The next morning, he was already gone when I woke up. I still had a lot to take care of.
Documents were spread all over the table: housing for the Canada study program, visas, partner schools, health insurance. Every detail needed my personal confirmation.
Just six more days.
Then I could start over.
That was when my phone started vibrating.
The moment I answered, a panicked voice came rushing through.
“Verity! You need to get here now! Tucker’s back on the track!”
My head rang.
“What?”
“He entered an underground rally race. Someone set him up! Water was dumped on the track—the car lost control and flipped! Everything’s chaos right now!”
I barely registered the rest.
The ringing in my ears surged. My vision washed out white. The steering wheel shook in my hands.
I don’t even remember hanging up. I just remember slamming the gas, the car shooting forward.
I’d always known how dangerous racing was.
In the early years, when Tucker had no money and no name, rally racing was his only shot.
Prize money. Sponsorships. A way up. He was betting his life on the wheel.
But later, after he started his company, things stabilized.
He’d promised me back then.
“Honey, if you’re worried, I’ll quit.”