Chapter 94
Reporters overwhelmed Brinley with relentless questions.
"Mrs. Moore, are you just entering this race to promote your real estate project?"
"Some professional drivers claim you don't even understand the track rules. What's your response to that?"
"It's rumored that you stole a spot that should go to real racers. Care to comment?"
From the sidelines, a few mocking shouts broke through the reporters' questions.
"Go home and enjoy your life of luxury instead!"
"Does Mr. Moore know you're out here embarrassing yourself?"
Brinley clenched the steering wheel tighter.
She lowered the car window, ready to respond, when her eyes drifted toward the shadowy area of the waiting zone.
There, a man stood motionless in a jet-black racing suit, fully covered from head to toe. The matte helmet revealed not a trace of skin, adding to his mystery.
He leaned against the railing with both hands tucked into his pockets, tall and straight, looking so intimidating that no onedared approach.
Even at a distance, Brinley felt a strange, unmistakable sense of familiarity in that posture.
Just then, another driver approached him, dressed in the same style of racing suit, except for a flame emblem painted across his helmet.
It was Nicolas Gomez, Austin's close friend.
Following Austin's line of sight toward Brinley, Nicolas smirked, elbowing him lightly: "Your wife really has guts. Racing isn't child's play. Let's hope she doesn't skid off the track; otherwise, I'll be the one calling a Austin didn't look at him. His voice came through the helmet visor, low and cold. "That won't happen."
Nicolas arched a brow, ready to argue, but the broadcast cut in sharply. "Attention racers, the first round is about to begin. Please prepare."
Brinley pressed down on the accelerator, guiding her white race car as it eased into the line moving toward the registration zone.
The staff kept reporters and hecklers at bay, but their sneering looks and cutting remarks still reached Brinley, tightening around her like an unseen trap.
At the trackside, betting booths were crowded with racers and spectators, all focused on the electronic screens as they placed wagers.
Brinley's eyes flicked to the screen-next to her name were glaring odds of 1 in 100.
Almost everyone had bet she would be knocked out in the first round.
She pulled down her helmet visor, shutting the world out.
Inside, there was only her breathing and the low rumble of her engine warming up.
Once the staff confirmed her details, they signaled for her to move into the starting area.
Brinley shfted gears, eased off the clutch, and guided the white race car seamlessly onto the track.
Inside the starting area, the other drivers were already lined up and waiting.
Just ahead at a diagonal, Ballard-the same one who had mocked her earlier-caught her eye through his window and mouthed,"Last place."
Brinley's grip on the wheel tightened, her eyes locked on the starting line.
The green light was moments away. She inhaled deeply.
She'd make sure they saw what she was truly capable of. When the signal light went dark, she released the clutch, yet instantly, the cars flanking her lunged inward.
Ballard on the left, Dominik on the right. Their cars pressed against her lane, their mirrors nearly grazing her doors, trying to shove her straight off thetrack.
A harsh sound filled the air as tires screeched against asphalt.
The white car jolted half a length back, teetering dangerously close to crossing the boundary line.
The grandstands burst with laughter and jeers. "See? Told you Brinley couldn't handle it!"
"She can't even start straight; what's the point of her being here?"
Brinley's heart skipped, but her instincts from years on the track steadied her nerves.
She deftly twisted the steering wheel, taking advantage of the pressure from both carsto cut sharply and slip through the narrow space between them.
She fell to the back, but her car regained balance.
Surprise flashed across Ballard's and Dominik's faces; they hadn't expected her to break free so cleanly.
Grinding her teeth, Brinley slammed harder on the accelerator.
Up in the stands, the betting screen refreshed, flashing updated odds beneath her name: Brinley Moore-Win Rate: 0.5%.
The betting amounts against her kept climbing; everyone seemed convinced she wouldn't last.
"Miss Russell put money down that she'd crash out in the first round; odds are 1 in 20!"
"I bet she won't even survive the first curve. A rich lady like her can't handle this kind of heat."
A sneer touched Brinley's lips as she read the screen. She could feel everyone's dismissive gazes, all convinced she'd never make it past the first round. Well, she'd prove them wrong.
She remembered the first time she entered a track; the ridicule then was ten times harsher, yet hadn't she still carried home the championship? When the signal light went dark, she released the clutch, yet instantly, the cars flanking her lunged inward.
Ballard on the left, Dominik on the right. Their cars pressed against her lane, their mirrors nearly grazing her doors, trying to shove her straight off thetrack.
A harsh sound filled the air as tires screeched against asphalt.
The white car jolted half a length back, teetering dangerously close to crossing the boundary line.
The grandstands burst with laughter and jeers. "See? Told you Brinley couldn't handle it!"
"She can't even start straight; what's the point of her being here?"
Brinley's heart skipped, but her instincts from years on the track steadied her nerves.
She deftly twisted the steering wheel, taking advantage of the pressure from both carsto cut sharply and slip through the narrow space between them.
She fell to the back, but her car regained balance.
Surprise flashed across Ballard's and Dominik's faces; they hadn't expected her to break free so cleanly.
Grinding her teeth, Brinley slammed harder on the accelerator.
Up in the stands, the betting screen refreshed, flashing updated odds beneath her name: Brinley Moore-Win Rate: 0.5%.
The betting amounts against her kept climbing; everyone seemed convinced she wouldn't last.
"Miss Russell put money down that she'd crash out in the first round; odds are 1 in 20!"
"I bet she won't even survive the first curve. A rich lady like her can't handle this kind of heat."
A sneer touched Brinley's lips as she read the screen. She could feel everyone's dismissive gazes, all convinced she'd never make it past the first round. Well, she'd prove them wrong.
She remembered the first time she entered a track; the ridicule then was ten times harsher, yet hadn't she still carried home the championship?When the signal light went dark, she released the clutch, yet instantly, the cars flanking her lunged inward.
Ballard on the left, Dominik on the right. Their cars pressed against her lane, their mirrors nearly grazing her doors, trying to shove her straight off thetrack.
A harsh sound filled the air as tires screeched against asphalt.
The white car jolted half a length back, teetering dangerously close to crossing the boundary line.
The grandstands burst with laughter and jeers. "See? Told you Brinley couldn't handle it!"
"She can't even start straight; what's the point of her being here?"
Brinley's heart skipped, but her instincts from years on the track steadied her nerves.
She deftly twisted the steering wheel, taking advantage of the pressure from both carsto cut sharply and slip through the narrow space between them.
She fell to the back, but her car regained balance.
Surprise flashed across Ballard's and Dominik's faces; they hadn't expected her to break free so cleanly.
Grinding her teeth, Brinley slammed harder on the accelerator.
Up in the stands, the betting screen refreshed, flashing updated odds beneath her name: Brinley Moore-Win Rate: 0.5%.
The betting amounts against her kept climbing; everyone seemed convinced she wouldn't last.
"Miss Russell put money down that she'd crash out in the first round; odds are 1 in 20!"
"I bet she won't even survive the first curve. A rich lady like her can't handle this kind of heat."
A sneer touched Brinley's lips as she read the screen. She could feel everyone's dismissive gazes, all convinced she'd never make it past the first round. Well, she'd prove them wrong.
She remembered the first time she entered a track; the ridicule then was ten times harsher, yet hadn't she still carried home the championship? The red light vanished, and engines roared like thunder across the arena.
As soon as Brinley let go of the clutch, Ballard on her left and Dominik on her right closed in like sliding walls, forcing her toward the middle.
Their side mirrors came so close they almost scraped her door, and the gravel sprayed up by their tires rattled sharply against her car's body.
"Ha-ha! That's more like it!" someone shouted from the grandstand. "Show her what real racing is!"
Sweat beaded on Brinley's palms, the steering wheel shuddering violently beneath her hands. But in that instant of chaos, she found her opening.
She slammed the brakes, the car jolting downward before she floored the accelerator in the same breath.
The engine growled like a wild beast, and the white car shot forward at a ground-hugging angle,sliding between Ballard and Dominik in a daring move.
Smoke curled from her tires, the acrid smell filling the air. Before the spectators' gasps even faded, Brinley was already surging ahead, catching the moment when the lead car slowed for the curve-and in one breathtaking maneuver, she overtook two cars in quick succession.