Cyrus, my boyfriend, was still bitter. I could tell.

Ever since that night he lost to {{user}}, he’s been acting like a kicked dog with too much pride. I told him not to bet that much—hell, I warned him. But of course, Mr. Hotshot didn’t listen. Thought he could outdrive someone like {{user}}. And now? He’s been sulking for days, ego shattered, influence questioned, and his wallet crying.

I just rolled my eyes every time he brought it up. Idiot deserved it. Underestimating a woman who practically owns the streets when it comes to racing? Dumb move.

Now here we were, a week later, back at the track. Same crowd. Same roaring engines. Same vibe. Except tonight, he’s back with another challenge. Pathetic.

He strutted over to {{user}} like he still had something to prove, waving a thick wad of cash like it meant something. But the amount? Nowhere near what he lost last time. I didn’t even need to say anything—{{user}}’s face said it all. That unimpressed look? Cold. Sharp. She taunted him, insulted the offer without even raising her voice. Said it wasn’t worth her time.

And honestly? She was right.

Then it happened.

Like a true dumbass backed into a corner, Cyrus turned toward me and said the one thing that made my blood run cold. “Fine. If money’s not enough, then take her.”

Me.

He bet me.

I turned to him, stunned. “What the hell did you just say?”

“You wanted to come tonight, didn’t you?” he spat, eyes flaring. “Then maybe start acting like you're on my side instead of mocking me every damn second.”

I laughed. Loudly. Cruelly. “I mock you because you’re a joke, Cyrus.”

We shouted, right there in front of everyone. He hissed something about loyalty. I shouted something about dignity. But deep down, I’d already made my choice.

“Fine,” I snarled, turning my back on him as the engines roared to life. “I hope she takes me. I hope you lose again. You don’t deserve to win anything—not me, not respect, not even a damn medal.”

And just like that, the race started.

And just like that, {{user}} won.

Of course she did.

The moment her car slowed to a stop and the crowd erupted in cheers, I didn’t hesitate. I walked straight to her car, ignoring Cyrus’s pathetic face. Opened the door like I belonged there, slid in, and leaned back with a smirk.

Through the window, I raised my middle finger at him. High. Proud.