Page 190 of Knot So Lucky
Hate messages.
Death threats.
People who've decided I'm either a manipulative liar or a victim who should be protected—and both camps are equally vicious in how they express their opinions.
"Turn off notifications," Cale suggests, appearing with a bottle of water that he presses into my hands. "Delete the apps if you have to. Don't engage, don't read the comments, don't give them the satisfaction of knowing they got to you."
I nod, mechanically following his advice.
Silence the notifications. Close the apps.
Try to focus on the immediate problem of sabotage rather than the long-term problem of reputation damage.
But it's hard.
So fucking hard when the world feels like it's closing in from multiple directions.
That evening, I find myself alone in the garage.
Everyone else is at dinner, meetings, or handling the various crises that seem to multiply daily. I should probably join them, to maintain pack cohesion and not isolate myself.
But I need the silence.
The familiar smell of motor oil and rubber. The comfort of machinery that doesn't judge or speculate or have opinions about my character.
I pull up the track leaderboard on one of the diagnostic screens, scrolling through the times from various test sessions.
Dante Moretti's name sits prominently in third place overall. His latest lap record on the sister track—a notoriously difficult circuit that emphasizes technical precision over raw speed—is legitimately impressive.
I stare at the numbers, trying to parse what they mean.
Is Dante a rival?
Simple as that—another talented driver competing for the same glory, using whatever advantages he can find to get ahead?
Or is he a victim?
Someone being manipulated by larger forces, used as a distraction or tool in a game he doesn't fully understand?
Or is he part of the game itself?
An active participant in the sabotage and psychological warfare, using his racing talent as cover while working to destroy my career from within?
The evidence could support any interpretation.
His sudden speed improvement suggests either genuine skill or assistance from people with resources to provide better equipment and training. His history with me is antagonistic,but maybe that's just normal competitive rivalry rather than personal vendetta. The timing of various incidents—his provocations, the kidnapping, the current sabotage—could be coincidental or carefully orchestrated.
I don't know.
And not knowing is its own form of torture when I'm trying to navigate threats from multiple directions while maintaining focus on actually racing.
Shadow appears from somewhere, hopping onto the desk beside the screen and meowing for attention.
I scratch behind her ears absently, still staring at Dante's lap times.
"What do you think?" I ask the kitten. "Is he a rival, a victim, or part of the game?"
Shadow just purrs, unhelpfully.
