Page 81 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

I stand there, staring at the blood on my floor, the broken glass that sparkles like accusations. My hands are shaking—from alcohol, from adrenaline, from the knowledge that I've just crossed a line I can never uncross.

The phone. Fuck, the phone.

I lunge for it, but even before I pick it up, I know it's too late. The call timer is still running. They heard everything. Every word, every accusation, every truth that Auren spoke into the darkness of my penthouse.

"Guess we have to get rid of the mouse," the voice says, and now there's something else in it beyond smugness. Anticipation. Pleasure. Like they've been waiting for this excuse.

"No," I say, but it comes out as barely a whisper. "She doesn't know anything. She's not involved?—"

The line goes dead.

I stand there, phone in hand, surrounded by broken glass and the lingering scent of whiskey and Auren's perfume—that vanilla and wildflower combination that's haunted me for three years. The blood on the floor looks black in the dim light, and I can't stop staring at it.

This is how it happens. This is how you become the villain in your own story—not all at once, but piece by piece, choice by choice, until you're standing in a penthouse you paid for with dirty money, having just hurt the one person you swore to protect.

I need to warn her. Need to call Lachlan, tell him everything, throw myself on their mercy and hope they can protect her better than I have.

But even as I think it, I know it's too late.

They'll be watching now, waiting for me to make that move.

The moment I break, the moment I try to actually help, is the moment they'll strike.

The race is in five days. The Grand Sphynx, where everything will be decided. Where I'm supposed to ensure my brother loses, supposed to guarantee their bets pay off, supposed to play the villain one last time.

But now Auren knows. She knows I'm being blackmailed, knows I'm not the monster they've painted me as. And that knowledge has just painted a target on her back bigger than any threat they've manufactured before.

I sink onto the couch, my head in my hands, trying to think through the whiskey fog.

There has to be a way out. Some move I haven't seen, some card I haven't played.

Three years of being their puppet, and I've learned nothing about who they really are, what they really want beyond money and control.

The city lights blur through my tears—when did I start crying?—turning Monaco into an impressionist painting of wealth and excess. Somewhere out there, Auren is probably driving back to her apartment, touching the cut on her cheek, thinking I'm lost to her forever.

She's not wrong.

But maybe, just maybe, I can use that. If I'm already lost, already the villain, already beyond redemption, then what's left to lose? They want me to ensure Lachlan loses the championship. They want their million-dollar bet to pay off. They want to own a piece of Formula One through me.

What if I give them exactly what they want—and more?

The idea forms slowly, pieces clicking together like a puzzle made of broken glass. It's dangerous, probably suicidal, definitely stupid. But it might be the only way to save her. To save all of them.

I stand, steadier now despite the whiskey, and walk to my bedroom.

In the safe behind the terrible modern art painting I've never liked, there's a USB drive I've been filling for three years.

Every conversation recorded, every transaction documented, every piece of evidence I could gather while playing their game.

It was supposed to be insurance, a dead man's switch in case they decided I was more liability than asset. But now it might be something else—a weapon, a bargaining chip, a way to flip the board when everyone expects me to play by the rules.

The Grand Sphynx is in five days. The biggest race of the season, watched by millions, where any drama will be amplified a thousandfold. They want to use it as their stage for the ultimate fix, the bet that will make them millions.

But stages work both ways. And if I'm going to burn, I might as well make it spectacular enough that everyone sees who lit the match.

I pull out my backup phone—the one they don't know about, the one I bought with cash and keep turned off except for emergencies. This qualifies.

I type out a message, short and cryptic, to the one person who might understand what I'm trying to do. Not Lachlan—he'd try to save me, and that would get everyone killed. Not Auren—she'd fight for me, and that's the last thing I need.

Dimitri Volkov.

The man who sacrificed his career to save Auren. The man who understands that sometimes the only way to protect someone is to take yourself off the board. The man who might just be crazy enough to help me turn disaster into opportunity.

"Need to talk. About the race. About who's really behind this."

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then turn the phone off and remove the battery. They might be listening to everything else, but this one secret, this one desperate plan, is mine alone.

Five days until the Grand Sphynx. Five days to figure out how to lose everything in a way that saves everyone. Five days to become the villain they need me to be while secretly playing hero one last time.

I pour another whiskey, raising it to the city lights in a mock toast.

"Here's to collateral damage," I tell the empty room. "And to making sure I'm the only one who pays."

The glass catches the light, amber and gold and dangerous, before I drink it down in one burning swallow.

Five days.

The countdown begins now.