Chapter 5

"Lydia, as long as everything goes smoothly the day after tomorrow, I'll take you abroad for rehabilitation. We can start over," Patrick said.

I asked, "You want to start over with Iris's championship?"

Iris's eyes were getting teary again. "I don't want the championship anymore, I really don't. Patrick, I can't take the way she's looking at me."

Patrick turned to soothe her. "It's not your fault."

His words cut through me like a rusty blade, tearing open every scar I'd tried to heal over the past three years.

As Noah was about to leave, I called out to him, "Noah."

He turned around.

"Don't be late for the ceremony the day after tomorrow," I said.

Iris immediately asked, "Why are you calling him?"

I leaned back against the pillow and said, "So he can see how I retire with dignity."

Patrick fixed his gaze on me, as if he was searching for any sign I might be lying.

I closed my eyes.

He took my phone, my helmet, my freedom, and my championship.

But no matter what, he couldn't take that memory card.

And he could never take my heart. It was dead long before this.

That night, the nurse came to change my dressing.

She lifted the blanket, saw the wound on my leg, and paused for a moment.

"Ms. Weaver, if it hurts, just let me know," she said.

I asked her, "Are you on duty tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Could you lend me a pen?"

She paused, surprised. "A pen?"

"I want to revise my retirement speech," I said.

She shot a look at the guard by the door, then slipped the pen under my pillow.

"Just ten minutes," she warned.

I gripped the pen and scribbled something else on the back of my speech.

When I finished, I just stopped and stared at the page.

As the nurse was gathering up the tray, she suddenly said, "That day, I saw Ms. Ferrell's gloves had black grease on them in the emergency corridor."

The bodyguard at the door asked, "What did you say?"

The nurse, still holding the tray, quickly changed her tune. "I said Ms. Weaver needs her dressing changed."

The door closed.

I folded the paper and slipped it inside my hospital gown.

Early the next morning, Patrick showed up.

He was followed by a stylist, a media assistant, and Iris.

Iris was wearing a custom racing suit, the gold champion insignia embroidered across her chest.

She stood in front of my wheelchair, smiling. "Lydia, do you think I look good in this?"

I stared at that insignia. That was what I paid for with my legs.

"It looks good," I said.

Iris froze for a second.

I added, "It really looks like you stole it."

The stylist's powder puff slipped from her hand and hit the floor.

Iris's smile faltered. "Lydia, do you really have to stir up trouble today?"

I sat in my wheelchair, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

My face was so pale under the foundation, my lips barely touched with color. It was like they'd already prepared my funeral photo.

Patrick was standing at the door. When he heard that, he walked in.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Iris said, "It's nothing. She's just in a bad mood."

I said, "I told her she looks good wearing something she didn't earn."

The stylist kept her gaze on the floor, too scared to speak up.

Patrick shot me a warning look. "Lydia, there are a lot of people here today. Don't make things difficult for me in front of everyone."

I shot back, "Oh, so being embarrassed in front of everyone bothers you more than having everyone watch as my legs got broken?"

His patience finally ran out. "Do you have to be so blunt?" he snapped.

"I'm just telling the truth," I replied.

Iris held onto his arm. "Patrick, don't get into it with her. She's about to retire. Let her blow off some steam."

I stared at her hand. "What's the rush, Iris? Can't wait to get your hands on everything?" I asked.

Iris avoided my gaze.

Patrick turned to his assistant. "Hand her the script. Let her take another look."

The assistant handed me the tablet.

I looked down at the script. Not a single word had been changed.

It said I crashed because of my own mistake behind the wheel. I was retiring of my own accord. I wished Iris the best.

Every line felt like they were dumping dirty water all over me.

Patrick asked, "Did you memorize it?"

"I remember," I said.

Iris, still uneasy, leaned in, searching my face for any sign of nerves.

"Lydia, make sure you don't mess up your lines. The live stream's almost real-time. If you slip, nobody can save you," she warned.

I stared right at her. "So you know no one's coming to save you either."

Iris flinched, stepping back as my eyes bore into her.

Patrick pushed my wheelchair out.

Outside the hospital, a black van was waiting. The whole team was there.

Some people couldn't bring themselves to look at my legs, and some kept themselves busy.