Chapter 169
Chapter 169:
When Brinley and Austin arrived back at Hillcrest Villa, the butler was overseeing the staff as they loaded supplies into the vehicle. Numerous crates were stacked near the doorway, looking heavy enough to strain anyone’s arms.
“What’s all this?” Brinley asked, brows lifting with curiosity.
“Replacement parts and safety equipment arranged for you,” Austin replied casually, loosening his jacket with an easy air. “A mechanic will be on-site to tweak anything necessary p>
Brinley’s thoughts drifted to the incident when her brakes had failed—a memory that made Austin’s concern perfectly clear. Still, she couldn’t resist teasing him.
“So all this fuss is because you’re worried about me? Just so you know, I might lose badly. All this gear will be wasted on me p>
Austin grinned. “Even if you finish dead last, the equipment has to meet top-tier standards. You’re my wife—I would never give you anything less p>
𝗠𝘰ѕt 𝗿𝘦𝘢𝖽 th𝗂s 𝘄𝘦е𝘬 𝘰𝘯 ѕ.𝗰оm
His words left Brinley momentarily speechless. She watched his back as he walked away, humming softly as he headed for the kitchen.
That night, after bathing, Brinley sprawled on her bed, the soft glow of her bedside lamp illuminating a detailed racetrack map. Every curve and braking zone was precisely annotated.
Her focus lingered on a tricky sequence of S-curves. Her fingers traced their path absently on the sheets as a question nagged at her.
Should she ask if Austin would be at the race tomorrow?
In the end, she brushed the thought aside.
Whether he was a casual racer or the elusive Nightblade who had vanished from the spotlight, it didn’t matter.
Her mission for tomorrow was clear.
She would finish the challenge and prove her abilities beyond any skepticism.
She switched off the lamp, letting the room fall into darkness. Closing her eyes, Brinley banished the swirling doubts and soon drifted into a deep, steady sleep.
The next morning, her internal clock woke her.
After freshening up and slipping into her gear, she grabbed her bag and stepped out. The living room was quiet.
A warm cup of milk sat on the dining table, a note tucked beneath it in Austin’s handwriting: “Don’t forget breakfast—and have this before you go p>
Brinley took a sip. The warmth spread through her, stirring an unexpected sense of comfort.
As she reached the door to change her shoes, her phone buzzed with Austin’s message: “You’ve got this. Wishing you a smooth race p>
The brief text steadied her in a way she couldn’t quite explain.
Brinley typed back a quick “Thanks” and left.
Unbeknownst to her, Austin watched from a second-floor window, his gaze lingering until her car vanished from the villa grounds.
The international exhibition race was set at a professional circuit on the city’s outskirts. The entrance’s digital display cycled through the names of thirty racers—veterans and rising talents, all prominent in the racing scene.
Brinley parked in a secluded corner of the competitors’ lot, pulling on a plain gray work jacket and tucking her distinctive long hair beneath a cap so she wouldn’t be recognized.
She popped the trunk and slid into the unassuming white race car Austin had provided. Devoid of logos, it looked ordinary beside the heavily modified vehicles nearby.
“Well, look who’s here—Brinley?” a cocky voice called out.
She turned and saw three men in logo-covered racing suits.
Leading them was Ballard Clayton, a frequent third-place finisher on local circuits, flanked by his regular companions, Dominik Norris and Jaxon Frazier. Their faces wore sly grins, and their approach was clearly intentional.
“What’s up?” Brinley asked coolly, her hand steady on the car door.
Ballard smirked, his voice loud and mocking. “Just stopping by to see how you’re doing. It’s rare to see a real estate developer at a racetrack p>
Dominik jumped in. “Yeah, I heard you can’t even pull off a drift. Tell you what—take a one-minute head start. Maybe then you’ll be able to keep up p>
Nearby racers erupted in laughter, their sharp stares cutting into her.
Brinley saw through their taunts, suspecting Milly’s involvement. That morning, the PR team had flagged fresh online rumors accusing her of exploiting the exhibition race for business promotion.
Ignoring them, she swung open the car door and settled into the driver’s seat. As she moved to close it, Jaxon leaned against the frame, his tone flippant.
“Hold on, Brinley. How about a bet? If you make it through the first lap, I’ll eat this car p>
“Step back,” she said sharply, her icy glare forcing Jaxon to let go.
The plain white race car rolled forward, their jeers fading into the background.
Brinley exhaled slowly and redirected her focus to the track ahead. This wasn’t the moment to get distracted—her mission was to conceal Rosara’s skill and accomplish her goal.
As she reached the competitors’ staging area, a mob of reporters surged toward her, their microphones nearly breaching the car window.