN~

Hiding in the toilet stall before signing yourself onto a multi-million dollar contract isn't how you should be starting a Monday morning, but here I am, trying not to have a panic attack while sitting on a closed toilet lid in what's supposedly one of the most prestigious facilities in motorsport.

The marble walls of the stall feel like they're closing in, even though this bathroom is probably bigger than most people's apartments.

Everything here is excessive—gold fixtures, heated floors, those fancy bidets that I'm still not entirely sure how to use properly.

It's the kind of bathroom that screams money and success and everything I should be excited about.

Instead, I'm in here having a crisis while clutching the official contract Terek handed me twenty minutes ago like it might spontaneously combust.

This morning was supposed to be straightforward.

Get officially introduced to the organization behind Wolfe's fame— Titan Racing International, a name that carries sixty years of legacy and more championships than any other team in Formula One history.

Founded by Alessandro Titan in 1964, built on the principles of "Speed, Honor, and Absolute Victory," expanded into an empire that doesn't just race cars but shapes the entire sport.

The presentation had been overwhelming. Slide after slide of victories, technological innovations, drivers who became legends wearing Titan colors.

The wall of champions in the main lobby, where Lachlan's photo appears four times in succession, each one marking another year of dominance.

The trophy room that's literally a room—floor to ceiling displays of gold and silver, each one representing someone's dream achieved under the Titan banner.

Then came the tour of the facility, which is so massive it needs a damn map.

Actually, they gave us tablets with GPS tracking because apparently people have gotten lost in the wind tunnel complex before.

The main building alone has twelve floors, not counting the underground testing facilities.

There are three separate cafeterias, because heaven forbid the engineers have to eat with the mechanics, or the executives have to mingle with the pit crew.

The design studios where they're currently working on next year's car look like something out of a sci-fi movie.

Holographic displays, 3D printers that can fabricate parts in real-time, a simulator room that apparently cost more than most countries' defense budgets.

They showed us the telemetry center where they can monitor every aspect of a car's performance down to the temperature of individual bolts.

But the moment that really got me—that made this all feel too real—was seeing the new build they're creating specifically for Lachlan and me.

Two cars, identical in every way except for our individual setup preferences, painted in Titan's signature black and gold with new accent colors: purple and silver for mine, blue and white for his.

Our names already stenciled on the cockpits in elegant script.

"These will be the fastest cars we've ever built," the chief engineer had said with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious experiences.

"Designed specifically to accommodate an Alpha-Omega racing pair.

We've adjusted everything—the electromagnetic fields, the ventilation systems to handle pheromone concentration, even the seat materials to prevent scent marking during long races. "

The reality of it all—the money being spent, the expectations being set, the history I'm about to become part of—hit me like a physical blow.

And then, like an idiot, I'd opened my phone.

Maybe I was looking for distraction. Maybe I wanted to see if anyone had noticed the announcement about me officially joining Titan Racing. Maybe I'm just a masochist who can't resist poking at bruises to see if they still hurt.

What I found was a viral surge of hate campaigns that made my stomach drop to somewhere around my ankles.

The hashtags alone were enough to make me want to throw my phone into the Mediterranean:

#OmegaDontBelong #GetBackInTheKitchen #ValeWhore #DiversityHireDisaster

But it was the specific posts that really got to me.

Twenty thousand people— twenty thousand —had liked a post suggesting I should "jump off a cliff into a pit of snakes" all because I'm the first female Omega to actually do well in a Formula One race.

The comments underneath were worse. Detailed descriptions of what they hoped would happen to me on the track.

Photoshopped images of car crashes with my face superimposed.

Death threats creative enough to make me wonder if these people had too much time or genuine psychological issues.

One particularly charming individual had created an entire thread breaking down why my second-place finish was "clearly rigged," complete with conspiracy theories about how the Vale family had paid off other drivers to let me pass.

Never mind that I'd started from dead last. Never mind that every move was captured on camera.

Never mind that Dmitri Volkov was still complaining loudly to anyone who'd listen about how I'd outmaneuvered him.

No, clearly it was all a feminist conspiracy to destroy the sacred masculine space of Formula One.

I pinch my nose, taking a few more breaths that don't seem to bring enough oxygen to my lungs.

The panic is creeping up my spine like cold fingers, making my hands shake and my vision blur at the edges.

This is what I didn't miss during my memory gap—this crushing weight of public scrutiny, the knowledge that every mistake I make won't just be my failure but will be held up as proof that Omegas don't belong in racing.

My phone dings with a message, the sound too loud in the bathroom's acoustic perfection.

Lachlan: You okay? You've been gone for a bit.

I stare at the message for a moment, debating whether to lie and say everything's fine. But what's the point? He'll know. He always seems to know when I'm struggling, even when I'm trying my hardest to hide it.

Me: Oh nothing, just on the verge of a panic attack on the toilet. Nothing to see here.

I watch the typing bubble appear immediately, then pause like he's reconsidering what to say. Then it disappears entirely, and a second later my phone rings. His contact photo fills the screen—a picture I don't remember taking but that makes my chest tight with something between longing and loss.

In it, my arms are hooked around Lachlan's neck, my lips pressed against his cheek while he grins with the kind of pride that could light up stadiums. We're both in racing gear, sweaty and exhausted but radiating joy.

The photographer caught us in a moment of pure, unfiltered happiness—my eyes are closed but there's a smile on my face that speaks of absolute contentment, while Lachlan looks like he's won something far more valuable than any race.

I can't recall the instance when the picture was taken, what race we'd just finished or what victory we were celebrating.

But the pure joy in my eyes is so different from the terror I feel now.

That version of me believed she belonged there.

That version of me had already proven herself, had already faced down the doubters and won.

Clearly, I've gone through this before. I was signed, doing well, believed in. The photo is proof that I've stood in winner's circles, that I've earned my place through skill and determination.

So why is it different now? Why am I so afraid?

I answer the phone before I can talk myself out of it.

"Do you want me there?" Lachlan's voice is gentle, concerned but not condescending.

I laugh, but it comes out shaky and wet. "Unless you want another trending topic to go viral: 'Four-time Formula One Champion Seen Entering Female Washroom. Is He Coming Out?!'"

He sighs, but I can hear the slight amusement underneath the exasperation. "I'm going to have to take your phone away. Or at least remove the social media apps."

"If I can't track the latest game releases, hell no," I protest weakly, but then my voice cracks as I realize how close I am to crying. A whimper escapes before I can stop it, the sound small and vulnerable in a way that makes me hate myself a little.

"Auren," he whispers, my name a gentle caress through the phone.

"I shouldn't be so emotionally moved," I say, the words tumbling out in a rush. "But maybe because I know in my soul I want this. And not everyone is going to be happy with my success or participation but fuck... I'm scared."

The admission hangs between us, heavy and honest.

"And I guess that's what's frightening me," I continue, needing to get it all out before I lose my nerve.

"That one wrong mistake and the world will ruin me.

They're already trying, and I haven't even officially signed yet.

Twenty thousand people want me dead for coming in second place.

What happens when I win? What happens when I take a podium spot that some Alpha thinks belonged to him? "

The tears are falling now, hot and unwelcome, tracking down my cheeks and probably ruining the makeup I spent way too long perfecting this morning.

"I'm just overwhelmed," I whisper, my voice thick with tears. "And I kind of wish I had the courage to talk to my parents. Just... I don't know, have their support. Know that someone besides you and the pack believes I should be doing this."

Lachlan doesn't interrupt, doesn't try to offer solutions or platitudes. He just listens, his breathing steady through the phone, anchoring me to something solid while I fall apart in this ridiculous marble bathroom stall.

I wipe at my cheeks with toilet paper that's probably more expensive than my monthly phone bill, taking shaky breaths that taste like expensive air freshener and my own fear.

"I'm not going to back down," I say finally, trying to inject some steel into my voice. "I'm going to sign, and I'm going to race, and I'm going to prove every single one of those bastards wrong. But it's just... it's really overwhelming."

"If you want to talk with your parents," Lachlan says carefully, "I can arrange it so you do it but not alone."

The offer hangs between us, and I think about the 287 missed calls from yesterday. About the radio silence that's stretched between us since my dramatic reveal. About the disappointment I know is waiting for me when I finally face them.

But I can't run and ignore their calls forever. At some point, I need to bridge this gap between who they wanted me to be and who I actually am.

"Okay," I agree quietly. "But give me five more minutes. Tell them I'm taking a dump or something."

He sighs, but there's definite amusement in his voice now. "Very ladylike."

"You know if you need me, I'll be there in a heartbeat, right?" he adds, his voice dropping to something more intimate.

I smile despite the tears still drying on my cheeks. "I know. And thank you for just... listening. That's what I really needed. Not solutions or strategies or someone trying to fix it. Just someone to hear me."

"Always," he says simply, and the weight of that single word makes my chest tight with emotion.

I hang up and finally leave the stall, my legs shaky but functional.

The bathroom is still empty—one of the benefits of being in the VIP section of the building where only the highest-level personnel have access.

I wash my hands with soap that smells like something botanical and expensive, then splash cold water on my face.

My reflection in the mirror is a mess. Mascara slightly smudged despite being supposedly waterproof, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, the kind of vulnerable expression I never let anyone see.

But underneath the mess, there's something else.

Determination, maybe. Or just stubbornness too deep to be washed away by tears.

I tilt my head back, closing my eyes and taking one more deep breath to center myself.

"If you're trying to get something for the tabloids," I say to the seemingly empty bathroom, my voice steady despite the residual shakiness, "it's going to be a waste of time documenting one's conversation in the washroom at that."

There's a pause, then a voice that makes my blood freeze in my veins.

"Or if you answered your phone calls, it would have made things easier."

I frown, my entire body going rigid as I recognize the voice. The accent, the particular way she emphasizes certain syllables, the underlying tone of disappointment that she's perfected over decades of practice.

I turn my head slowly, like maybe if I move carefully enough this will turn out to be a hallucination brought on by stress and too much caffeine.

The stall door next to mine—the one I was certain was empty—swings open with deliberate slowness.

And there she is.

My mother.

She looks exactly as she always does—immaculate in a way that seems effortless but probably took a team of professionals to achieve.

Her dark hair is pulled back in an elegant chignon that wouldn't dare have a strand out of place.

Her suit is cream-colored Chanel, tailored to perfection, the kind of outfit that costs more than most people's cars but somehow looks understated on her.

But it's her eyes that really get me. The same unusual color as mine—that purple-blue that shifts depending on the light—but right now they're hard as amethyst, beautiful and cold and completely unreadable.

She's been here the whole time. Sitting in the stall next to mine, listening to me fall apart, hearing every word of my conversation with Lachlan, witnessing my complete emotional breakdown over public hatred and private fears.

The mother who insisted on Pilates and suitable Alphas.

The mother who apparently erased my entire racing history from the internet.

The mother who's been trying to call me 287 times.

My mom.