Chapter 4

Nina

Liam's figure vanished entirely at the far end of the garden.

Kyle pushed the tinted glasses up the bridge of his nose, drew a prepared contract from his briefcase, and held it out to me along with a fountain pen.

In the box marked compensation, the figure was written plain as day: one million dollars.

I stared at that string of zeros.

It was enough to clear the three hundred thousand I owed Tony in loan-shark debt, enough to save the repair shop my grandfather had left behind, even enough to replace the ancient welding machine Jack was still using.

I had no other way out.

I took the pen and scrawled my name across the signature line without hesitation.

Kyle tucked the contract away with a satisfied air and snapped his fingers.

A middle-aged maid in a black-and-white uniform materialized from somewhere.

"Take Miss Nina to the guest room to rest." Having given the order, Kyle turned back to me. "Queen of the Wrench—I hope you'll bring us some surprises at next month's championship."

I said nothing and followed the maid toward an outbuilding beside the garage.

I pushed open the door of the guest room and stood rooted to the spot.

This was only one guest room in the Cranston estate, yet it was more than ten times the size of that leaky hovel of mine back in the slums.

The floor was covered in thick, soft wool carpet that swallowed every footstep in silence.

Beyond the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows stretched a lawn manicured like a golf course.

"Miss Nina, all your toiletries have been prepared. If you need anything else, just ring the bell." The maid's manner was impeccably deferential.

I nodded and walked to the wardrobe, pulling it open at random.

Inside hung a full row of brand-new clothes. Several plain fitted T-shirts of excellent quality, a few pairs of distressed jeans, two leather motorcycle jackets—even a complete top-of-the-line fireproof racing suit with matching gloves.

I yanked out a black T-shirt and flipped over the tag at the collar.

Size medium.

My hand froze.

My eyes moved to the jeans beside it—the waist size was mine too.

Even the Martin boots lined up on the rack were exactly my size: thirty-seven, neither too big nor too small.

"These clothes..." I turned to the maid, who was about to withdraw, my voice a little tight. "Who arranged for them?"

"The young master instructed the butler to purchase them himself," the maid said honestly, pausing in the doorway. "The sizes came from the young master as well."

The door closed softly, and I was left alone in the room.

I clutched the T-shirt, my feelings tangled into a hopeless knot.

Three years, and he still remembered my measurements.

No—maybe he just had a good memory, or had simply guessed some common size.

I forced myself to sever those unrealistic thoughts.

The look he'd given me earlier had been so cold—cold enough to want to flay me alive. How could he possibly still care?

I walked into the bathroom.

A temperature-controlled tub and a full array of high-end bath products stood on the counter.

I looked at the woman in the mirror—hair a mess, face smudged with engine grease and grime—and let out a bitter laugh.

I turned on the shower and let the hot water pour down.

I washed away the smell of motor oil and the cold sweat, unwound the filthy towel from my hand, and rebandaged the wound at the base of my thumb with gauze from the medicine kit.

I changed into the new clothes from the wardrobe. The fabric was soft and fit perfectly—far more comfortable than the cheap secondhand-market finds I was used to.

I didn't linger in the guest room. I went straight back to the garage.

This was where I belonged.

I pulled down the garage's roller door, sealing off all that outside opulence for good.

Facing the deep-blue LaFerrari, I finally recovered a sliver of security.

I lifted the hood, and my gaze instantly sharpened into focus.

The V12 naturally aspirated engine paired with a hybrid electric motor made for an extraordinarily complex wiring layout.

The car's performance had already been tuned to the very edge of its limits. But to win the championship, to go up against the other top-tier machines, I'd need more aggressive modifications to the aerodynamics and the suspension.

I took the paper and pencil from the workbench, bent over the desk, and began sketching a modification draft.

Time slipped by, minute by minute. The garage was quiet, filled only with the soft scratch of pencil on paper.

I was completely immersed in the data and the lines, simulating in my mind the downforce and drag coefficients as the car swept through the corners.

"The intake modification is too conservative."

A low voice suddenly sounded right beside me, warm breath nearly grazing the shell of my ear.

My whole body went stiff, and my heart clenched tight.

I hadn't heard anyone approach at all. Startled, I instinctively straightened up and stepped back, trying to put distance between us.

But at that very moment my heel came down on the socket wrench I'd carelessly set on the floor earlier.

The cylindrical metal tool rolled across the smooth ground.

My foot slipped, my balance gave out, and I tipped backward beyond my control.

"Ah—" I let out a short cry and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the sharp pain of the back of my skull hitting the concrete.

The expected pain never came.

A powerful arm suddenly hooked around my waist and, with an irresistible force, yanked me back.

I slammed into a hard chest.

My nose filled at once with the faint scent of cedar cologne, laced with an almost imperceptible trace of tobacco.

It was Liam's scent, the same as three years ago—carrying that aggressively potent charge of a man.

My face was pressed tight against the left side of his chest, and through the thin fabric of the racing suit, I heard his heartbeat.

Violent, racing, even erratic.

Nothing like the cold composure he wore on the surface.

I felt dazed.

That summer three years ago, after he won his first crucial race at the underground track, he had held me just like this.

His heart had pounded then the way it did now, fast enough to leap out of his chest.

He'd rested his chin on the top of my head and said, breathing hard, "Nina, my heart only races like this for you."

The memories surged up like a rising tide, and for one instant I lost myself in longing—forgetting even to push him away.

"Three years apart..."

His icy voice came from above my head, shattering every illusion.

The arm around my waist abruptly let go, and with a force edged in disgust, shoved me away.

I stumbled a step and barely caught myself against the workbench behind me.

I lifted my head and met Liam's dark-green eyes.

There wasn't a trace of warmth in them—only undisguised contempt.

"You never learned much else, but you've certainly gotten better at seducing men." He curled his lip, his tone as cutting as a blade.

I snapped back to reality in an instant.

Those illusions about his racing heart, the fantasy that he might still hold on to what we'd once had—all of it shattered to pieces in that moment.

He hadn't been racing for me. He'd simply caught someone who was about to fall, on pure reflex, and then felt sickened by it.

What made it even more humiliating: Liam pulled a dark silk handkerchief from his trouser pocket.

He lowered his head and, with unhurried care, wiped down the chest and arm I had just touched.

The motion was meticulous, as if I carried some deadly virus and had soiled his clothes.

When he finished, he tossed the expensive handkerchief carelessly into the trash bin beside him.

My fingers dug hard into the edge of the workbench, my nails whitening from the pressure.

Humiliation burned in my chest like fire.

In the old days, I would have driven my fist straight into that handsome face of his and told him to go eat dirt.

But not now.

Tony's arrogant sneer, that crookedly scrawled IOU for three hundred thousand, and the image of my grandfather gripping my hand on his deathbed, telling me to hold on to the shop—they flashed through my mind one after another, like figures on a spinning lantern.

I needed that money.

For that money, I was willing to give up my very life—let alone this scrap of pride.

I drew in a deep breath and forced down the bitterness in my throat and the wetness stinging my eyes.

I released my grip on the workbench, straightened up, lowered my lashes, and avoided his oppressive gaze.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cranston."

My voice was soft but clear enough, carrying even a trace of lowly appeasement.

"I slipped by accident. It won't happen again—please forgive me."

I didn't dare look up, afraid the emotion in my eyes would betray me, and even more afraid that one flash of displeasure from him would send him pointing at the door and throwing me out.

If I got thrown out, I really would be at the end of my rope.

The garage sank into a dead silence, the air stretched so taut it was suffocating.