Chapter 305
“I am here today to announce that I have taken Miss Catherine Norton under my protection,” Anson said, his voice resonating with false gravity. “This brave young woman, who was summarily fired for attempting to expose internal corruption at Sterling & Drake, has been cast out by her own family. To formalize this protection and to merge our shared interests in seeking justice against a corrupt dynasty, I am proud to announce our engagement.”
“He’s marrying her,” Eliza whispered. “To get a seat at the table.”
Dallas, sitting in his wheelchair, threw the remote at the wall. It shattered.
“He’s mocking us,” Dallas growled. “He’s painting her as a victim and himself as her savior.”
“It’s a sham,” Eliza said. “Everyone knows it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Dallas said. “It gives him legal standing to sue. To demand audits. To harass us for years.”
His phone buzzed. A text from Anson.
“He wants to play a game,” Dallas said quietly.
“What kind of game?” Eliza asked.
Dallas showed her the text.
The Speed Club. Tomorrow. My GTR against your Ferrari. A million-dollar buy-in. And the prize? The deed to the Solomon Gallery. Winner takes all. Let’s see if your nerve is as broken as your leg.
“It’s a psychological game,” Eliza said. “He wants to provoke you in public. To race you.”
“I know what it is,” Dallas said. “And I’m not backing down.”
“Dallas, no.” Eliza knelt beside him. “It’s a trap. He’ll use the press — he’ll do anything to make you look unstable.”
“If I don’t show,” Dallas looked at her, his eyes burning with a dark, ancient pride, “he wins the narrative. He proves I’m weak. I have to go, Eliza. I have to finish this.”
Eliza looked at his shattered leg, then at his face. She saw the soldier — the man who would burn the world down before he let anyone take what was his. And she, for the moment, was still his.
“Fine,” Eliza said. She stood, a fierce resolve hardening her features. “But you’re not going alone. And you’re not driving. I am. It’s time he faced what he created.”
The morning sun flooded the penthouse living room, but the temperature inside felt ten degrees cooler than the forecast.
The echo of Anson’s text — challenging Dallas to a winner-takes-all race for the Solomon Gallery — vibrated in Eliza’s mind. It was a blatant trap, a psychological assault aimed at Dallas, but the prize was too personal for her to ignore.
Eliza stood in the center of her walk-in closet, a custom-fitted white fire-retardant racing suit laid out on the ottoman like a second skin. Azalea, still half-asleep on the floor, rubbed her eyes and watched Eliza meticulously check her helmet.
“You’re really doing this, El?” Azalea mumbled, her voice thick with sleep and concern. “Racing Anson for a building? And if something happens to my Ferrari, Dad is going to kill me.”