Chapter 14
Crossroads
~AURORA~
The garage is pure chaos.
I stand in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, and just... stare.
Bodies move with frantic purpose in every direction—techs scrambling between workstations, engineers shouting coordinates and specifications, the sharp hiss of pneumatic tools punctuating conversations that overlap in a cacophony of controlled panic.
The air smells like motor oil and adrenaline, rubber and desperation, with underlying notes of coffee that suggest everyone's been mainlining caffeine for hours.
It looks like race day.
Feels like race day, with that particular electric energy that crackles through the atmosphere when everything's on the line and there's no room for error.
But it's not supposed to be race day…
I was only discharged from the hospital three hours ago with strict instructions to rest and avoid strenuous activity.
The bruises covering my torso are still spectacular shades of purple and yellow.
My ribs protest with every deep breath. There are bandages on my hands where I gripped the steering wheel so hard during the crash that the friction burned through my gloves.
So why does the garage look like we're prepping for the most important race of the season?
I stand there for a long moment, completely confused, trying to reconcile what I'm seeing with what I know about our schedule. We weren't supposed to have anything major until next week at the earliest. Just continued testing on the prototypes, diagnostic work, maybe some simulation runs.
Nothing that would require this level of coordinated frenzy.
One of the techs—Marco, I think, though it's hard to tell when everyone's moving so fast—notices me standing frozen in the doorway.
His face lights up with relief so profound it's almost comical.
"Oh my god, Rory!" He rushes over, nearly tripping over a toolbox in his haste. "I'm so glad you're okay, but we totally need you right now."
His scent—the neutral Beta undertones mixed with stress pheromones—hits me before he does, and I have to actively prevent myself from taking a step back from the onslaught.
"What's the problem?" I ask, pitching my voice into that carefully practiced lower register even though my throat still hurts from smoke inhalation.
I follow Marco through the organized chaos toward the tech room, dodging around engineers carrying diagnostic equipment and other techs wheeling tool carts with the kind of speed that suggests urgency bordering on panic.
The tech room is even worse.
Two of our prototype models are completely disassembled—components spread across workstations in organized arrays that speak to systematic troubleshooting. But the third model is already being prepped, which means...
I frown, scanning the room with growing confusion.
The third prototype is race-ready. Engine installed, aerodynamics finalized, sponsors’ logos gleaming on freshly painted carbon fiber. It's sitting in the bay with the kind of polish and precision that only happens when a car is about to go on track for something official.
"Did something happen without my knowledge?" I ask slowly, trying to piece together what I'm seeing. "Or what?"
Because this level of preparation doesn't happen overnight. This is days of work compressed into hours, which means either I lost more time in the hospital than I thought, or something changed dramatically while I was unconscious.
"We're hosting an unexpected race right now," one of the younger techs explains, not looking up from the diagnostic tablet he's frantically scrolling through. "Like, right now. It'll determine the top twenty teams entering the official Formula One race."
Huh?
Top twenty teams. Official Formula One race. Right now.
"When was this confirmed?" I demand, my carefully controlled voice cracking slightly with surprise.
"Last night," another tech answers, sliding under one of the disassembled models with a wrench. "Around 11 PM. Emergency announcement from the racing commission. You were probably still in the hospital or just discharged."
I nod slowly, mind racing through implications.
An unexpected qualifier race with less than twenty-four hours’ notice.
That's... unprecedented.
The kind of chaos that suggests either brilliant strategy or catastrophic mismanagement from the racing commission.
"Then what's the problem?" I ask, because clearly there's a problem beyond the general chaos of last-minute race prep.
Everyone else has gone back to their frantic work, leaving me with Jenna—one of our senior Beta techs who's been with the team longer than I have. She's in her early thirties, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, with the kind of no-nonsense competence that makes her invaluable during crisis situations.
She points at the other techs without looking away from me.
"Hurry up and finalize that other model. We need backup options."
"On it!" they chorus, diving back into their work with renewed urgency.
Jenna steps closer, lowering her voice to a pitch that won't carry over the ambient noise of the garage.
"There are two problems."
The way she says it—quiet and serious despite the chaos around us—makes my stomach drop.
"Your brother isn't feeling too hot right now."
I frown immediately, concern overriding every other consideration.
"Where is he?"
"In his stationed room," Jenna answers, and there's worry written in the lines around her eyes. "But Rory... I think he might have been drugged."
The bottom falls out of my world.
"What?" The word comes out sharper than intended, my voice pitching up slightly before I force it back down. "Why do you say that?"
Jenna glances around, making sure no one else is paying attention to our conversation before continuing.
"He had an afternoon press with Dante. Standard pre-qualifier media circus. They did that thing where rival drivers toast to 'healthy competition' on camera." Her lip curls with disgust. "Cheers, shot of expensive liquor, whole performative camaraderie bullshit."
My hands are clenching into fists, nails digging into my palms hard enough to sting.
"He's been sick ever since," Jenna continues quietly. "But trying to play it on the down low. Won't admit there's a problem, keeps insisting he's fine. But I've seen food poisoning, and I've seen hangovers, and this isn't either of those."
The implications make rage simmer low in my gut.
Dante drugged my brother.
Dante drugged my brother.
Poisoned him before a qualifier race that could determine our team's entire future, all because... what? Revenge for being beaten by a "tech" during testing?
Petty vindictiveness that he got called out for his bullshit?
I take a slow breath, forcing my Alpha-mimicking aggression back down before it becomes noticeable. Can't afford to lose control now, not when people are watching and my careful persona is all that stands between me and exposure.
"You want me to race," I say slowly, connecting the dots.
It's not a question.
It's the only logical conclusion given everything Jenna's told me.
She nods once, sharp and definitive.
"You defeated Dante with ease before that freak accident. And that move you pulled, the sharp turn that saved that Alpha and the kitten?" Her eyes are intense, searching mine. "That was the exact same technique used in the online qualifier race. Which was you, wasn't it?"
I don't confirm or deny.
Can't confirm or deny without admitting to competing in a race under false pretenses, which opens up a whole different can of worms.
But my silence is apparently answer enough for Jenna.
"What's the second problem?" I ask instead, deflecting from the accusation with practiced ease.
Jenna looks around the garage again, making absolutely certain no one's within earshot. Then she leans in close, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
"Remember the old rules? About Omegas potentially needing to participate in professional racing?"
My blood runs cold.
"It's coming back," she says simply. "The racing commission announced it as part of the qualifier regulations. Any team that advances to the top twenty has to field at least one Omega driver in competitive races. Starting with the main Formula One season."
Fuck.
The curse echoes through my mind with devastating clarity.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. The rules that allowed Auren Vale to compete—the progressive experiment that lasted exactly one season before being quietly shelved—are being reinstated.
Which means every team is going to be scrambling to find Omega drivers. Which means increased scrutiny on everyone's designations. Which means my suppressants and binding and carefully constructed male persona are about to face the most intense examination they've ever endured.
I look around the garage, confirming we're still alone in this corner before leaning in and whispering, "You know."
Not a question. A statement.
An acknowledgment of the secret I've kept for years.
Jenna shrugs, the gesture casual despite the weight of what we're discussing.
"I've known," she admits quietly. "But that's mainly because I saw you with Cale one time. You two are basically in your own orbit when you're in closed spaces. The way he looks at you, the way you respond to him... that's not how two male Alphas interact."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, closing my eyes briefly.
"Why didn't you say anything?" The question comes out more vulnerable than intended.
Jenna's expression softens, and when she speaks, there's steel beneath the compassion.
"It took me twenty-seven interviews to get this position.
Twenty-seven. With connections and references from the top of the best in the industry.
You know why?" She doesn't wait for me to answer.
"Because I'm a Beta woman in a field dominated by Alpha men who think we're only good for administrative work. "
Her jaw clenches, old frustrations rising to the surface.