My right leg was shattered, and the engine's heat had burned the flesh of my thigh raw across a wide stretch of skin.

Even if every treatment after this went perfectly, there was no guarantee I'd walk normally for years.

As for racing…

My career.

It was over.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, something lodged in my throat, unable to push out a single word.

The young assistant threw herself down beside my bed and started to cry.

She was one of my fans. She'd joined this team in the first place because of me.

She never imagined her first real, up-close moment with me would be watching them carry me off the track.

She cried and cursed at the same time.

"This is sick. You're hurt this badly, and Mr. Delgado wouldn't even bring you to the hospital. He just had to stay at the track with Margot to handle the reporters."

"Margot only finished fifth, and he's out there saying that finishing her first world race at all is already a huge accomplishment, that she deserves a victory party."

"From the moment they brought you into this hospital until now, he hasn't called once."

My voice came out hoarse.

"Did I make it across the finish line?"

The young assistant's tears broke loose all over again.

It was a long time before she answered, barely above a whisper.

"No."

"The last ten meters. You got thrown clear of the car."

"No finish. No result."

Slowly, I closed my eyes.

Tears slid down past the corners and into the pillow.

Footsteps came at the door. Rufus's assistant walked in with a few people behind him,

saying Mr. Delgado wanted them to bring me over to the press conference.

The young assistant snapped.

"The doctor said she needs to rest, she's hurt this badly, and you want to drag her where?"

Rufus's assistant didn't answer. He just dialed Rufus right there in front of us.

Rufus's voice came through the speaker.

"A lot of the media today are saying Margot was parachuted into the starting lineup, that she climbed up over you. That kind of talk is bad for her future."

"You need to come down here and clear it up yourself. Say you decided to retire on your own, and admit Margot fits the team better than you do right now."

Hearing that, the young assistant was so furious the tears spilled over again.

But I just looked quietly at my immobilized leg, and after a long while I spoke.

"I'll come."

"But I want out of the team contract. A clean release, no fault on me."

Rufus's voice dropped at once.

"Christine, you really have to sulk and fight me on this?"

I looked down at the right leg I couldn't feel and answered calmly.

"You probably don't know. My thigh's shattered. I may never sit on a bike again as long as I live. Someone like me leaving the team, isn't that exactly how it should go?"

"I just don't want you using a breach penalty to hold over my head later."

The other end went silent for a long time.

I couldn't tell whether the extent of my injuries had stunned him, or my words had choked him off.

In the end, he said just one word.

"Fine."

Half an hour later, they lifted me from the hospital bed into a wheelchair, then rolled me into the press conference.

Margot stood among a cluster of sponsors in a gown that matched the color of Rufus's suit, her arm looped through his.

He leaned down to introduce her around, his tone warm, his expression patient.

When he saw me wheeled in, he gave me one flat glance, then had them push me up onto the stage.

In front of all the media, he announced

that I was officially leaving the team for health and personal reasons, and that Margot would be taking over the starting position from here on.

Below the stage, the camera flashes went wild.

A reporter suddenly stood up and asked,

"Miss Swanson, what actually happened with your car losing control today? A lot of people online suspect the team tampered with the car beforehand to push a newcomer up. Is that true?"

The room went silent in an instant, every eye swinging toward Margot.

Margot's eyes reddened on cue.

Rufus patted her hand to soothe her, then said in a level voice:

"No one tampered with anything."

"Christine's own driving was the problem. The crash had nothing to do with the team."

I sat in the wheelchair, slowly curling my fingers into my palm, and lowered my head.

The press conference wasn't even over before the smears about me were everywhere.

Some said I'd aged out, that my skills were slipping, and that I was clinging to my starting seat to keep a rookie down.

Some said I'd blown the race and then tried to dump the blame on the team, that I couldn't stand to lose and couldn't stand to quit.

More and more people started gushing over Margot, saying that finishing fifth in her very first world championship made her the team's true rising star.

A few even dug up her personal account and started shipping her with Rufus,

saying that a team owner and a prodigy rookie looked far better matched than Rufus and me ever had.

By the time the victory party ended, Margot had had too much to drink,

her whole body melting against Rufus, clinging to his arm, cooing that she wanted him to take her home.

Rufus looked down at her, and his voice carried an indulgence I hadn't heard in a long time.

"Sure."

Then, as if he'd finally remembered I was still there, he turned to me in the wheelchair.

"You can get yourself back to the hospital, right?"

I watched him quietly and gave a small nod.

Rufus didn't spare me another glance. He didn't even notice that I was the only one left in the entire hall.

He took Margot and strode out.

I stayed where I was, watching their backs disappear through the hotel doors.

"Let's go."

I said it softly.

Someone wheeled my chair into the van waiting at the curb.

The moment the door shut, Jim James, the manager of the Skyvault Racing Team, reached out his hand to me:

"Christine, I'm going to bring you back to the top."