Chapter 45 Gameover
Gameover
~AURORA~
The television screens mounted throughout the Throne Racing garage flicker with pre-race coverage, the announcers' voices pitched high with barely contained excitement.
Their words blur together into white noise—historic championship , unprecedented season , the duo that defied all odds—but I can hear the undercurrent of uncertainty threading through every syllable.
I stand in the corner of the garage, away from the chaos of last-minute preparations, my fingers wrapped around a now-cold cup of coffee I haven't touched in over an hour.
The liquid inside has formed a thin film across the top, catching the fluorescent lights in an oily sheen that makes my stomach turn.
Outside, the roar of the crowd is a living thing.
Eighty thousand voices rising and falling like a tidal wave, punctuated by air horns and the occasional firecracker that security hasn't managed to confiscate.
The energy should be intoxicating— this is what I've worked for, bled for, sacrificed everything to achieve —but all I can feel is the weight of the phone in my pocket, still warm from the call that ended three minutes ago.
"I'm sorry, Miss Lane. He didn't make it. Time of death, 14:47."
The words replay in my head on a loop, clinical and cold and so fucking final it steals the breath from my lungs.
Even now, even in the moment they're telling me my Alpha is dead, they're calling me by the name that isn't mine, the identity I've worn like armor for so long it's become a second skin.
The garage smells like every race day—hot rubber, gasoline, the sharp bite of carbon fiber composite, and the metallic tang of hydraulic fluid.
But underneath it all, I can detect the more subtle scents of my team.
Richard's Alpha musk, heavy with pre-race adrenaline and expensive cologne.
Marco's Beta scent, earthy and grounding, tinged with the nervous sweat he always produces before a big race.
Jenny's clinical Beta scent, all sharp edges and chemical precision, like she's trying to scrub away anything human beneath layers of industrial soap.
And then there's the absence.
The gaping hole where Adrian's scent should be—sandalwood and leather and something uniquely him that used to settle my Omega hindbrain like a lullaby. Even thinking about it makes my chest constrict, makes my Omega whimper deep inside where no one can hear.
He's gone.
He's actually gone.
The television cuts to aerial footage of the track, the Monaco Grand Prix circuit looking like a ribbon of black asphalt threaded through the city's crown jewels.
The harbor glitters in the afternoon sun, mega-yachts lined up like toys in a bathtub, their decks packed with people who paid obscene amounts for the privilege of watching racing history unfold.
"—unprecedented tension here at the paddock," the commentator is saying, his voice dropping to that conspiratorial tone they love.
"Adrian Castellanos, billionaire benefactor and former driver, remains hospitalized following yesterday's horrific crash.
Sources close to the family report no updates on his condition, and the silence has the entire paddock on edge.
The question everyone's asking—will his Omega, the sensation known only as Rory Lane, be mentally prepared to race without knowing if his Alpha will survive? "
My jaw clenches hard enough to make my teeth ache.
His Omega. As if I'm just an accessory, a supporting character in Adrian's story rather than a driver in my own right.
The urge to put my fist through the television screen is overwhelming, but I force my hands to stay still, nails biting crescents into my palms.
The announcers don't know. Nobody knows. The hospital called me first—pack protocol, Omega priority notification. I get to sit here with this knowledge burning a hole in my chest while the rest of the world speculates and whispers and places their fucking bets on whether grief will slow me down.
"Fifteen minutes to track call!" someone shouts across the garage, the words cutting through the controlled chaos like a knife.
That's when the garage doors burst open with enough force to make several people jump.
Richard strides in first, his Alpha presence filling the space immediately—all six-foot-three of him moving with the kind of purpose that makes people scramble to get out of his way.
Marco follows close behind, tablet in hand, his Beta efficiency evident in every economical movement.
The rest of the team floods in after them, a wave of technical staff and engineers and strategists, all of them vibrating with pre-race energy.
They're expecting to see their driver suited up, helmet in hand, ready to make history.
Instead, they find me still in my garage clothes—faded jeans, an oversized Throne Racing hoodie that swallows my frame, and the scuffed sneakers I've had since my karting days.
My race suit hangs on a hook across the garage, untouched, the sponsor patches gleaming under the fluorescent lights like accusations.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Richard stops so abruptly that Marco nearly collides with his back. His eyes—glacier blue and currently wide with disbelief—lock onto me with the intensity of a man trying to solve an equation that doesn't make sense.
"Lane." His voice is carefully controlled, but I can hear the edge of panic underneath. "What the fuck are you doing?"
I meet his stare, keeping my face carefully blank. Show nothing. Feel nothing. You've been playing roles your entire life—this is just one more performance.
"Not suiting up."
"I can see that," Richard snaps, his Alpha tone bleeding through despite his obvious attempt to stay calm.
He closes the distance between us in three strides, his scent sharpening with agitation—pine and gunpowder and barely leashed frustration.
"Care to explain why, when we have less than fifteen minutes to be on that goddamn track?"
The rest of the team has formed a loose semicircle around us, all eyes locked on the unfolding scene.
I can feel their collective confusion, their rising alarm.
Marco's fingers are flying across his tablet, probably checking race protocols, looking for contingency plans.
Jenny stands near the back, her arms crossed over her chest, expression unreadable behind her designer glasses.
"I'm not racing today." The words come out flat, emotionless, and I watch them land like grenades.
"What?" Marco's voice cracks on the word. "Lane, this isn't funny. We're minutes away from—"
"Adrian's dead."
The two words detonate in the garage like a bomb.
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear my own heartbeat, can hear the distant roar of the crowd, can hear someone's wrench clatter to the floor three bays over.
Marco's tablet slips from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering against the concrete floor with a sound that makes everyone flinch. He runs both hands through his dark hair, leaving it standing up in wild tufts, and lets out a string of curses in rapid-fire Italian that would make a sailor blush.
Richard has gone statue-still, his face draining of color beneath his perpetual tan. His jaw works like he's trying to form words, but nothing comes out. Just this horrible, strangled silence while his brain tries to process information it was never prepared to receive.
It's Jenny who breaks first, her clinical Beta composure cracking just enough to let genuine shock bleed through.
"When?" Her voice is barely above a whisper. "When did this happen?"
"Just got off the phone with the hospital." My voice remains eerily calm, disconnected, like I'm reading from a script. "Policy is to notify the Omega first."
Because Omegas are fragile.
Because Omegas need special handling.
Because apparently nobody trusts us to function like actual human beings when we receive bad news.
The bitter thought tastes like ash on my tongue.
Richard takes a deep breath, his massive chest expanding and contracting with the effort of regaining control.
I watch him bob his head once, twice, processing, calculating.
His eyes when they find mine again are softer, filled with something that might be understanding or might be pity—I can't tell which and don't want to.
"You can't race," he says finally, and the lack of his usual commanding tone makes it somehow worse. This isn't an order…it's a fact. A recognition of what we both know to be true.
I stand there, my body perfectly still while my mind screams. Can I? Could I actually get in that car, push everything down, and race like my world hasn't just imploded?
Would Adrian want me to? What the fuck am I supposed to do?
I shake my head slowly, the movement feeling distant, like it belongs to someone else.
Richard closes the remaining distance between us, and his scent washes over me—pine and gunpowder, yes, but also something warmer now. Compassion. Grief for a man he respected, admired, perhaps even considered a friend despite their professional relationship.
His hands land on my shoulders, grounding and warm through the thin fabric of my hoodie.
Then he's pulling me forward into a hug that I didn't know I needed until this moment. His Alpha presence surrounds me, not demanding or controlling, but offering shelter. Safety. Permission to break.
"Okay," he says quietly, the word rumbling through his chest into mine. "Okay, we call it off."
The garage erupts.
"Richard, you can't be serious—"
"This is insane! We're fifteen minutes from the biggest race of our lives—"
"Think about the sponsors, the contracts—"
"Everything we've worked for—"
The voices overlap into a cacophony of protest and panic, but Richard doesn't move, doesn't release me from the protective circle of his arms. His scent spikes with Alpha authority, sharp enough to make several people fall silent mid-sentence.