Chapter 77

Chapter 77:

Fernanda didn’t dwell on Cristian’s words. The competition was about to begin, so they made their way to the venue together.

Female contestants had participated in previous years, so Fernanda’s appearance on the track wasn’t shocking to most. People simply noted that she was quite attractive.

Kevin also spotted Fernanda.

At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He rubbed them hard and realized he wasn’t imagining things—Fernanda was really there.

He was stunned, unable to comprehend why Fernanda would show up. But when he saw Bobby standing beside her, everything clicked. Fernanda was there as Bobby’s motorcycle girl.

Kevin sneered, thinking she was doing everything she could to gain Bobby’s attention.

Rolling his eyes, Kevin put on his helmet and revved his bike to life.

The competing motorcycles lined up behind the starting line, engines rumbling.

Fernanda’s motorcycle was parked beside Cristian’s. When he turned to face her, she was also looking back at him.

Their faces were hidden behind helmets, so they could only see each other’s eyes.

Cristian lifted his hand and gave Fernanda a thumbs-up.

His fingers, encased in black leather gloves, were long and graceful, making the gesture look effortlessly stylish.

Fernanda responded with a smile and returned the gesture.

The motorcycles roared to life with a deafening bang, their wheels spinning wildly and sending dust flying. In an instant, they shot forward, speeding off like rockets at launch.

The crowd at the starting line, including the motorcycle girls, erupted in cheers so loud it felt like the air itself was vibrating. All eyes were on Fernanda—not because her black outfit and white motorcycle stood out, but because she was the last one to take off.

Minnie stood next to Ava, chuckling.

“I thought Fernanda would be a real contender in this race. But look at her—dead last from the start p>

Ava sneered, her voice dripping with disdain.

“Motorcycling’s for the rich. She’s just some girl from a small town p>

Unlike pianos, which you could find in even the smallest towns for a reasonable price, motorcycles, gear, and lessons were a whole different story—extremely expensive.

Ava wasn’t surprised Fernanda could play the piano, but motorcycles? That was another level entirely. She imagined Fernanda might only be familiar with scooters, which made sense given her position at the back.

Anyone who knew anything about motorcycle racing understood that getting a strong start was everything—it put pressure on the others and made it nearly impossible for them to pass you.

Minnie shared Ava’s disdain, assuming Fernanda had joined the race just to get closer to Bobby, trying to fit in with their crowd and make him believe she was one of them.

Fernanda was clearly playing a game.

Minnie glanced at the red racing badge on Ava’s wrist and chuckled.

“Fernanda’s wasting her time. No matter how hard she tries to win Bobby’s attention, he’ll never notice her. If he did, why would he pick you to be his motorcycle girl in front of his fiancée p>

Minnie had arrived late and had no idea about the earlier argument.

Ava listened to the teasing between Bobby, Ava, and Fernanda over the role of “motorcycle girl.” What she didn’t know was that the racing badge on her wrist had once belonged to Fernanda, who had discarded it long ago. Minnie’s careless praise stung Ava anew, her anger rising until her blood felt like boiling water.

The badge felt as if it were burning into her skin and pride. She had never picked up anything another person had thrown away, especially not something Fernanda discarded. In a fit of rage, Ava ripped the badge from her wrist, ready to toss it aside—but froze when she saw the number 6. It was Bobby’s badge. Reluctantly, she clenched it in her fist, cold sweat making her hand damp.

Ava inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself. Bobby’s passion for motorcycles had driven her to learn everything she could about them—brands, mechanics, even the smallest parts. Earlier, in a burst of anger, she had quietly unscrewed a small bolt from the white motorcycle Fernanda chose, pretending to adjust her dress. That particular screw controlled the gear shifts, ensuring Fernanda couldn’t gain speed and would finish last.

As long as Fernanda came in last, Ava would be content.

Holding her handbag tightly—with the removed screw tucked inside—Ava headed toward the restroom, intending to flush it away. Just then, the race announcer called the riders to the starting line.

The race organizer approached Ava with a request. Among the female participants, Ava had the most racing experience. The organizers often asked for her help, and she was happy to oblige—it made her look capable and earned Bobby more praise.

When the organizer mentioned the post-race celebration, Ava’s excitement was immediate. Bobby was a top-tier racer, and she was certain he would finish at the front of the pack. Since part of the celebration would honor Bobby, Ava dove into the conversation with enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, on the track, Fernanda still trailed in last place. The other racers were miles ahead, their exhaust trails faint in her rearview. But Fernanda remained calm—this was a 200-kilometer course, and there was plenty of time to turn things around.

The first stretch was straightforward, a clear mountain road with few obstacles. The next section would be trickier: a winding mountain path demanding precision. The final segment was the most challenging—a steep, twisting downhill where racers battled fiercely to overtake one another.

Fernanda knew her motorcycle’s strengths and weaknesses. It struggled on uphill climbs but excelled on flat terrain and downhill stretches. As she approached the winding section, she shifted up two gears and felt the engine roar in response.

Within moments, she spotted the second-to-last racer just ahead of her.

The road ahead twisted sharply, and Fernanda quickly calculated her next move, accelerating to close the gap.

Approaching a hairpin turn, she prepared to brake hard, glide through the curve, and then accelerate out cleanly—her goal was to navigate the corner with maximum efficiency and speed.

After a rapid mental calculation, she pushed the throttle again, steadily closing in on the racer just ahead of her.

But as she reached the curve and pulled the brake lever, her heart dropped.

There was no resistance.

The lever felt loose in her grip.

Fernanda’s face went pale as the truth hit her—her brakes had failed.