Chapter 6 Get in the car
The house was silent when Daphne slipped out the side door. Everyone thought she was in her room. She even left her lamp on so Michael would think she was reading.
She knew his routine by now. He checked her hallway at ten. He took a walk around the garden at ten thirty. He reviewed the security cameras at eleven.
By the time the clock hit eleven thirty, she was already speeding down the back road with the windows open and the city lights rising in the distance.
She should have felt guilty. She didn’t.
Chaos felt like oxygen tonight.
She touched the accelerator. The engine roared like it had been waiting for her all day. She smiled, the kind of smile she did not let anyone see. Only the dark could hold it.
She headed straight toward the industrial district. It was an abandoned place filled with metal containers, newly paved strips of road, and hungry drivers looking for a thrill. Street races there ran fast and dirty. People crashed. People bragged. People forgot the world existed.
Daphne fit right in.
The loud music reached her before she even turned the corner. Engines revved in the distance. Tires squealed. Someone shouted a countdown. She felt her pulse quicken, warm and familiar.
She parked, stepped out, and the cold hit her skin. Not enough to stop her. Nothing stopped her when she felt like this. She walked through the crowd with confidence, her ponytail swinging, chin up, daring anyone to underestimate her.
Most drivers wore leather jackets and cheap sunglasses. Daphne wore a white silk top and fitted jeans, hair still smelling like her grandfather’s expensive shampoo. She stood out. She liked it that way.
“Whitmore girl is here,” someone whispered. “Thought she was banned.”
“Since when does she listen to anyone?”
Daphne smirked. She climbed into her car, fingers sliding over the wheel. Her heart pounded steady, almost calm.
“Three laps,” someone yelled. “Winner takes ten grand.”
She did not care about the money. She just wanted the rush.
The countdown began.
Three.
Her hands tightened.
Two.
Her breath slowed.
One.
She launched forward like she had been shot out of a cannon.
The crowd roared behind her. Streetlights blurred. Air whipped against her face. She laughed, loud and fearless, the sound almost shocking even to her own ears.
She cut a corner too fast. The tires screamed but she held on. The next turn came quick. She slid past a barrier with inches to spare. A driver tried to overtake. Daphne slammed the accelerator harder, grinning as she left him behind.
She did not care if she won. She cared that she felt alive. That nothing could touch her. That nothing from her past could reach her when the world moved this fast.
A second lap blurred into a third. She barely noticed she was inches from the wall. She barely noticed how close she came to another car. She only knew she needed this speed like she needed air.
Halfway through the final lap, the crowd shifted. People pointed. Phones came up.
Someone shouted her name.
It took a second for the sound to hit her.
Then she saw him.
Michael.
Standing in the crowd. Jaw clenched. Eyes locked on her car like he could drag her out of it by will alone.
Her smile sharpened. Of course he came. Of course he chased her.
She pushed the accelerator harder.
Let him watch. Let him see what she was without the Whitmore rules. Let him see the side her grandfather tried to bury.
He started moving along the sideline, tracking her, weaving through people, his face pale from fear. He had never seen her like this. Not even close.
She drifted through a turn, almost clipping a barrier. The crowd gasped. She laughed again, louder this time, almost breathless.
Michael’s fear hit her from across the track. Even at this speed she felt it. His eyes were on her like he was watching a disaster happen in slow motion.
The finish line approached. She took the last corner sharp and risky on purpose, knowing he would hate it.
And then she won.
The moment she crossed the line, she braked hard, tires smoking. People ran toward her, cheering, shouting, trying to slap high fives, but she only had eyes for the furious man charging through the crowd.
Michael reached her before anyone else did. He grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the noise.
“What the hell was that,” he said. His voice was low and tight. “You could have died.”
She shrugged, pretending to be bored. “Relax. I was fine.”
“You were not fine. I watched you almost hit two barriers.”
She tilted her head, half smiling. “Almost. But I didn’t.”
“That is not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
He stared at her like he could not decide whether to shake her or drag her home. She could see a frantic edge in his eyes. Real fear. Real anger. Real something.
It thrilled her.
She stepped closer, challenging him. “You followed me. So tell me. Why do you care?”
He looked away for a second, swallowing whatever answer he wanted to give. When he looked back, his voice had softened.
“Real racers die here. Every weekend. You think you are invincible because you are fast, but you are still just one mistake away from never coming home.”
Her smirk slipped for half a moment. Just enough that he saw it. He cared more than he should. She liked that. She was not used to being chased. She was not used to someone running toward her instead of away.
He stepped forward, holding her gaze steady. “Get in the car.”
She should have argued. She should have snapped something back. She should have told him he did not control her. That she did not obey anyone.
But she did not say a word.
She slid into the driver's seat without a fight.
She pressed her palm to the door, steadying herself, because she knew she was in trouble. Not with him. With herself.
