After My Husband Betrayed Me, I Built a New Champion

The tires of Flight 804 slammed onto the New York runway.

I ignored the jostling passengers in the first-class cabin and dialed my brother's number before the seatbelt sign even turned off.

By the time I reached the terminal's massive glass walls, Julian Bennett was on the line.

I gave him the short version. No tears. Just the facts. Logan. Sabrina. The hotel sheets. The phone call.

Silence stretched across the cellular connection. Outside the window, yellow cabs blurred into a continuous stream of traffic along the expressway.

"Claire," Julian finally said. His voice was thick with older-brother rage, tightly restrained. "Get a divorce."

A faint, dry laugh scraped its way up my throat. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass.

"You think this is about a broken heart?" I asked.

"He humiliated you."

"He made a mistake," I corrected, my tone hardening. "A stupid, arrogant mistake. But Julian, you know what I can't let go of. It isn't Logan."

Julian exhaled sharply. "The money? You have plenty."

"The brand," I said. "The empire. I spent six years building him from a dirt-track nobody into a global icon. I structured the Bennett Motorsports contracts. I secured the sponsors. I built that fortress."

"And now he's burning it down."

"I won't let anyone just take it from me," I promised, pushing away from the window. "I'm heading to headquarters now. I'm going to fix this."

"You can't fix a man who doesn't want to be fixed," Julian warned.

"I don't need to fix him. I just need to remind him who owns his contract."

I hung up and marched toward the exit.

An hour later, the glass doors of Bennett Motorsports slid open. I bypassed my corner office entirely. My phone buzzed in my palm with a fresh calendar alert.

*Emergency Board Meeting. Room A. Logan Brooks.*

He was moving fast.

I pushed the heavy oak doors of the boardroom open. The air inside felt instantly suffocating.

Logan sat at the head of the long mahogany table. He wore a crisp black suit, looking every bit the polished champion I created. Sabrina sat plastered to his right side, tracing circles on his knuckles.

To his left sat a man I recognized instantly. Marcus Reed. The most ruthless talent agent in Hollywood.

Marcus didn't wait for me to sit. He slid a thick manila folder across the polished wood. It stopped right at the edge of my space.

"Have a seat, Claire," Marcus offered, flashing a bright, predatory smile.

I remained standing. "What is this, Logan?"

Logan didn't meet my eyes. He kept his gaze fixed on the wall behind me.

Marcus tapped the folder. "The board convened this morning. They made a unanimous decision. Starting today, I am taking over all of Logan's business partnerships and career planning."

I stared at the agent. "You don't know the first thing about Formula racing."

"I know star power," Marcus countered smoothly. "And frankly, the investment committee has laid down an ultimatum. If you continue as his manager, they will pull funding for all future projects."

"The investment committee doesn't make that call," I fired back. "I am the majority shareholder of his management firm."

Marcus smiled, a thin, oily expression. "Not anymore. Logan transferred his voting rights this morning. You've been outvoted."

My chest tightened. I finally looked at my husband, hoping he would say something. Anything. I looked at the man I spent six years elevating to a god.

"You went behind my back to the board," I said.

Logan shifted in his leather chair. He finally met my stare. His eyes held absolutely zero warmth.

"Claire, don't arrange any more work for me," Logan stated. His voice was flat, devoid of the passion he usually reserved for the track. "I don't need you anymore."

"You don't need me?" I asked, keeping my tone deadly even. "Who negotiated your Ferrari deal? Who kept you out of the press when you crashed in Monaco? Who stayed up for three days straight fixing the suspension on your prototype?"

"That's the past," Logan snapped. "We need to look at the future. And my future requires someone who understands global media. Not someone who just crunches numbers."

"Let's look at next week, then," I challenged, frowning. "The international racing brand launch is already contracted. You signed the papers. You have to attend."

Logan leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. He offered a careless shrug.

"That's your problem, not mine," he said.

"If you breach that contract, the penalties will bankrupt your personal accounts."

"Marcus will handle the lawyers," Logan dismissed. "I'm taking Sabrina to Paris next week for fashion week. It's better for my image."

Sabrina shifted closer to Logan, pressing her shoulder against his chest. She offered me a pitying pout.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Sabrina chimed in, her voice coated in fake sympathy.

I kept my eyes on Logan, refusing to acknowledge the actress.

"Marcus knows exactly how to package a champion," Sabrina continued, entirely unfazed by my silence. She hooked her arm through Logan's, leaning up to kiss his jaw. "And I know better how to keep Logan happy."

A few stifled chuckles echoed from the back of the room. I hadn't even noticed the two junior PR assistants sitting in the corner. They quickly lowered their heads.

My jaw clamped shut.

Logan watched my reaction, his lips curling into a cruel smirk.

"If you really can't bear to leave," Logan said, his tone turning ice-cold, "you can always stay home. The mansion needs upkeep. At least you can be a nanny for the dogs. Or a maid."

The words hung in the air, heavy and toxic.

He wanted me to scream. He wanted me to throw a tantrum in front of Marcus and the assistants so he could prove I was unstable.

Instead, I reached down and picked up the manila folder. The paper felt rough against my fingertips.

"Keep the dogs," I said softly.

I didn't give him another glance. I turned my back on the reigning world champion, walked out of the boardroom, and let the door shut firmly behind me.

The hallway was empty. I hit the elevator button. The metal doors slid open, and I stepped inside the mirrored cab.

I stared at my reflection. Pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, but my posture remained entirely rigid.

I pulled my phone out and dialed the familiar number.

Julian answered on the first ring. "Did you kill him?"

"No," I replied, my voice steadying. The initial shock was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. "Julian, you were right."

"About the divorce?"

"About everything." I watched my own eyes in the mirror. "From today on, Logan Brooks is no longer my driver."

Julian let out a low breath. "So, you're walking away?"

"I didn't say that." I gripped the phone tighter. "He thinks he can just take my empire. He thinks he's the only driver in the world."

"Claire, what are you planning?"

"Starting today," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper, "he is my biggest competitor."

The elevator chimed, arriving at the lobby.

I ended the call and opened my email app. The message from the Global Racing Federation was still sitting unread in my inbox from this morning.

I tapped the screen, opening the document.

It was a list of rookie drivers eligible for the upcoming draft.

And right at the top was a name that made Logan Brooks look like an absolute amateur.