Chapter 120
Chapter 120:
She exaggerated the tone, then broke into laughter.
Austin studied her, his gaze steady and unreadable. “To me, you’re something more p>
Her smile faltered, one eyebrow arching in surprise. “What do you mean p>
His voice dropped, rich with quiet conviction that cut through the still night. “You’re the woman I intend to hold dear p>
Brinley froze for a heartbeat, only then realizing his words were a love confession.
She forced a laugh. “Oh, Austin, you are such a sweet talker,” she teased.
With that, she slipped out of the car and shut the door with a firm click before striding away.
Left alone, Austin’s gaze lingered on the empty passenger seat. His brow furrowed faintly as thoughts churned in the quiet.
Back in her bedroom, Brinley stood at the window, following Austin’s car as it pulled into the garage below.
His voice echoed relentlessly in her mind: “You’re the woman I intend to hold dear p>
Those sweet words—ones that had felt awkward only moments ago—now sent her pulse racing wildly.
𝖱𝖾𝘢d 𝗼ո 𝖺n𝗒 d𝗲vі𝖼e 𝗼𝗻
“Get a grip, Brinley. Don’t get carried away by sweet nothings,” she muttered.
Then she rushed to the bathroom, forcing herself to splash cold water over her flushed cheeks. She lingered beneath an icy shower until the haze of Austin’s voice finally dulled. Only then did she collapse into bed, drifting quickly into dreamless sleep.
The following afternoon, the heat bore down mercilessly.
At three o’clock sharp, Brinley crouched beside the skeletal outline of the racetrack, her hard hat shading her face as she double-checked measurements herself, clipboard steady in her hands.
After hours under the sun, she trudged to the temporary canopy, tugged off her helmet, and exhaled in weary relief, sweat cooling against her skin.
She reached for the tablet resting on the table and pulled up the project group’s reports. Just as the screen came alive, a fresh email notification slid across the top.
The sender was none other than FIA.
Brinley tapped it open, and the golden crest of the association blazed on the screen, stirring memories she had tried to bury.
The message itself was short, but the weight of it hit her chest all the same.
It was an invitation—summoning her to the annual exhibition race.
The alias “Rosara,” highlighted in bold crimson, seared across her vision, stabbing into her like the point of a needle.
For years, FIA had continued to send her invitations. But once she chose a life with Colin, she shut the door on the perilous world of racing.
Since then, she had gone out of her way to erase every trace—discarding trophies and racing suits, refusing to watch even a second of racing news on sports channels.
She had convinced herself that the racer once called Rosara was buried for good.
Yet this email—like a key slipping into a forgotten lock—unsealed memories she thought she’d lost forever.