Page 83 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)
THREE TIMES
~LACHLAN~
T he press conference room at Yas Marina Circuit is packed beyond capacity, every seat filled, reporters standing along the walls, cameras creating a forest of black lenses all pointed at me like weapons.
I sit at the center of the long table, alone. No Terek to run interference, no Harrison with his tablet full of statistics, no team representatives to deflect the harder questions. Just me, the four-time world champion, about to deliver news that will detonate like a bomb through the racing world.
My hands are folded on the table, steady despite everything.
Years of media training have taught me how to project calm even when my insides are screaming.
The crisp white Titan Racing shirt I'm wearing shows no wrinkles, my face freshly shaved, every external detail perfectly controlled because it's the only control I have left.
The murmur of voices rises and falls like waves, speculation and rumor mixing with the click of cameras and the hum of recording equipment. They smell blood in the water. They know something catastrophic has happened, but the details have been kept under tighter security than state secrets.
I wait. Let them exhaust themselves with their chatter, their theories, their desperate hunger for tragedy transformed into headlines. The silence, when it finally comes, is absolute.
Then the dam breaks.
"Is it true Auren Vale is in a coma?!"
The question comes from three reporters simultaneously, their voices overlapping in their eagerness to be first. The words land like physical blows, but I don't flinch. Can't flinch. Not here, not now, not when showing weakness would be like throwing chum to sharks.
"What happened last night for her car to be veered over a cliff?"
Another voice, another question I won't answer.
The image flashes unbidden through my mind—security footage of her Aston Martin going through the barrier, the sickening moment when physics took over and gravity claimed another victim.
The way the car tumbled, metal screaming, glass exploding, before disappearing into the darkness below.
"Did she survive the impact?"
Stupid question. If she hadn't survived, this would be a different kind of press conference. But survival is relative, isn't it? The body can continue functioning while everything that makes a person who they are hangs in the balance.
"Is she paralyzed?"
"What's her current condition?"
"Who was responsible?"
"Was this another attack?"
"How did she even get out of the hospital?"
The questions come rapid-fire now, each reporter trying to shout over the others, the noise building to a crescendo that makes my head throb. But I remain still, silent, letting them exhaust themselves against my silence like waves against a cliff.
When they finally quiet—more from running out of breath than any respect for protocol—I lean forward slightly. Just enough to trigger the microphones, to make every recording device in the room strain to catch what I'm about to say.
"I will be participating in the final race tomorrow." My voice is steady, emotionless, each word carefully measured. "A substitute Omega will be taking Auren Vale's place in car three."
The explosion of noise that follows is predictable. Every reporter shouting at once, demanding to know who, how, why. I wait them out again, my face a mask of professional composure while inside I'm screaming.
"As for Miss Vale's condition," I continue when they quiet, "I have nothing to report at this time."
It's not a lie. I genuinely have nothing I can report, nothing that wouldn't either violate her privacy or give false hope or reveal just how fucked everything has become.
The truth—that she's hanging between life and death, that machines are doing the breathing her body can't manage, that the best doctors in the world can't say if she'll ever wake up—none of that belongs to these vultures.
I stand, the movement sharp enough to make several reporters step back. "This conference is concluded."
The chaos that erupts behind me as I leave is absolute, but I don't look back.
Security flanks me immediately, creating a human barrier between me and the reporters who try to follow.
The elevator doors close on their shouted questions, their desperate attempts to extract more blood from this stone.
The ride up to the private suite is silent except for the mechanical hum of the elevator. The security detail peels off at the door, taking positions in the hallway, leaving me to enter alone.
The suite is excessive even by Formula One standards—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the track, marble everything, a bar stocked with liquor that costs more than most people's cars. It's meant to impress sponsors, to close deals, to celebrate victories.
Tonight, it's just an expensive cage for my grief.
I go straight to the balcony, needing air that doesn't taste like recycled tragedy.
The track spreads out below, illuminated by thousands of lights that turn the tarmac into a river of gold.
Tomorrow, twenty-three drivers will push themselves to the limit here.
The championship will be decided, legacies will be made or broken, and I'll have to race while the woman I love fights for her life in a hospital bed.
The whiskey I pour is Macallan 25—smooth, expensive, completely wasted on my current state of mind. But the burn is what I need, something to cut through the numbness that's been my only defense against complete breakdown.
That's when I sense it—that prickle at the back of my neck that says I'm not alone. The shadow in my peripheral vision that shouldn't be there. The faint scent of cologne that's almost identical to mine but not quite.
"You have one minute to explain why the fuck you're in my suite," I say without turning around, "or I'll shoot your ass."
It's not an empty threat. The security team insisted I carry after the third attempt on Auren's life, and the weight of the Glock against my ribs has become almost comforting. A last resort I never wanted but might be about to use.
Lucius steps out of the shadows by the door, and even in the dim light, I can see he looks like shit. Dark circles under his eyes, stubble that's gone past fashionable to unkempt, the kind of hollow expression that comes from carrying guilt that's eating you alive from the inside.
"I wasn't the one who did that to Auren," he says immediately, words tumbling out like he's been rehearsing them. "I didn't plan this shit. It wasn't supposed to escalate?—"
I don't let him finish.
The distance between us disappears in two strides, and my fist connects with his face with all the force of three years of suppressed rage. The impact is satisfying in a primal way—the crack of bone against bone, the way his head snaps back, the immediate bloom of blood from his nose.
He staggers but doesn't fall, coughing and spitting blood onto the pristine marble floor. "Okay," he gasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I deserved that."
"You think I'm stupid?" The words come out as a snarl, barely human. "That I didn't know you were being blackmailed because of the gambling debt you incurred last year?"
His eyes widen, shock replacing pain for a moment. He actually thought we didn't know. Thought he'd been so clever, so careful in hiding his shame.
"You think we weren't tracking those people down in Switzerland who set you up?" I continue, advancing on him again, and he has the sense to back up. "Every transaction, every threat, every fucking move they made—we knew. We've known for months."
"Then why—" he starts, but I cut him off.
"Because you always want to do shit alone!" The words explode out of me, years of frustration given voice. "Instead of relying on people who actually give a damn, who want you to be happy, you decide to play lone wolf. Instead of coming to me—your older brother—you took shit into your own hands."
I gesture wildly at the space between us, at the chasm that's grown over years of his stubborn independence and my inability to bridge it.
"And where did it get us, Lucius? Where did your grand plan lead?"
He opens his mouth to argue, to justify, to explain, but I'm not done. Not even close.
"THREE TIMES!"
The words rip from my throat with enough force to make him flinch. To make me flinch. The number that's been carved into my brain since the call came, that plays on repeat every time I close my eyes.
"She died three fucking times in that operating room."
The silence that follows is absolute. I can see him processing this, the color draining from his face as the reality hits. He didn't know. Of course he didn't know—he'd been too busy hiding in his penthouse, drowning in whiskey and self-pity, to know what his actions had cost.
"Three times, Lucius. Three times they had to restart her heart. Three times she slipped away and they had to drag her back. And you want me to listen to your bullshit? You want me to care about your excuses?"
My voice cracks on the last word, the professional composure I've maintained for hours finally cracking.
"No one knows if she's going to remain in a coma.
No one knows if she's going to die at any minute.
The doctors use words like 'critical' and 'unstable' and 'wait and see' because they don't have answers. "
I turn away from him, unable to look at his face anymore. Unable to see my own features reflected back at me, twisted with guilt and regret.
"And yet you want to make excuses. Want to prove you're not complicit in this bullshit."
Through the windows, I can see the track being prepared for tomorrow. Crews doing final checks, lights being tested, everything being made perfect for the show that must go on regardless of personal tragedy. The world doesn't stop for one Omega in a coma, no matter how much I want it to.