Chapter 308
“Different stakes today,” Anson said. He dangled a set of keys. “If you beat me, I sign over the deed to the Solomon Gallery.”
The air shifted. Eliza went still.
The Solomon Gallery. The one piece of her family’s legacy that had been sold off during the bankruptcy. It had been a personal asset of her father’s, secretly leveraged in a private deal with Anson long before the corporate collapse — so even Dallas’s complete acquisition of the Solomon estate’s debts and properties hadn’t uncovered it. It housed her mother’s personal collection. She had been trying to buy it back for months, but the anonymous owner refused to sell.
It was Anson. Of course it was Anson.
She looked at Dallas.
He saw the hunger in her eyes — not for Anson, but for her history. For the pieces of herself she had lost. He knew he couldn’t stop her. If he tried, he would just be another man controlling her.
“Go,” Dallas said. He nodded toward the track. “But be careful.”
He caught Weston’s eye across the room, where he stood waiting in the shadows. “Check the car.”
Eliza walked toward Azalea’s red Ferrari, helmet tucked under her arm.
In the pit lane, hidden behind a stack of tires, a mechanic in a grease-stained jumpsuit watched the security team sweep the Ferrari. He waited until they moved to the front of the car.
Then, with a quick, practiced motion, Estevan Norton slid under the rear chassis. He had a wrench in his hand and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It only took three seconds to loosen the valve on the brake line — just enough so it wouldn’t fail immediately. Just enough to hold until the fluid got hot.
Until the second lap.
The starter pistol was a crack of thunder that split the humid afternoon air.
Two cars shot forward. The black GTR screamed off the line, its all-wheel-drive system digging into the asphalt and launching Anson into an immediate lead. The red Ferrari fishtailed slightly, tires smoking, before Eliza corrected and surged after him.
Anson watched her in the rearview mirror. The Ferrari was a red demon on his tail. He didn’t care about the gallery. He didn’t care about the money. This was his stage. Dallas was a cripple in a box. Here, on the track, Anson was a god. He would show her what real sacrifice looked like. He would give her a show she would never forget. He revved the engine, the sound a promise of glorious, beautiful destruction.
In the VIP box, Dallas sat motionless. His eyes were glued to the monitors, his fingers tapping a rhythmic, agitated beat on the arm of his wheelchair.
First lap.
Anson was driving aggressively, blocking Eliza at every turn — playing with her. Cathey was cheering, clapping her hands like a seal, but Dallas ignored her. He watched Eliza.
She was good. Better than good. She took the corners tight, shaving milliseconds off Anson’s lead.
“Go, Eliza!” Azalea screamed, leaning over the railing. “Crush him!”