The Rejected True Heiress (Liora and Callum) novel Chapter 315

Liora’s POV

By the fifth night of sneaking out, I’d stopped counting how close I came to getting caught.

Marcus had nearly spotted me on the third night, forcing me to duck behind a hedge for ten minutes in the cold while he did his rounds. Zane had thought that was hilarious when I told him. I did not share his enthusiasm.

But it was worth it. Every night, I got better. Noticeably better, too, in a way that even surprised Zane, who knew just about everything about racing. He’d started throwing harder things at me during practice: tighter turns, quicker lane switches, pushing the car to speeds that made my heart race with a mixture of fear and excitement. And I kept up with all of it.

Something about racing was oddly addictive for me. I expected it to be a fleeting interest, a momentary rebellious phase that I’d soon look back on with a “why did I do that?” feeling. But each day, I looked forward to driving. And each night, when our lessons were over, I felt disappointed that I’d have to wait another entire day to get back in the driver’s seat.

By the time the night of the race arrived, I felt ready. I was nervous, but not in a bad way. I didn’t have very high expectations about winning or anything, so I was just excited to give it my best shot.

The racetrack was about an hour away from the palace. Zane picked me up at our usual meeting spot near midnight. I’d nearly gotten caught again by one of the palace guards, but managed to slip away unseen.

As Zane drove us to the racetrack, I sat in the passenger seat, twisting my bandana and sunglasses in my fingers. The landscape rushed past us in a dark blur.

“You’re fidgeting,” Zane observed without looking at me.

“I’m not.”

“You’ve folded that bandana four times.”

I set it down on my knee. “I’m fine.”

He glanced at me sideways, then back at the road. “You know you’re going to win, right?”

“You don’t know that for sure,” I protested.

“Maybe not, but you’re really good for a rookie. You’re better than half the people who are going to be out there tonight, and some of those people have been doing this for years.”

Right. That was me tonight.

I tied the bandana up around the lower half of my face and pushed the sunglasses on, then pulled my hood up. Zane looked me over and gave me a thumbs up, assuring me that my identity was protected.

“Good,” he said. “Very mysterious. Kinda hot.”

“Shut it or I’ll shut it for you.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

We checked in with the coordinator, who handed me my race number without much fanfare, and then we made our way toward the starting grid. That was when I started actually looking at the other drivers.

There were six of us in total. Most were in some form of disguise—helmets with tinted visors, face coverings, hats pulled low to conceal their eyes. I knew well enough, from Zane’s warnings, never to ask for people to take off their disguises if they had one; not everyone racing here was supposed to be racing here. Like me.