Chapter 135 The Great Room
The Great Room had always been the heart of the house—a space meant for family chaos, crackling fires, and the warmth of the Winslow traditions. Now, it felt like a tactical command center that had been hit by a mortar shell. The high vaulted ceilings, usually so welcoming, seemed to trap the heavy scent of antiseptic and woodsmoke, echoing the hollow silence of a fortress under siege.
The sleeper sofas were pushed together in the center of the rug, a velvet island in a sea of shadow. To my right, the fire crackled, its orange light dancing off the cast that encased my arm. Every time I tried to shift, the fractured ulna sent a throb of sharp protest through the plaster. It was a rhythmic, dull ache—a physical receipt for the moment Dale had slammed me into the desk. I looked at the white surface of the cast, a stark contrast to the dark bruises blooming on my skin, and felt a shudder of phantom cold.
To my left, Rhys was a study in forced stillness. His breathing was shallow—short, hitching gasps that whistled through his teeth. Broken ribs didn't care about your titles or your bank account; they only cared about the physics of a deep breath. His silhouette was jagged against the firelight, his posture defensive even in sleep, as if he were still bracing for an impact that had already landed.
“You’re staring,” he rasped, his eyes remaining closed. The firelight caught the dark, angry bloom of the bruise on his cheekbone, highlighting the exhaustion etched into the lines around his mouth.
“I’m checking to see if you’re still breathing,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pop of the logs.
Rhys opened one eye. The dark iris was clouded with a mixture of pain and a lingering, sharp-edged fury. He reached out with his good hand—the one that wasn't scraped raw from the fight—and found my fingers. His skin was feverishly hot, a testament to the internal war his body was waging against the trauma.
“Still here, El. Just... processing.”
The house around us was unnervingly quiet. Somewhere upstairs, our families were keeping a vigil, their presence felt in the occasional creak of a floorboard or the muffled murmur of a voice. But even with them here, the divide was clear. My brothers and mother were mourning a lost sense of security, but Rhys was mourning a lost kingdom.
Vance Racing wasn't a family heirloom. It wasn't something Helena or his brothers had a stake in. It was the house that Rhys built, brick by brick, using every cent of the prize money he’d earned risking his life on the tarmac. He had started the corporation from a single workshop after winning his third world championship, refusing investors to ensure he had total autonomy. To see it under fire from the FIA—to see Caleb Finch and Kian Hayes dismantling it from the inside—was like watching someone skin him alive. It wasn't just his job; it was his identity, forged in the heat of a hundred races.
A soft footfall echoed on the hardwood. My mother stood at the edge of the rug, holding two mugs of tea. She looked at our joined hands, her expression a mix of sorrow and relief.
“Arthur just got off the phone with the precinct,” she said, her voice a low murmur. “The DA is fast-tracking the hearing. Dale’s lawyers tried to argue for medical bail because of the… injuries Rhys inflicted. The judge wouldn't even hear the motion.”
“Good,” Rhys muttered, though the effort made him wince. His jaw tightened at the mention of my father, a dark spark returning to his eyes.
Mom knelt by the side of the sofa, brushing a hair from my forehead. “He can’t hurt you anymore, Elowen. It’s over.”
“It’s not over, Mom,” I said, looking toward the dark hallway that led to the den. “They think Rhys cheated. They think the Vance engines are a lie. While we’re sitting here in bandages, the world is deciding Rhys is a fraud.”
She nodded sadly and slipped away, leaving us to the heavy silence of the room. The fire was dying down, casting longer, more distorted shadows against the bookshelves.
Rhys turned his head to look at me, his jaw tight. “Finch is the key,” he said. “Kian was at the terminal, I saw the logs you pulled. But Kian isn't an aero-engineer. He couldn't have forged those specific telemetry curves. He wouldn't know how to make the fake data look that ‘perfect’—to account for the tire degradation and the fuel flow variables.”
“You think Kian just opened the door,” I whispered, my mind racing. “And Finch was the one who actually injected the poison.”
Rhys nodded, a grim movement. “Finch was my Chief of Aerodynamics. He knew exactly where the sensors were. He didn't just leak files, El. He and Kian worked together to create a digital ghost that looks exactly like my work. But we need to be sure. If Kian was coerced, if he was just a tool Finch used, there’s a chance we can flip him. But if he was the architect... if he was the one who sought Finch out to take me down...”
He trailed off, but I knew what he was thinking.
“We have to know, Rhys,” I agreed, my voice trembling slightly. “Because if Kian is still out there, working with Finch, they won't stop at the FIA. They’ll come for the patents. They’ll come for the manufacturing. They’ll dismantle Vance Racing piece by piece until there’s nothing left but the name.”
“I won't let that happen,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Vance Racing is mine. It’s the only thing I have that I didn't have to share or explain to anyone. I won't let a corporate hit-job take it away while I’m stuck on a sofa.”
I looked at my laptop sitting on the table, its lid closed like a sleeping predator. Twenty-eight percent. That was all I had of the raw data.
“The data is encrypted, Rhys. I’d need to be able to type with both hands to run the decryption scripts. I can't even hold a mouse without the pain making me dizzy.”
“Then I’ll be your hands,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the room feel small again. “You dictate the strings, I’ll hit the keys. My fingers still work, El. I can type as long as I don't have to move my torso.”
It was a ridiculous plan—two broken people trying to outmaneuver a high-level corporate conspiracy from a pair of joined sofas. But as I looked at him, I realized it was the only thing keeping the light in his eyes from going out.
“Tomorrow,” I promised, leaning my head back against the pillows. “Tomorrow we find the ghost in the machine.”
Rhys squeezed my hand back, his grip firm and steady despite the tremors of pain. He watched the last of the embers in the fireplace, his mind already spinning through the variables of the fight ahead.