Chapter 97

Milly sat in the stands with her gaze locked on Colin, his body pitched forward, every muscle strung tight,his expression carved with raw unease. The sight unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Her hand drifted protectively to her stomach, brushing over the life inside her-the only card she had left to play.

Losing simply wasn't an option.

On the track, the final lap ignited into a battle of nerves and steel. The black and white cars tore across the asphalt, their engines bellowing like a storm unleashed, the gap between them barely the length of a bumper.

One moment the black car surged ahead, the next the white car reclaimed the lead, their relentless dance whipping the crowd into breathless silence.

Colin's palms grew clammy as the weight of realization settled over him-Brinley had never truly been his

She belonged to the roar of engines, to the wild, untamed freedom of the track.

The finish line loomed ahead, and both Austin and Brinley slammed their accelerators almost in unison, their cars tearing forward in a final burst of speed.

As they crossed the line, Austin's eyes softened, lingering on the white car with quiet affection.

Brinley's glance at the black car beside her carried a storm of emotions.

The precision, the daring edge in that driving-there was no mistaking it. This was Nightblade.

The signal marking the finish echoed through the arena, and the stands erupted in deafening cheers that rattled the walls.

On the massive screen overhead, the names "Nightblade" and "Brinley Moore" flashed side by side at the top, their recorded times identical down to the millisecond. One by one, the remaining cars streaked past the line, but the nearest contender lagged nearly ten seconds behind.

That gulf on the track felt like an unbridgeable canyon, underscoring just how extraordinary the dead heat between the first place truly was.

Brinley unclasped her helmet, pulling it free as the breeze cooled the sweat along her temples. Her eyes immediately found the black car idling just a few paces away.

Austin kept his helmet on, standing still as his gaze lingered on her.

When they reached the podium and paused at the steps, both extended their hands in the ritual of ceremony.

Their palms met, and Brinley's laugh slipped out, light but sure.

"Nightblade?" she asked, lifting her chin to meet the depth of his eyes, her voice edged with certainty.

His thumb traced a deliberate line across her skin, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. "Looks like we've each been keeping secrets."

In that charged silence, their eyes locked, and words became unnecessary.

Behind the podium, Ballard, Dominik, and the others stood cloaked in shadow, their faces stiff with frustration.

A sea of reporters surged closer, microphones nearly grazing their mouths. "What do you have to say about Brinley's run? Not long ago you claimed she couldn't even drift."

Ballard's lips parted, but no sound came. His throat bobbed as he struggled, sweat glinting at his temples.At last, he forced out in a strangled tone. "She... she just got lucky."

"Lucky?" a reporter pressed, voice sharp, lens zooming in on his flushed face. "Was it luck that let her break through every block you threw at her? Was it luck that put her neck-and-neck with Nightblade at the finish line?"

Dominik opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp tug at his sleeve held him back. The same racers who had mocked Brinley earlier now stared at the ground, their bravado drained,letting the reporters' pointed questions sting like open-handed slaps.

Up in the VIP seats, Milly's knuckles whitened around her phoneas she scrolled through the screen.

The smear campaign she'd orchestrated against Brinley lay exposed-screenshots of burner accounts and comment threads plastered across the live feed.

Watching Brinley's impressive performance, online users who had once mocked her now switched sides.

Even worse, mainstream outlets were blasting real-time headlines that flipped the entire narrative on its head,suffocating Milly with every update.

The headlines that had once taunted Brinley now praised her professional-level racing skills.

Photos captured her in the driver's seat, helmet snug, eyes gleaming with razor-sharp focus.

From the edge of the stage, Colin couldn't tear his gaze away as Brinley and Nightblade lifted the gleaming trophy together.

The spotlight washed across her face, revealing a smile stripped of its usual restraint, shining instead with unshakable confidence.

In that instant, he understood-the woman he'd lost was never a substitute for Milly. What he had let slip through his fingers was Brinley herself, singular and irreplaceable.

When the ceremony drew to a close, reporters surged toward Brinley in a tide of flashing lights and microphones.

"Mrs.Moore, were you and Nightblade acquainted before today?"

"Mrs. Moore, your style behind the wheel resembles that of a retired legend. Did you ever receive formal training?"

Just as Brinley drew breath to respond, Austin appeared, already out of his racing suit, and moved naturally to her side, placing himself between her and the crowd. His voice was calm yet authoritative. "Interviews will be held in the lounge. Please head there." His eyes swept across the gathering before finally resting on Brinley, the corners of his mouth lifting in a private smile that spoke volumes only to her.

She met his look, a faint spark of amusement and understanding passing between them.

Some truths didn't need to be spoken-not yet.

The spotlights fixed on Brinley as she stepped into the conference room. She had traded her racing suit for a crisp white blouse and fitted jeans, her hair casually tied back. Without makeup, she looked effortlessly luminous, more striking than any polished appearance.

"Mrs. Moore, your cornering technique looks professionally trained. Which driver did you study under?" The first reporter leaned so close with the microphone it nearly brushed her lips.

Her smile stayed composed as she answered, voice steady, "I never received professional training. Cars have fascinated me since I was a kid. In my free time, I'd study routes, analyze techniques, and practice where I could. It's always been a personal passion."

Another journalist refused to relent. "But that aggressive dive bomb move you pulled-even professionals hesitate to attempt it. That can't just be chalked up to a personaI passion, can it?"