Chapter 121
Chapter 121:
Brinley swiped through her tablet, reviewing the track for the upcoming exhibition race.
“Mrs. Moore?” The construction foreman’s voice broke her focus. “The workers said they need to adjust the slope. Do you want to double-check p>
Snapped back to the moment, Brinley quickly flipped her tablet face down on the table.
“I just sent you the measurements. Make sure to stick to them.” Her voice came out strained, betraying how hard she was trying to stay composed.
𝗕e 𝘁𝘩𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗋𝘀𝗍 t𝘰 𝗿е𝖺𝖽 on
“Got it,” the foreman replied, oblivious to her unease, and turned to relay the instructions.
Alone beneath the canopy, Brinley lifted her tablet again, the screen still open to the race invitation.
Her finger hovered over the “Reply” button, wavering.
Should she go?
Attending meant slipping back into her racing suit, gripping the steering wheel, and possibly facing Austin’s probing gaze. Skipping it felt like turning her back on the spark reigniting within her.
The moment she saw the invitation, her long-dormant passion for racing roared back to life—as vivid as it had been years ago on the starting line.
She wouldn’t sacrifice that fire—not for anyone, not for the illusion of stability.
Taking a deep breath, Brinley tapped the screen and typed: “I’m in p>
That evening, when she returned to the villa, the butler had dinner ready. Austin hadn’t come back yet. Brinley sat at the dining table, picking at her food, her thoughts consumed by the race.
She needed to rebuild her skills—stamina, reflexes, the instinct for handling a car. Every piece had to be reclaimed.
After her shower, she slid into bed, pulled the covers over herself, and opened her tablet to the racing simulator she hadn’t touched in years.
The familiar interface sparked a rush of emotion, and her eyes filled with tears.
A virtual red racecar waited at the starting line, the name “Rosara” gleaming on its side.
The engine’s low hum stirred her muscle memory.
Brinley’s fingers danced across the virtual controls—turning, accelerating, overtaking. Her first lap was sluggish, a full ten seconds off her best times.
Gritting her teeth, she practiced until 2 a.m., finally reaching a consistent lap time within her goal.
After exiting the app, she erased her browsing history and tucked the tablet into the nightstand drawer.
When she slipped out of bed for water, she froze at the bedroom door, spotting Austin at the end of the hall in loungewear, a glass of water in hand.
“Can’t sleep?” His voice cut through the stillness, clear and calm.
Brinley’s pulse spiked. She stretched, feigning grogginess. “No. Just a bit thirsty p>
Austin approached and offered her the glass. “Is the project stressing you out? You seem exhausted p>