Chapter 82

Chapter 82:

Brinley stared at the red racing model, nearly gasping in shock.

How on earth had Austin come to own it? And why was it displayed so prominently at the center of his collection?

“You like these racing models?” Austin’s voice drifted over, touched with casual nonchalance. “I picked them up back when I was obsessed with racing. They’ve just been sitting there ever since. I never really got around to tossing them out p>

Brinley snapped herself back to the present, forcing down the wave of emotion threatening to rise. She struggled to keep her tone steady. “You… you used to race p>

“Yeah. There was a period when I was fascinated by it.” With a casual flick of his wrist, Austin pushed the drawer closed. “But once I took charge of the company, I stopped racing. Why do you ask p>

“Nothing. Just… these models are so finely crafted.” Brinley looked straight into Austin’s eyes, searching their depths for even a trace of recognition.

Throughout her years on the track, she had faced countless opponents. Their eyes had always burned with passion, sharp calculation, and stubborn defiance.

Austin’s eyes, however, were calm and unreadable—like a deep well that revealed nothing at all.

𝗠𝗈𝘴t r𝖾a𝘥 𝗍𝗵іs w𝖾𝗲𝗄 о𝗇

“I bought them on a whim.” He reached for a file on the desk, clearly uninterested in elaborating. “Are you into racing too p>

“A little,” Brinley replied. “The thrill of speed has always drawn me in p>

But her words trailed off as she lowered her gaze, afraid of revealing too much.

Could it be that he already knew who she really was? Was he deliberately showing her his interest in racing?

“The faster you go, the more dangerous it gets,” Austin remarked, his tone as detached as if he were analyzing a quarterly report.

“True.” Brinley no longer felt like continuing. She stood, picked up the empty milk cup, and said, “You should get some rest. Don’t stay up too late p>

“Alright.” Austin’s eyes followed her brisk departure, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face, but he made no move to stop her.

Brinley practically rushed out of the study, and by the time she reached her room, her palms were damp with sweat.

Leaning against the door, she replayed the sight of those racing models—and Austin’s unnervingly calm tone when he spoke about them. Her thoughts spun out of control.

That red race car was the very one she had driven to victory, a championship model produced in fewer than fifty units worldwide.

It was too much of a coincidence that he owned one.

Back then, she had competed under the alias “Rosara,” hailed as the queen of racing drivers. She had won multiple titles and amassed an enormous following. If Austin truly admired racing, it made sense that he would collect a model of her championship car.

In the days that followed, Brinley found herself watching him more and more.

At dinner, whenever racing came up on the sports news, his observations were always sharp and precise. He could dissect a racer’s split-second miscalculation, identify an engine failure, or point out technical details even engineers might miss.

Her doubts only deepened, pushing her to test him.

That Friday night, Austin finished work earlier than usual. They sat side by side in the living room, the television tuned to a racing broadcast.

A replay of a classic race came on, and Brinley’s breath caught when the camera panned over the stands.