Chapter 207

Seraphine sat alone on the long sofa in the lounge, her back sinking into the soft leather cushion, eyes closed.

The roar of the speedway filtered through two closed doors, reduced to a muffled, distant hum. Engines, cheering crowds, the commentator's voice cracking with excitement—all of it blurred together like boiling water surging in from the direction of the track.

She'd just come off the course. With the adrenaline fading, the old injury in her right leg began to ache dully. A bone-deep exhaustion seeped through her entire body.

Two light knocks on the door.

A man in a catering uniform entered carrying a tray with a steaming cup of tea. He kept his head down, set the cup on the coffee table in front of her, and said, "Ms. Windsor, this is the complimentary race-day beverage. Please enjoy." Then he withdrew—quiet and quick.

Seraphine opened her eyes and glanced at the cup. The tea was clear, steam curling gently from the rim. No unusual smell.

She picked it up and took two sips. Warm, slightly bitter, leaving a faint astringent film on her tongue.

She set the cup back on the tray, leaned into the sofa again, and closed her eyes to rest during the break between races.

Less than a few minutes later, a wave of heat surged up from the pit of her stomach.

Not the natural warmth of post-exercise circulation. This was oppressive, suffocating—like someone had lit a small fire inside her body, the flames climbing through her veins, up her chest, her neck, behind her ears.

Her heartbeat accelerated. Her temples pounded. Her limbs went weak and boneless, fingertips tingling with numbness.

She tried to sit upright. The moment her back left the cushion, the room spun violently, and she collapsed back into the sofa.

She knew immediately. The tea was drugged. Not poison. Not a sedative. An aphrodisiac.

She braced one hand against the armrest and tried to stand. Her knees buckled and she fell back onto the cushion.

Her treatment kit was in her jacket pocket. The jacket was under the racing suit. The racing suit was still on.

She gritted her teeth and dragged the zipper down. Her fingers had just grazed the edge of the jacket pocket when another, deeper wave of heat crashed over her. Her vision blurred. Her hand slipped away.

She didn't panic.

She hadn't panicked when fire surrounded her in the abandoned station. She hadn't panicked when her hands and feet were bound in Tate's shack.

She closed her eyes and breathed—slow, even, through her nose—channeling all her focus into controlling her heart rate and breathing rhythm.

Heart rate too fast. Diaphragmatic breathing to bring it down.

The drug was still in her stomach, not fully absorbed. If she stayed perfectly still, the peak wouldn't hit as quickly.

---

In the corridor, Ondine and Quinn stood shoulder to shoulder a short distance from the lounge door.

A smile Ondine couldn't suppress played across her face. She'd waited so long for this moment.

Kneeling and begging in front of everyone at the recognition banquet. Smashing vases for three days straight in the hillside villa. Lying awake in that grimy motel, choking on cooking grease fumes.

Every single time she'd been at her most wretched, she'd rehearsed this exact scene in her mind, over and over.

She glanced up at Quinn. Quinn's expression was more controlled, but her eyes held the same glint—something suppressed far too long, finally about to be released.

"It's time." Ondine checked her phone. The drug should have kicked in over ten minutes ago. By now Seraphine should be completely incapacitated, and the catering employee should be in the room with her.

Quinn nodded and looked back at the cluster of reporters with their cameras and influencers with their phones already livestreaming.

This was her carefully orchestrated move. Ondine handled bribing the staff. Quinn handled the press.

Before the race, she'd invited a swarm of media bloggers under the guise of 'medical influencer attending the exhibition.' During the intermission, she'd hinted to a few friendly journalists that there was 'something worth catching in the lounge.'

These people had been waiting all day, hungry for a bombshell to fill the post-race content gap.

Now she was delivering it straight to their mouths. The moment that door opened, the image of Seraphine tangled up with that male employee on the sofa would be captured by a dozen devices simultaneously. The livestream signal would spread across the internet in seconds.

Seraphine could talk until she was blue in the face—she'd never explain why she was in a lounge, clothes disheveled, wrapped around a strange man.

When that happened, Global Golden Award champion, Alvin's only apprentice, Racing Goddess—all of it would become a joke.

However long it had taken Seraphine to climb to those heights, Quinn would make her fall take just as long.

"Everyone, my sister seems unwell in there—I heard some strange sounds just now. Let's go check on her."

Ondine's voice carried just the right note of concern, brow furrowed lightly. The perfect image of a worried little sister.

She walked to the lounge door first and knocked.

No answer.

She knocked twice more, harder, raising her voice: "Seraphine? Are you okay? I'm coming in—"

Her hand pressed down on the handle. She pushed. The door wasn't locked. It swung open with a turn.

Behind her, a dozen reporters raised cameras and phones in unison. Livestream comments raced across screens.

[They said there's something big!!]

[What's happening?]

[The door's opening, the door's opening!]

The worried expression on Ondine's face reached its most perfect pitch the instant the door swung wide. She'd already rehearsed her next line.

A gasp of feigned horror—"Seraphine, how could you"—then she'd step aside, clear the shot, and let every camera capture the damning scene on the sofa.

The door opened fully.

Her smile froze.

Quinn stood behind her. The anticipated scream never came. The shutters didn't explode. Everyone went silent, as if something had seized them by the throat.

Quinn looked over Ondine's shoulder into the room. Her pupils contracted sharply.

There was no male employee. No tangled limbs. No scandal.

Seraphine leaned quietly against the sofa, cheeks flushed, breathing slightly rapid, eyes closed as if asleep.

Octavius stood beside the sofa. One hand held Seraphine's jacket. The other hung at his side.

He faced the doorway directly—his posture that of someone who had known exactly when this door would open, and exactly who would be standing behind it.

His gaze cut past the cameras and the crowd, landing squarely on Ondine's and Quinn's faces.

That look was terrifying. The kind of cold, measuring scrutiny that sent ice down the spine.

Ondine's fingers were still frozen mid-air in the position of pushing the door open.

She could feel the sweat soaking through the fabric of her dress at an alarming speed.