The End of the Race

Jeanne's hand flew instinctively to her leg, her fingertips brushing over the hard surface of the cast. 'My leg's still here.'

But the next second, her heart clenched tight. When she pressed down—softly at first, then harder—there was nothing. No feeling. Her leg lay there like a foreign piece of machinery bolted onto her body.

"No… No, it can't be…" Her voice trembled as she braced against the sheets, trying to sit up. The moment she lifted herself half a foot, her right leg gave way, and she crashed heavily to the floor.

Just then, Darren's anxious voice came from outside the door. "Zach, are you sure there's no other way? She's a racer—"

"That depends on her recovery," the doctor, who was called Zach, replied, his tone weary. "But I wouldn't advise it. With her kind of injury, if she pushes herself too soon, a second trauma could be irreversible."

A brief silence fell before Darren's voice came again, low and hoarse. "Alright. Thank you."

Each word hit like a hammer, shattering Jeanne's last bit of hope. She had been born for racing. From the moment she first touched a steering wheel, she had known her life was bound to the roar of an engine. And now someone was telling her she would never race again.

The thought was worse than death.

When Darren pushed open the door, he found her sprawled on the floor. He rushed forward to help, but froze when he saw her tear-streaked face. "You heard everything?"

Jeanne didn't look at him. She shook off his hand and asked, her voice trembling, "Where's Alyssa Carver?"

His eyes flickered—like he was afraid she might do something reckless—and he rushed to explain. "Alyssa's young, she didn't know any better. She drove without a license, and I've already scolded her for it. She's hurt too, Jeanne. Please, don't be mad at her anymore, okay?"

Jeanne's head snapped up, her eyes bloodshot. So he knew. He knew Alyssa didn't have a license and still let her drive. Still signed her up for a race.

This was the fourth time. Four crashes. Four hospital stays. And every time, Alyssa hadn't even offered a proper apology.

A bitter laugh rose in Jeanne's throat, but the tears came faster than she could hold them back, spilling down her face in heavy drops. Even now, he was still protecting her.

"What about me?" Jeanne's voice was barely a whisper. "If she's not to blame, then who is? Me? Is it my fault my leg might never stand again? Because it's not her leg that's broken, Darren—it's mine! And you're still defending her!"

Darren's brow furrowed, irritation creeping into his tone. "Jeanne, I told you she didn't mean it. Why can't you just let it go?"

He hesitated, then added something that sliced straight through her chest. "Besides, if you hadn't grabbed the wheel, maybe none of this would've happened. Did you ever think about that?"

The words hit colder than the blizzard in the North Pole. Jeanne's whole body went numb, and for a heartbeat, she couldn't breathe. Then she smiled—an empty, broken smile that hurt to look at.

Whenever Alyssa was involved, she was always the one in the wrong.

Her heart, already dead, felt as if it had been pried open again only to be crushed into dust. She closed her eyes, her voice flat and lifeless. "I'm tired. Leave."

When Darren saw the lifeless gray on her face, his chest tightened in panic. He finally realized how cruel his words had been. He opened his mouth to apologize, but couldn't form a single word. In the end, he turned and left, his steps unsteady.

For the next three days, Darren barely left her side. He fed her bitter medicine with his own hands, cooked all her favorite dishes, and even set up a folding bed beside hers, waking at every sound.

But Jeanne was like a hollow puppet—opening her mouth when he offered a spoon, standing when he helped her up, never speaking, never looking at him, until the day he said the words that broke the silence. "I'm going to hold a fake wedding with Alyssa."

Jeanne finally reacted. "Alright. I'll be there." Her voice was calm, detached.

Darren's stomach dropped. He had imagined tears, anger, demands for answers—but not this emptiness. Panic edged his words. "Jeanne, listen. The Fosters have their eyes on Alyssa. They're trying to force her into marriage.

"I'm her brother—I can't just watch her walk into that trap. So I'm going to announce our divorce publicly, then marry her in name only. But you have to trust me—it's all fake. The divorce, the wedding. Once the issue is resolved, everything will go back to the way it was."

Jeanne's lips curved, and this time she laughed—not in bitterness, not in irony, but in pure, unshackled relief—Theo was finally making his move.

Darren had called the Fosters a den of monsters. But to Jeanne, they were the only lifeline left that could pull her out of the cage she'd been trapped in.

The Marriage That Never Was

When Darren saw her smile, the darkness clouding his face instantly lifted. "Jeanne, don't worry. You're the only one I love. I shouldn't have spoken so harshly that day. Whatever you want, just tell me—I'll do it. Just… don't stay mad at me anymore, okay?" He leaned closer, his voice soft and pleading, like he might cry.

In the past, Jeanne would've melted at that tone, her anger dissolving under his coaxing. But now, the man before her felt like a stranger. Inside, she was still—cold and still, like ice sealed over deep water.

Jeanne looked at the desperation in his eyes and curved her lips faintly. "Alright. Have Alyssa marry someone else then."

The smile froze on Darren's face. His mouth twitched for a long time before he forced a strained grin. "Jeanne, don't joke like that." He reached out to touch her face, but she turned her head away. "She's my sister. You're really jealous of that? Pick another request, please. Anything else—you name it, and I'll do it."

Jeanne's smile widened. She knew it—whenever Alyssa was involved, all his promises turned to ash. They looked strong on the surface, but one touch and they fell apart. "I was joking," she replied coolly, the smile fading. "Do whatever you want. You don't need to tell me about it."

Seeing that she was no longer clinging to the topic, Darren sighed in relief. His usual easy grin returned as he patted her head. "I knew you'd understand. I'll go take care of a few things—get some rest, alright?"

As soon as his footsteps disappeared down the corridor, the last trace of expression drained from Jeanne's face. So that was why he had stayed by her side these past few days—why he'd been so attentive and gentle. It wasn't guilt. It wasn't love. He had only been afraid she'd cause trouble before he could clear the way for Alyssa.

A hollow laugh slipped past her lips. She reached under the pillow, pulled out her phone, and called her good friend. "Amber, did you finish drafting my divorce papers?"

Silence filled the line—long enough that Jeanne thought the signal had dropped—before Amber's strained voice came through. "Jeanne… you and Darren were never married. The marriage certificate you sent me—it's fake."

Jeanne froze. A faint ringing filled her ears. Her fingers tightened around the phone, trembling. "What… did you just say?"

"It's true," Amber answered softly, cautious, almost apologetic. "I asked someone to check. You're listed as single. Darren's divorced. His ex-wife is Alyssa—they finalized it two months ago. The seal on your marriage certificate was forged. The document was… a replica, the kind sold in cheap stationery shops. You and Darren were never legally married." Amber's voice broke on the last few words.

Jeanne went numb. That wedding—so grand that the whole city had envied her—had been nothing but a lie from the very start.

Her hands shook as she opened the screenshot Amber sent. The pale glow from the screen lit her equally pale face. Line after line of cold text pierced her eyes like poisoned needles, each one stabbing deeper until they blurred with pain.

Her heart, shattered so many times before, had only just been patched together—and now, with one blow, it was pulverized to dust. She realized, with sick horror, that she had been a mistress for ten years.

Ten whole years.

From 17 to 27—the brightest years of her life, all wasted on a man who had never truly made her his. How ridiculous.

The searing pain in her legs mixed with the suffocating weight in her chest until she couldn't hold herself together any longer. The hospital room filled with her sobs—raw, broken, tearing at the air until even the people in the next bed wiped their eyes.

…

At last, she dragged herself out of bed, fury burning through her tears. Grabbing the crutch beside her, she hobbled toward Darren's office, every step heavier than the last.

When Darren saw her at the door, his face lit up in surprise. Then, noticing her trembling leg and ghostly pallor, he frowned and rushed toward her, concern softening his voice. "Jeanne, what are you doing up? Doesn't your leg hurt?"

He reached out to steady her, but she slapped his hand away and thrust the phone toward him. Her eyes were glassy, full of grief. "Darren Walsh, I regret ever meeting you."

The words made him flinch. However, when he glanced at the phone screen, all the color drained from his face. He snatched it up, scrolling rapidly through the messages. His expression darkened with every swipe until he stopped on the chat where Jeanne had told Amber she wanted a divorce.

"You want a divorce?" His head jerked up, the panic in his eyes twisting into something darker. "You're leaving me?"

Jeanne's tears fell, streaking her cheeks with anger. "Yes! You terrify me, Darren. I want nothing to do with you ever again!"

She snatched her phone back and, with shaking fingers, dialed Theo's number. But before the call could connect, Darren seized the phone and smashed it to the ground. The sharp crack of breaking glass split the air.

Jeanne looked up, stunned, meeting Darren's bloodshot eyes. The tenderness that once lived there was gone, replaced by something wild and possessive. His voice was cold and feral. "You're not leaving me."

A shudder ran through her body, but she still turned to go. She managed only two steps before a sharp sting pierced the back of her neck. Her vision went dark—and everything vanished.

The Breaking Point

When Jeanne opened her eyes again, she found herself locked inside the car. With the back of her neck still sore, she reached toward the glove compartment and felt around until she found the safety hammer. The moment she gripped it, the car door swung open. Darren stood outside, his face grim. "Where are you going?"

Jeanne ignored him and tried to climb out, but he grabbed her arm and threw her back into the seat. Leaning against the car door, his jaw clenched so tight that the veins in his neck bulged, his eyes bloodshot with rage. "I told you—you're not going anywhere. You stay with me."

She glared up at him, refusing to speak. He stared back, then suddenly tore open her clothes.

Cold air rushed in, and Jeanne trembled. "Darren, what the hell are you doing?!"

He said nothing, only moving his hands roughly, stripping her clothes away before crushing his mouth against hers. His grip was hard, unrelenting, his body heavy with fury. It took Jeanne a second to realize what he was about to do. She fought with everything she had, but he held her down like a vice. "Let me go! If you do this, I'll hate you for the rest of my life!"

Darren acted as if he couldn't hear her. No matter how she kicked, screamed, or bit his shoulder, he didn't stop. Eventually, Jeanne's strength gave out. Her voice broke into sobs. "Darren… not in the car… This is my race car…"

Her plea was cut off by a cry of pain. His movements grew harsher, his breath hot against her ear, his tone disturbingly gentle. "Jeanne, this is your punishment. Still want to run?"

Jeanne bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. Her tears hit the black leather seat, spreading into dark stains. Alyssa had already destroyed her leg; now Darren was determined to destroy the rest of her.

…

Over the next few days, he went mad. He dragged her to the racetrack and violated her in every single car she had ever driven. Jeanne went from begging him to stop to cursing him with everything she had, until in the end, she went numb.

She stared blankly at the ceiling, unresponsive, her body limp beneath him like a doll with no soul left to break. When he finally finished in the last car, Darren pulled her into his arms. "Still want to leave me, Jeanne?"

She shook her head mechanically. She didn't want to leave. She wanted to die.

Finally, Darren took her home. The moment she stepped inside, Jeanne saw the untouched cake on the coffee table and felt sick just looking at it. She quietly went to her room and reached for the door lock, but Darren blocked her.

"Jeanne, you're being a naughty girl," he murmured, pulling out a pair of handcuffs and locking her to the bedpost. He pried a razor blade from her palm. "Be a good girl. Don't make me angry. Otherwise, you'll be the one to suffer."

Jeanne glared at him, but before she could say a word, the door opened. Alyssa strolled in, waving something in her hand. "Darren, which one looks better for the wedding?"

Jeanne's eyes widened. It was her national championship medal—and the pendant her mother had left her.

"Darren!" she screamed hoarsely, her voice breaking. "That's mine!"

Darren, triumphant, knelt by the bed and tapped the pendant. "I know it's yours." He looked up at her with a cruel grin. "Try killing yourself again, and I can't promise where these things might end up."

Jeanne clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached, her eyes burning with hatred.

"Hate me?" Darren arched a brow. "Then, stop thinking about leaving. Otherwise, there are worse things waiting for you."

At first, Jeanne thought he was just threatening her—until that night, when he dragged her out of bed and forced her to kneel by the edge. He grabbed her chin and turned her face toward the center of the room.

There, Alyssa sat half-dressed in his lap.

"Angry? Disgusted?" Darren's voice dripped with venom. "Look at her! Don't close your eyes!"

He said it was punishment for her disobedience. But Jeanne simply stared, numb and hollow, not even blinking. Her heart had already died—what else was there to care about?

To keep her from trying to die again, Darren began rationing her food and water, giving her just enough to survive but not enough to fight back. In the end, he hung the pendant around Alyssa's neck, stroking her hair as he said, "If you still want to run, this pendant will belong to her forever."

The night before the wedding, Darren didn't touch Jeanne for once. He lay behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder, whispering softly, "Don't hate me, okay, Jeanne? I just love you too much. After the wedding with Alyssa is over, once things settle with the Fosters, I'll take you to City Hall and we'll get our real marriage certificate, alright?"

Jeanne kept her eyes shut, silent.

…

The next morning, Alyssa walked in wearing a pure white wedding gown. She leaned forward, deliberately flashing the pendant at Jeanne. "You're so pathetic, Jeanne," she said with a smug smile. "I warned you to leave while you could. This pendant is so tacky, but Darren insisted I wear it as part of my dowry."

She didn't know Jeanne had already lost the will to live. A pendant meant nothing anymore. Even if Darren brought out her mother's ashes to threaten her, she wouldn't flinch.

So, when Darren and Alyssa left arm in arm for the wedding, Jeanne turned to the side and, with the only hand she could still move, reached for her wrist. She bit down hard. There was no pain, only the warm trickle of blood seeping out.

The blood had just begun to stain the sheets when a crash shattered the quiet. The bedroom's floor-to-ceiling window exploded inward, glass scattering across the floor. A body landed first—a decoy corpse—followed by a man stepping through the shards.

Theo stood among the wreckage, his handsome face calm and determined. He reached out a hand to her. "Come on," he said. "Let's get you out of here."