The Man Who Let Me Go Now Wants Me Back

Dahlia’s body tensed, a subtle shiver running through her shoulders. Leander’s mouth parted as if words were about to tumble out, but the roar of engines ripped through the night, swallowing his hesitation. The signal had been given. The race was beginning. Without sparing him another glance, I strode away, my heels striking the cracked asphalt in rhythmic echoes, each step counting down to war. I wasn’t here for chatter or theatrics. I came for one purpose alone—victory.

Engines howled like starving beasts through the city’s steel arteries.

The pit was saturated with the heavy stench of scorched tires, gasoline fumes, and raw ego. Towers of floodlights slashed through the shadows like jagged bolts of lightning, searing the eyes of anyone who dared look up. The barricades groaned with the weight of spectators—crime lords, corporate moguls, faded cover girls, and the self-proclaimed royalty of the underground. But none of them mattered. Not tonight. Tonight belonged to two names, two destinies colliding.

Me. And her.

Scarlet Royce. Dahlia Royce.

Bound by blood, broken by everything else.

I tugged my gloves tighter, fingers flexing. The matte-black monster crouched at my side gave a low, restless growl, eager to devour the road. A V12 heart with forbidden upgrades, a machine built to outrun death itself. But it wasn’t whole. I’d found the sabotage too late—her lungs slashed, her pulse weakened. Just enough strength for one last sprint. Maybe.

Across the way, Dahlia draped herself over a cherry-red hypercar, gleaming and untarnished, as though it had rolled straight out of some showroom fantasy. She leaned there like a queen waiting to be crowned. She’d never burned rubber in the streets before, not once, but skill wasn’t the game anymore.

Not when Winston Salerno—Leander himself—had stacked the board for her. I knew it. Winston and Leander, two faces, one man. And his perfect Dahlia was destined to win.

“The smart money’s on Royce,” a voice whispered behind me.

“Not just cash,” another hissed. “Salerno staked the entire Falcone block on her. If she pulls it off, she becomes the front of his Eastside empire.”

“She’s his muse now.”

That word made my stomach turn. Muse. As if she were divine art and I was nothing but discarded scrap.

A booming announcement tore through the speakers, thick with ceremony:

“Tonight, the crown will not be passed by bloodlines—but forged in fire. Two racers. One title. Eastside Muse.”

The phrase hung heavy, almost sacred. My eyes locked with Dahlia’s across the track. She tossed me a wink, smug and poisonous. And then—every massive screen hanging overhead came alive with her face. Her flawless image filled the night sky, softened by filters, haloed by studio-perfect light.

“I want to thank Mr. Salerno,” she cooed, her voice pitched with trembling sweetness, the practiced tone of gratitude. “For believing in me when no one else ever did.”

The crowd erupted in wild cheers.

And Leander—he was there, right at her side. Not mine. His gaze devoured her like she was celestial, his universe in flesh. Salerno’s men encircled her, standing guard as if she were royalty. Before a single wheel had turned, Dahlia had already secured her throne.

The signal lights bled down to red.

Three.

Two.

One.

GO.

We exploded forward, demons unshackled. I sliced into the first curve, tires screaming against the brink of ruin. Dahlia trailed, her inexperience flashing, but her machine was sharper, faster—an engine fattened on Salerno’s limitless wealth.

The straightaway opened. I pushed my dying beast to its edge, every piston shrieking, the dashboard stuttering in alarm. She was bleeding under the hood, begging me to stop. I refused.

Steel rail, neon blur—I clipped the overpass, sparks scattering like fireflies as I spun into the corner. The city became a smear of lights and speed. My veins pulsed with each shift of the gearstick. I was pulling ahead. I could feel it.

Dahlia hovered in the corner of my vision, her candy-red machine glistening beneath the lamps, a spotless jewel that hadn’t earned a single scar.

Half a block left.

Victory within reach.

Then I saw it.

Her face, stretched across the colossal screen above the finish line. Dahlia—laughing, slow motion, radiant in Salerno’s gaze. Crowned without a ceremony. And beside her? Leander. His palm pressed lightly against her back, his eyes molten and soft—

Not for me.

The wheel twitched beneath my grip. Barely a fraction. Then the shot came. Clean, distant, deliberate. My tire buckled. Sabotage. Again. My engine spasmed, coughing black smoke.

Dahlia surged past, her scream drowned beneath the thunder of the mob.

She broke the line first. By less than the length of a breath.

The finish swallowed her whole. Fireworks split the night sky like cruel laughter. Salerno’s men applauded, their smirks flashing. The press lunged forward. Cameras whirled to her side. Dahlia emerged from her shining machine, flushed, victorious, raising her arms like a conquering empress.

And me?

I coasted into the dark edge of the lot, hidden in shadow. Smoke hissed from my hood, curling like ghosts. I didn’t move. I just stared at the screen, at Dahlia’s glittering smile, and the crowd’s rapture echoing back at her. She’d played her dirty tricks, but it didn’t matter. Let her savor the spotlight. Let her bathe in hollow glory. Because in the end? I’d be the one laughing last.

She floated out of her car, glowing under every flash, basking in borrowed power. I swallowed my rage, forcing ice into my veins as she painted that saccharine, plastic grin in my direction.

Leander, ever faithful, stood at her side like her shadow. “You deserve this,” he murmured, his tone too tender, too warm. Dahlia’s eyes gleamed like stars at his words.

“Winston’s been so kind to me. Why do you think he gives me so much?” she asked, practically trembling with joy.

Leander didn’t even pause. “Because he worships you.”

My teeth ground together, sharp with fury. “Yeah, we all know how you win. Cheap stunts.”

Her smirk faltered, just for an instant, before she stitched it back into place. I turned away, crouching by my wheel as though I were checking the damage. But I didn’t need to look long. The truth gaped back at me. A bullet hole.

I lifted my eyes, meeting hers. Her color drained. She knew that I knew.

I said nothing. I didn’t need to. I straightened and walked off, the night air biting, colder than ever. Leander’s voice snapped behind me. “Why’d you do that? You humiliated her.”

I didn’t stop. Didn’t glance back. My words cut sharp: “She humiliated herself.”

His tone shifted softer, trailing behind me, desperate almost. “Apologize to her.”

Apologize? Me? What a goddamn joke.

I didn’t dignify it with an answer. My stride carried me straight through the gates, the tension thick as blood in the air. They could both rot.

Leander called after me, his voice chasing me like a leash. Without turning, I raised my hand and flipped him off, the crowd still roaring Dahlia’s stolen triumph behind me.