The Billionaire Ex-Wife's Return (Cynthia and Ethan) novel Chapter 198

Chapter 198

Kevin's POV

The engine screamed beneath me, a violent roar that drowned out everything else — thought, fear, the gnawing emptiness that had been eating at me for weeks. I pushed the car harder, faster, my foot pressing the accelerator until the world outside blurred into streaks of color and light.

"KEVIN! SLOW DOWN!"

Coach Martinez's voice crackled through the radio, sharp and urgent, cutting through the engine's thunder. I ignored him. The track stretched ahead like a challenge, every curve an invitation to push past limits I'd already crossed a hundred times before.

"KEVIN, I SAID SLOW THE HELL DOWN!"

I didn't.

Not until I hit the designated spot, tires screeching as I brought the car to an abrupt, violent stop. The sudden stillness felt jarring after all that speed, like my body hadn't caught up to the fact that I'd stopped moving.

I sat there for a moment, hands still gripped around the steering wheel, chest heaving, adrenaline still coursing through my veins like fire.

Then I popped the door open and climbed out.

Coach Martinez was already storming toward me, his face red, jaw tight with barely contained fury. He'd been my coach for five years now — long enough to know when I was racing and when I was running from something.

Today, I was running.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he barked the moment I pulled my helmet off. "You trying to get yourself killed? You think you're invincible out there?"

I didn't answer. I just stood there, helmet tucked under my arm, sweat dripping down my temple, staring at him without really seeing him.

"Kevin!" His voice rose sharply. "I'm talking to you!"

"I heard you," I muttered.

"Then answer me!" he snapped. "What is going on with you? You've been reckless for weeks now. Distracted. This isn't you."

I let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through my damp hair. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Coach Martinez shot back immediately. "You are not fine. And if you keep driving like this, you're going to crash before the World Contest even starts. Do you understand what's at stake here?"

I did.

Of course I did.

The World Contest was something I had to win again. I couldn’t afford to lose and lose my world renowned title — it all hinged on how I performed in those races.

And yet, standing here now, dripping with sweat and frustration, I couldn't bring myself to care the way I used to.

"I know what's at stake," I said flatly.

"Then act like it!" Coach Martinez pressed. "Get your head straight, Kevin. Whatever's eating at you, deal with it. Because if you bring this energy into the contest, you're going to lose. Or worse… you're going to hurt yourself."

I stared at him for a long moment, then turned away.

"I'll see you next time," I said, my voice cold, dismissive.

"Kevin…"

I didn't wait for him to finish. I walked straight toward the locker rooms, ignoring the weight of his gaze on my back, ignoring the concern laced beneath his anger.

The shower was cold.

I'd turned the knob all the way to the left, letting icy water cascade over my overheated skin, shocking my system into something resembling clarity. My muscles ached from the tension I'd been carrying, my shoulders tight, my jaw sore from clenching it too hard for too long.

I leaned forward, pressing my palms flat against the tile wall, letting the water run over my head, down my back, washing away sweat and exhaustion but none of the weight sitting heavy in my chest.

Racing used to be enough.

For years, it had been everything. The speed, the precision, the thrill of winning, the roar of the crowd, the taste of champagne on the podium. It had filled every empty space inside me, given me purpose, identity, direction.

That was the word that kept circling back, no matter how hard I tried to outrun it.

I was lonely.

And no amount of speed could fix that.

I grabbed a towel from the bench and wrapped it around my waist, then reached for my phone sitting beside my gym bag.

The screen lit up.

One new message.

I frowned slightly, unlocking it without much thought.

It was from Marco — one of my fellow racers, a guy I'd known for years through the circuit. We weren't close, but we were friendly enough. He sent memes sometimes. Complained about sponsors. The usual.

But this message wasn't usual.

It was a photo.

I opened it and my heart stopped.

Julian was sitting in a restaurant booth, leaning across the table, his hand cupped gently around another man's face.

Kissing him.

Not a friendly peck. Not a casual brush of lips.

A real kiss.

My chest constricted violently, like someone had reached inside and squeezed.