Page 229 of Knot So Lucky

I settle back against the hospital pillows, my mind already racing through possibilities while I wait for Luca to return.

The grand prix is in three days.

Which means I have seventy-two hours to figure out who's trying to destroy my pack and stop them before they get another chance.

Seventy-two hours to solve a mystery that's been building for at least three years.

Seventy-two hours to save Adrian and win a championship.

It should be impossible.

But I've built my entire career on proving impossible things are just challenges that haven't been solved yet.

And I'll be damned if I let Adrian's sacrifice be for nothing.

CHAPTER 45

Gameover

~AURORA~

The television screens mounted throughout the Throne Racing garage flicker with pre-race coverage, the announcers' voices pitched high with barely contained excitement.

Their words blur together into white noise—historic championship , unprecedented season , the duo that defied all odds—but I can hear the undercurrent of uncertainty threading through every syllable.

I stand in the corner of the garage, away from the chaos of last-minute preparations, my fingers wrapped around a now-cold cup of coffee I haven't touched in over an hour. The liquid inside has formed a thin film across the top, catching the fluorescent lights in an oily sheen that makes my stomach turn.

Outside, the roar of the crowd is a living thing.

Eighty thousand voices rising and falling like a tidal wave, punctuated by air horns and the occasional firecracker that security hasn't managed to confiscate. The energy should be intoxicating— this is what I've worked for, bled for, sacrificedeverything to achieve —but all I can feel is the weight of the phone in my pocket, still warm from the call that ended three minutes ago.

"I'm sorry, Miss Lane. He didn't make it. Time of death, 14:47."

The words replay in my head on a loop, clinical and cold and so fucking final it steals the breath from my lungs. Even now, even in the moment they're telling me my Alpha is dead, they're calling me by the name that isn't mine, the identity I've worn like armor for so long it's become a second skin.

The garage smells like every race day—hot rubber, gasoline, the sharp bite of carbon fiber composite, and the metallic tang of hydraulic fluid.

But underneath it all, I can detect the more subtle scents of my team. Richard's Alpha musk, heavy with pre-race adrenaline and expensive cologne. Marco's Beta scent, earthy and grounding, tinged with the nervous sweat he always produces before a big race. Jenny's clinical Beta scent, all sharp edges and chemical precision, like she's trying to scrub away anything human beneath layers of industrial soap.

And then there's the absence.

The gaping hole where Adrian's scent should be—sandalwood and leather and something uniquely him that used to settle my Omega hindbrain like a lullaby. Even thinking about it makes my chest constrict, makes my Omega whimper deep inside where no one can hear.

He's gone.

He's actually gone.

The television cuts to aerial footage of the track, the Monaco Grand Prix circuit looking like a ribbon of black asphalt threaded through the city's crown jewels. The harbor glitters in the afternoon sun, mega-yachts lined up like toys in a bathtub, theirdecks packed with people who paid obscene amounts for the privilege of watching racing history unfold.

"—unprecedented tension here at the paddock," the commentator is saying, his voice dropping to that conspiratorial tone they love. "Adrian Castellanos, billionaire benefactor and former driver, remains hospitalized following yesterday's horrific crash. Sources close to the family report no updates on his condition, and the silence has the entire paddock on edge. The question everyone's asking—will his Omega, the sensation known only as Rory Lane, be mentally prepared to race without knowing if his Alpha will survive?"

My jaw clenches hard enough to make my teeth ache.His Omega.As if I'm just an accessory, a supporting character in Adrian's story rather than a driver in my own right. The urge to put my fist through the television screen is overwhelming, but I force my hands to stay still, nails biting crescents into my palms.

The announcers don't know.Nobody knows.The hospital called me first—pack protocol, Omega priority notification. I get to sit here with this knowledge burning a hole in my chest while the rest of the world speculates and whispers and places their fucking bets on whether grief will slow me down.

"Fifteen minutes to track call!" someone shouts across the garage, the words cutting through the controlled chaos like a knife.

That's when the garage doors burst open with enough force to make several people jump.