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TWO

Brody

Four Years Later

It was like that weightless moment in a race car when you take a curve too fast—just for a second, you feel like you’re flying, like the world has tilted in your favor and gravity forgot your name. Adrenaline hums in your veins, the engine roars beneath you, and you’re suspended in that split-second illusion of control. Then, just as fast, reality slams back in—you skid, you spin, you crash back to earth, heart in your throat, breath stolen, and all that fleeting hope burns out on impact.

“I’m sorry, Brody.”

Dr. Reilly’s voice was a hammer driving nails into my chest. I stared at the man, his words failing to sink in, bouncing off the walls of my skull as if they were in someone else’s story. A diagnosis. Concerning . My stomach twisted tighter and tighter, but I just sat there, numb.

“Maybe you’re misreading it?” I tried to keep my tone as level as his, not letting one bit of my internal horror spill over.

“The MRI doesn’t lie, Brody.”

Logan’s hand landed on my shoulder, grounding me, the faintest squeeze telling me he was there. Always there. I didn’t look at him, couldn’t. I kept my eyes on Dr. Reilly instead, hoping I’d misheard.

“A brain aneurysm,” the doctor continued, his tone infuriatingly calm. “It’s small, but it’s there. Right now, it’s asymptomatic—aside from some of the emotional volatility you’ve been experiencing, which is common. But I must be clear—this condition means you can’t race again. The risks?—”

I held up my hand. I didn’t need to hear the rest.

Risks. Consequences. I knew all about those. I lived with them every time I strapped myself into a car. But this? This wasn’t part of the deal.

“This must be a mistake,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I feel fine. I don’t even have a concussion, for Christ’s sake.”

Dr. Reilly exchanged a glance with Logan, but my brother didn’t say a word. Not yet.

“Your body took a significant impact, but this isn’t about the accident.”

I shook my head, trying to clear the fog. The crash. Right, the crash.

Las Vegas Grand Prix. I was only ten points away from my first world championship. All eyes were on me. Turn 14.

I was flying—two hundred mph, maybe more—when I hit the brakes—a fraction of a second too late. Just one miscalculation, a razor-thin error, and the car skidded out, slammed into the barrier, crumpling around me like a soda can. I didn’t even recall the impact, just the sound of carbon fiber screaming before the marshals pulled me out.

Drivers crash all the time. Race cars are built to survive it. I was bruised, sore as hell, but whole. Not even a concussion . I was supposed to walk away. Get back in the car. Finish the fight for the championship.

“But why?—”

Dr. Reilly held up a hand. “This aneurysm didn’t develop overnight, Brody. It’s likely been there for some time, undiagnosed.”

“This is fucking bullshit!” I shot forward in my chair, fists clenched so tight my knuckles burned, and for a split second, I wanted to dive over the desk and beat this asshole to a pulp. How dare he sit there as if he wasn’t single-handedly ripping my world apart?

“You don’t know me,” I growled, my chest heaving. “I’m fucking Superman!”

Logan shifted beside me and rested a hand on my arm in warning, but I didn’t care. My vision narrowed on Dr. Reilly; his expression infuriatingly composed, as though I was just another name on a chart. I wanted to see fear on his face.

I wanted to tear him down with every word, to intimidate him into choking on his diagnosis, and scare him so bad he’d scramble to take it all back. He was talking, using words like asymptomatic , risk factors , and rupture , but I wasn’t listening. His voice was just background noise, a droning buzz that didn’t matter, not when my entire world was crumbling. I couldn’t hear the death sentence or process that everything I’d worked for—bled for—was slipping through my fingers.

Not now. Not when I was so close to showing people how fucking good I was. Not when I was just points away from proving I belonged at the top, that all the sacrifices, the sleepless nights, and the endless hours on the track had been worth it.

I stared at this expert who thought he knew me, my vision tunneling as his mouth kept moving, but none of it reached me. I couldn’t hear him over the screams in my head telling me this couldn’t be happening. Not to me. Not now.

I gripped the edges of the chair so hard my fingers ached, my mind racing through every excuse, every argument, every reason why this had to be a mistake. Because if it wasn’t, then what the hell was I supposed to do? If I wasn’t Brody Vance, the bad boy who lived and breathed speed, then who the fuck was I?

“This isn’t happening,” I snarled, interrupting him mid-flow. “I’m fine. I feel fine. I don’t care what some stupid MRI says—I’m not stopping. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

Logan’s voice cut through the rising storm in my head. “Brody?—”

“Don’t,” I barked, whipping my head toward him. “Don’t you dare try to back him up. You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am on your side, little brother,” Logan said, his tone even but laced with a quiet intensity that cut through my anger. “But this? This is going to kill you if you don’t listen.”

Fury roared in my chest, a fire I couldn’t extinguish. I turned back to Dr. Reilly, my jaw tight, my voice dropping to a dangerous growl.

“You’re wrong,” I said, each word sharp and bitter. “I’ll prove you wrong. You’ll see.”

Dr. Reilly didn’t flinch, his steady gaze meeting mine. “This isn’t about proving anything. Look, Brody, I’m not your enemy. I’m trying to save your life.”

I laughed bitterly, the sound scraping my throat. “Save my life? You’re destroying it.”

“Shut the fuck up, Brody.” Logan’s voice cut through the haze. “Listen to him.”

My brother’s pale gray eyes locked onto mine. There was no judgment in his expression, no anger. Just the weight of someone who’d been through hell with me before and was ready to do it again.

“I don’t need to listen to this,” I muttered, looking away. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Logan’s hand dropped from my shoulder, but his voice stayed steady. “This isn’t about being tough. You can’t race again, Brody.”

The words hit harder than the crash itself. Harder than any of the 4g forces I’d endured on turn 14. Racing wasn’t just something I did; it was who I was. And now?

I felt the first crack in my armor, and I hated it.

Dr. Reilly cleared his throat, his tone maddeningly calm, as if he weren’t delivering a death sentence on everything I’d built my life around. “I know this is a lot to process. Take some time. But you need to understand—racing would be catastrophic, Brody. The combination of high g-forces and the stress on your body could cause the aneurysm to rupture. It’s not just dangerous. It’s fatal.”

Fatal . The word hit me like a punch to the chest, but I forced myself to shove it aside, bury it under the blinding, white-hot anger that was my constant companion.

“You’re legally bound to keep your mouth shut,” I said, my voice sharp, daring him to disagree. “Patient confidentiality, right?”

“You’re correct,” Doc said. “I won’t share this information without your consent.”

“Good,” I snapped. “Then this conversation is over. I’ll slap an NDA on you and anyone else who knows if I have to.”

“Jesus, Brody,” Logan snapped, and I yanked my arm from under his touch.

“Brody.” Doc was louder, his tone hardening.

“What!”

“Do you want your legacy to show that you killed other drivers because you died at the wheel?”

The words felt like a slap in the face. My hands curled into fists, and my breath quickened as his question lingered, suffocating me. Legacy meant everything, but my legacy was a championship, pulling myself out of hell and becoming the man no one expected me to be.

“Don’t,” I growled, my voice low and full of venom. “Don’t you dare try to guilt me.”

“It’s not guilt,” he replied firmly. “It’s reality. You think you can hide this, but the truth will come out, one way or another. Do you want that to be what you’re remembered for?”

I glared at him, every muscle coiled like a spring. I hated him. Hated the calm, logical way he laid out my nightmare as if it was some goddamn PowerPoint presentation. But as the rage burned in my chest, his words burrowed in, the truth of them leaving cracks in the wall I was so desperately trying to shore up.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I just sat there, silent and seething, as my world crumbled around me, and I clenched my fists to stop the shaking. This couldn’t be happening.

“Give us a minute, Doc,” Logan ordered.

Dr. Reilly nodded and left the room, the door closing behind him.

I stared at the blank wall, every muscle in my body tense. “This isn’t happening, Logan. I can’t—I won’t stop. Racing is my life.”

“No,” Logan said quietly. “Your life is more than racing, Brody. And it’s not over. But if you don’t stop… it could be. I won’t lose another brother.”

I yanked my arm from his. “That’s fucking low, even for you.”

“Jesus, Brody…”

I couldn’t look at him, but his words sank in, carving through the denial like a scalpel. I hated him for saying it. And I loved him for being the only one who could.

For the first time since turning fourteen, I was scared.

Terrified.