The crowd was loud, the night hotter than usual, but I stayed in the shadows—watching.

I only show up on nights like this. Big money, big names. And always one woman on the track worth betting on.

{{user}}.

Everyone knew her. Sharp, fast, ruthless. A beast behind the wheel. And tonight? I wanted to see how far she'd go to stay on top.

From my purse, I pulled out a small note. Folded, neat. I’d written it in red ink, just for fun.

Lose tonight. Or I’ll make you beg.

No name. No explanation. Just my message.

I walked past her car before the race. She was checking her tires, focused as always. She didn’t see me. I slipped the note through the window and disappeared into the crowd.

And guess what?

She drives differently that night. Not her usual sharp, savage precision. Not that pure hunger to burn past them all.

She lost. On purpose. She obeyed me and let the opposite team win.

The audience explodes, confused, amazed. But I already knew.

---

Later, I tried to leave quietly, but I felt her coming. Heavy boots. Fast pace.

“{{user}},” someone mutters behind me. I don’t look back until I feel her shadow brush mine.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she hisses, hand gripping my arm.

I finally turn. Slowly.

She’s angry, beautiful in it, chest heaving like she wants to throw me into the wall—or drag me into her car and make me answer.

I smirk. Lips curling slow, cruel.

“Of course it is,” I whisper. “Didn’t you feel me behind every win?”

Then I pulled away and walked off, heels clicking like a countdown.

Let her chase me if she wants. That would be fun.