Chapter 3

When the gala wrapped up, I didn't touch a drop of alcohol, remaining her designated driver as always.

Elena drove like a demon on the track, but she never touched a steering wheel off it.

She always laughed and said her life was too precious to waste on civilian traffic.

Her driving skills, she claimed, were reserved for hoisting trophies and for the man she truly loved.

For six years, I stayed by her side, driving her everywhere, grinding through the backmarkers with her.

From an unknown rookie to the most sought-after female driver in the sport.

Every step of her journey carried my blood and sweat.

I wasn't just her manager and mechanic; I literally got certified in high-performance tuning just for her.

All so that during pit stops, I could adjust her tire pressures and fuel trim with my own hands, sending her back out in flawless condition.

Tonight, however, when I unlocked the SUV, she didn't climb into the passenger seat as usual. She slipped straight into the back.

She leaned back against the headrest with her eyes closed, a dreamy smirk playing on her lips, clearly still lost in the empire Zane had promised her.

I slid behind the wheel. A sharp, distinct smell instantly hit my nose.

Terre d'Hermès cologne—Zane's signature scent—mingled with the heavy, unmistakable musk of sex.

My knuckles turned white against the steering wheel. I whipped around, my voice trembling with rage. "Elena, was Zane in this car? What the hell did you two do back there?!"

Startled awake by my tone, she scowled in annoyance.

"Why are you yelling? Mr. Cross just sat back here to talk terms on the sponsorship contract."

She added defensively, "It was strictly business. Stop being so paranoid."

"Strictly business?"

A harsh laugh tore from my throat. Fury overwhelmed my senses. I kicked my door open, ripped the rear door wide, and hauled her out into the cold night air.

In the struggle, her evening gown hiked up past her hips.

My breath caught in my throat.

She wasn't wearing any underwear.

It felt like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head, followed instantly by a spark hitting an open gas tank.

My hand jerked up on pure reflex, trembling violently, stopping inches from her face.

"Elena... you sold yourself for twenty million dollars?"

My voice cracked, shattered by anger, betrayal, and sheer disgust.

She merely sighed, her eyelids fluttering with boredom, clearly unwilling to argue. "Zach, grow up. I have a massive headache."

She climbed back into the leather seat, rubbing her temples. "You think I like playing nice with sleazy executives? Zach, a new chassis costs a fortune.”

“Engine swaps cost a fortune. Your whole pit crew's payroll costs a fortune! Do you think money just falls from the sky?"

"I thought winning the national title would bring sponsors knocking on my door. But after filtering through them all, Zane is the only one with real capital. He's the only one who can put me on that World stage."

Her voice softened into a patronizing hum:

"Be a good boy, Zach. Don't throw a tantrum. Just drive us home. I'm exhausted."

I slammed the rear door shut, got back into the driver's seat, and felt an icy, suffocating ache hollow out my ribs.

Elena suddenly leaned forward between the front seats, wrapping her arms around my neck, trying to kiss my cheek.

I jerked my head away and snapped, "Sit back and buckle up!"

Before she could click the seatbelt in, I mashed the gas pedal to the floor. The twin-turbo V8 screamed, launching us forward like a rocket.

The speedometer leaped past 110 mph in seconds.

Elena panicked, slamming her fists against my seatback. "Zach! What are you doing?! Slow the fuck down!"

She was such a hypocrite.

On the asphalt track, she never hesitated to rub fenders at 180 mph, fighting tooth and nail for every millimeter of an apex.

Yet on public streets, she was terrified of going five miles over the speed limit.

Maybe it stemmed from the trauma of losing both her parents in a highway pileup as a kid. Her relationship with cars was always twisted.

Just as I was about to drop another gear to terrify her, her phone rang.

The display flashed Zane Cross's name.

Elena answered instantly, her tone doing a complete 180—sweet, obedient, and breathless.

"Yes, Mr. Cross... Don't worry, I'll find it right now and bring it over."

She hung up, then slammed her palm hard against my shoulder, screaming:

"Zachary Vance! Pull over right now!"