Page 53 of Knot So Lucky

Only one way to find out.

I speed up first, pushing the prototype harder than is probably wise for testing conditions. The engine screams in protest, tachometer needle climbing into the red zone as I extract every available horsepower.

Dante speeds up further, refusing to be overtaken even in a diagnostic run.

"This is the closest you'll ever get to driving on the track," he says through the comm, voice dripping with venom. "Better enjoy it while it lasts, tech boy."

I keep my voice calm, professional, utterly unbothered by his attempts at provocation.

"Probably. But I can outbeat you just as fast if I tried."

"If you beat me," Dante says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice, "I'll drop out of the team entirely."

The comm channel explodes.

"WHAT—"

"Did he just?—"

"Holy shit?—"

"Someone record that?—"

I laugh—genuinely chuckle—because the arrogance required to make that statement is almost impressive in its stupidity.

"Don't hold onto that promise," I tell him, still chuckling as I navigate through a high-speed sweeper. "Because you'll find out exactly why I stay behind the shadows and let my brother do the racing."

"Your brother," Dante spits the words like they're poisonous, "is a mediocre driver coasting on family money and name recognition. Everyone knows the Lane fortune bought his way into Formula One."

My hands tighten on the steering wheel.

That's... not accurate.

Roran is legitimately talented, has proven himself on track repeatedly, has earned his position through skill and dedication.But the accusation isn't surprising—people have been saying similar things about both of us for years.

"And you," Dante continues, voice rising with vindictive pleasure, "are just his pathetic shadow. Always have been, always will be. Too scared to actually compete because you know you'd fail without daddy's money to protect you."

I force myself to breathe evenly, not to react, to stay focused on the driving and the diagnostics.

But then Dante says something that makes the entire world stop.

"Just like your mother was too scared to protect you when it actually mattered."

The comm channel goes silent.

Completely, utterly silent in a way that speaks volumes.

Because “almost” no one knows about that.

About what happened when I was thirteen. About the incident that made my mother pull me from public racing programs in my tomboy phase and initiated the entire elaborate deception that's defined my life since.

About the Alpha trainer who decided a feminine-looking Alpha had no business learning to race, looking weak and brittle. Who made sure I understood my place through methods that left scars invisible to everyone except those who know where to look.

Cale's car screeches to a stop.

The sound of rubber against asphalt is deafening through the comm system, followed by his voice—rough with barely contained rage.

"What the fuck did you just?—"