Chapter 1
Three years after I went over that cliff, I was running a little auto shop in a snowy northern town, getting by with a prosthetic leg.
I'd changed my name, got a new phone number, and even picked up the local accent to blend in.
I'd severed every tie to the Estary racing world.
As far as everyone else was concerned, I was dead.
They thought I died at that retirement ceremony, the one that was streamed live for the whole world to see.
For three whole years, the black-and-white checkered flag in front of my empty grave never once came down.
Until that day, when someone suddenly yanked open the roller door of my auto shop, letting the wind and snow rush in. Standing in the doorway was someone I used to know.
He stared at me for a long time, his voice hoarse with emotion.
"Lydia, you're alive. Why didn't you ever come back?"
"Did you even know Patrick nearly died at the bottom of that cliff, searching for you?"
Patrick Collier was my ex-husband.
He was also the one who ruined my legs with his own hands.
He was the youngest club owner in the Collier family of Estary and had control over half of the country's top racing teams.
He had a childhood friend, Iris Ferrell, who grew up by his side.
They had a deal. As long as Iris never won a championship, he'd always keep the best car waiting for her.
But then Patrick met me.
I started out in underground street races, then made my way up to the pro circuit. In my first year, I took Rookie of the Year, and the next, I won the championship.
Patrick chased after me for two years, signed me to his team, and eventually slipped a ring on my finger.
Iris hated me.
She hated me for stealing her spot, for stealing Patrick away from her, and for snatching the trophy that was meant for her.
The first time, Iris sabotaged my car by dumping some crap in the fuel tank. My car spun out halfway through the race. I broke two ribs, bruised my lungs, and was stuck in the hospital for two weeks.
Patrick brought in the best doctors and picked me up from the hospital bed to help me drink water.
The second time, Iris filed down the buckle on my helmet. When I crossed the finish line, my helmet flew off, and the shards sliced my face open. I ended up with twenty-nine stitches from my eyebrow to my jaw.
Patrick shut down the race that night, questioned the whole team, and eventually traced it back to Iris. But in the end, he just let her off easy.
He held me close and said, "Lydia, Iris just wants to win too much. She's not really out to hurt you."
And so it went. He kept saving me, and she kept trying to hurt me, over and over again, until the very last time.
The night before the national finals, Iris found out from Patrick that my new car had a new brake system.
She had a mechanic tamper with my brakes when no one was looking and hid my backup car keys.
On that last turn, I slammed the brakes, but the pedal sank, like stepping into a snowdrift.
The car launched over the guardrail, flipped three times, and the nose crashed straight into the rocks.
When I came to, my legs were loaded with metal pins from the knees down. The doctor told me, even if I managed to stand again, I'd never race again.
I lay in the hospital bed, clutching Patrick's sleeve, begging him to call the cops.
He stood by my bedside, still gripping the bouquet Iris had brought for my hospital visit.
Patrick said, "Lydia, just let it go. Iris never meant to hurt you. She was afraid you'd win again. You've already taken home so many trophies. Can't you let her have this one?"
That was the moment I finally snapped out of it.
The next day, I called Patrick's grandfather, Henry Collier, from my hospital room.
Henry had never thought I was good enough. He always said I was a street racer, not worthy of the Collier family name or Patrick's team.
When the call connected, my voice was steady. "Mr. Collier, I agree to the divorce."
There was a brief silence on the other end before he replied, "Glad you understand. I'll have the agreement sent over. Don't stir up trouble about the championship. Patrick can't afford to get caught up in this mess now."
Not long after, the Collier family's lawyer showed up at my hospital room.
He set the papers down on my nightstand, all business.
He said, "Ms. Weaver, once you sign, the Collier family will give you a payout. The retirement ceremony will proceed as usual.
"You'll need to announce your retirement due to injury and publicly recognize Ms. Iris Ferrell as this season's champion."
I stared at the agreement and asked, "What if I don't sign?"
The lawyer pushed up his glasses. "Ms. Weaver, you don't have a car, you don't have your legs, and you don't have any evidence. What can you possibly use to fight the Collier family?"
I picked up the pen and slowly signed it.
The ink seeped into the paper. There was still an IV needle taped to the back of my hand. As I wrote, the tube shifted, and a bit of blood crept back up the line.
The lawyer gathered up the papers, his tone finally softening a bit.