38. 38
How Dare You – Alexander Stewart
T he crowd is electric. Deafening. Every cheer vibrates through the soles of my boots, rattling up my spine until it settles somewhere in the hollow space beneath my ribs.
Smoke and petrol linger thick in the air—metallic, sharp, alive.
The track stretches before me in a sun-drenched blur, broken only by the screaming roar of engines and the crowd’s frenzied waves of sound.
I weave past the pit fence, heart galloping with something I can’t name. Adrenaline, yes, but not mine. His.
It crackles in the air like static, pulsing louder each time a flash of his bike slices past the curve. He’s currently on lap three, placing second .
I spot his red Ducati, how he leans into the corner—body tight, controlled. His helmet glints under the sun. He’s beautiful like this. Untouchable. Dangerous.
And all I can think is, please be safe.
I move through the grandstand crowd, barely registering the elbows or apologies.
I find them in the third row: Harrison with Hope strapped to his chest, Xavier with Gracie pressed against his torso like some adorable little joey in pink ear muffs.
Both girls are giggling, wide-eyed, completely overwhelmed, and I feel it too.
This blend of chaos and awe. This pressure in my chest that has nothing and everything to do with the man on that track.
“You’re gonna look back at this and forget how loud it was,” Imogen says beside me, shouting just enough to be heard over the thunder of the crowd. She reaches for my arm, her grip instinctive. I nod, but it’s tight.
She watches me, her brow pulling slightly. “You okay?”
I try to answer. Really try.
But I can’t lie well enough today. Not with the taste of dread already rising in my throat.
I force a smile instead and glance at the girls.
Hope waves wildly when Harrison points toward the track.
Gracie spots me and flaps both arms, mouth moving beneath her too-big earmuffs.
The tension in my chest loosens for a split second. Just a breath.
My phone vibrates in my hand, screen lighting up with a missed call from Jeff.
1 Missed Call — Jeff Stanton.
Jeff: Check your email. Don’t freak out. Call me as soon as you’ve read it.
My stomach drops. A chill races down my spine, even in the heat of the trackside sun. Jeff doesn’t do cryptic. And he never tells me not to freak out unless there’s something very real to freak out about. With shaking fingers, I open the Mail app.
The email subject hits first: Notice of Intent to Litigate.
Everything and everyone else blurs around me as my eyes scan through the email.
To: Mrs. Zoe De Luca
From: Smith & Lowe Legal, on behalf of Mr. Liam De Luca
Dear Mrs. De Luca,
We act on behalf of Mr. Liam De Luca in relation to the recent breakdown in communication between you and our client, and the alleged incident that took place at your Wattle Creek residence.
This correspondence serves as formal notification of Mr. De Luca’s intent to initiate proceedings seeking a reassessment of the current property settlement agreement between you both, as originally filed during your family law proceedings.
Alleged assault? The fucking gall on this man. Anger boils through me as I skim through the rest, but as I do, something catches my eye.
Specifically, our client will be seeking a greater than 50% share of marital property, and any associated assets and contents he believes were unlawfully withheld or misappropriated.
Should you choose not to engage in direct negotiation or fail to respond to this notice within 72 hours of receipt, we reserve the right to initiate court proceedings.
What. The. Fuck.
I can practically hear Liam’s smug tone behind every word, every veiled threat dressed up in legal formality. He wants more than the agreed fifty per cent share? Over my dead fucking body. My hands shake. No, my whole body is fucking shaking, and my chest hollows out just as the crowd erupts again.
Lap four.
Michael streaks by in a blur of speed and light. I want to be present. I want to focus. But the fear is clawing up fast and merciless—cold, familiar, and so fucking loud. My phone vibrates again.
Unknown number: By now, I assume you’ve read the fucking email. Best you head back to Sydney ASAP. Otherwise, it’s not just you I’ll be dragging down.
Unknown number: Your little boyfriend should have thought before he laid a hand on me. My dash cam picked up everything from that night.
Unknown number: So unless you want him locked up for aggravated assault, I suggest you pack your shit and come back.
Unknown number: Come alone.
My stomach drops. The breath in my lungs whooshes out before I can process everything. The messages stare back at me from the screen, glowing white and cruel in my hand. I read it again. And again. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here.
Dash cam.
Aggravated assault.
Lock him up.
My lungs tighten. My vision tunnels in and out, the edges fuzzy and unreal.
He’s bluffing. He has to be bluffing. But what if he’s not?
What if Michael gets dragged through the courts?
What if he gets arrested—charged—all because I walked away and hurt Liam’s little feelings?
My hand shakes so violently, the phone nearly slips from my grip.
“Zoe?” Imogen’s voice is close. Gentle, but alert. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t respond.
“Zoe,” she says again, her hand brushing my arm, firmer now. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
Because I have. Only he’s not a ghost. He’s very much alive and still reaching for me with those same manipulative, sugar-coated claws. And this time, he wants Michael.
I can’t breathe.
Across the bench, Isla’s picked up on the tension. Her smile dims. “Everything okay?”
The less they know, the better. I can’t drag them into this. Into him. I manage a laugh. It’s hollow, forced through cracked lips. “Just… work. Nothing major.”
Isla snorts. “So that means it is something major, right?”
Imogen doesn’t laugh. Her eyes stay pinned to me, watching too closely. Reading me too well. Just like Michael. I paste on a smile and tuck the phone into my jacket pocket. “I’m fine.”
Commotion breaks, and the roar of the crowd surges like a wave. The commentator’s voice booms through the loudspeakers, frantic with excitement.
“Final lap—Price is second. Wait—he’s making a move! He’s gaining!”
People are on their feet—screaming, clapping, vibrating with something electric and raw.
Hope squeals from all the commotion, and Gracie kicks her tiny boots against Xavier’s ribs.
Isla lifts Callie onto her hip, bouncing her excitedly.
And Joseph—God, Joseph—perched high on Bradley’s shoulders, is shouting at the top of his lungs.
“Uncle Mick! Uncle Mick!” The sight nearly wrecks me. It’s so fucking adorable, I have to blink hard to keep my emotions from spilling over. This little crowd—this rowdy, joyful mess—they’re his. And for a fleeting second, they feel like mine too.
I turn, eyes snapping to the track. And somehow, through the blur of colours and bodies and speed, I find him.
Leaning into the curve, body low, the bike an extension of him.
Engine snarling, tyres biting into the dirt, dust flying behind him in streaks.
His form is steady. Locked in, just like he practised.
Every inch of him is power, control, and focus.
My throat tightens, and my lips part, yet no sound comes out.
Just a silent chant in my head, full of hope and desperation.
Come on. You’ve got this. You’re so close. Just finish. Just win.
The final bend looms, and Michael’s front wheel inches forward.
The crowd gasps, a collective breath held in suspended chaos.
Then he flies. Past the person in front, past the roar of engines, and into the open.
Over the finish line like he was always meant to be first. The sirens wail. The chequered flag flutters wildly.
Michael Price wins first place, and everything around me erupts.
Xavier lets out a shout. “Atta-fucking-boy!”
Olivia screams beside him, hugging Amelia, both of them bouncing with giddy disbelief. “He bloody did it!”
“He actually did it!” Amelia laughs, eyes wide. “He freaking won!”
Bradley whoops as Joseph shrieks with joy, smacking his palms together from high on his shoulders.
Isla spins in a circle with Callie on her hip, laughing so hard her braid whips across her face.
Imogen’s hand clamps around my arm, shaking me. “He fucking won, Zoe!”
I nod, a smile stretching across my face. It’s bright, beaming, and believable. I clap. I cheer. I force myself to soak in the celebration surrounding me.
But inside? Inside, I’m breaking apart.
Because this was it. This moment. This perfect, impossible win. Things were finally starting to make sense, to fall into place like they were always meant to.
We end up at a place called Madison’s in town—one of those nostalgic places with flickering neon signs everywhere. Just as we’re about to walk in, Michael slaps my ass—quick, and every bit cocky—before slinging his arm around my shoulders.
I shoot him a look, brow raised. “What, no celebratory ciggie?”
It’s a jab, but a knowing one. After that first race I went to, he lit one up the second he got off the track, grinning like a madman, with sweat still clinging to his skin. He did the same after practices, too—always the same brand, always the same satisfied smirk.
He shrugs, grinning. “Don’t need one.”
I pause mid-step, pretending to be stunned. “Really?” Yet, as I say this, recognition suddenly crashes into me. Because when was the last time he actually lit one? “Wait… did you quit smoking?”
“I did.” He winks. “Cold turkey, baby.”
My mouth parts. “How? Why?”
“It wasn’t as hard as I thought it’d be.”
I narrow my eyes, suspicion curling in my chest. “And why’s that?”
“Because I’ve found myself a new addiction.”
“And that would be?”
“You.”