Alaric
"Great shot!" a reporter shouted, pointing toward Nico, whose hand was still wrapped firmly around mine.
He hadn't let go. Neither had I.
"Gentlemen!" the reporter called again, gesturing at both of us. "Thanks for the poses. Now, Nico—days ago you said the track belongs to you."
At the mention of his name, I yanked my hand free, reminding myself that this man was my rival. The one who had thrown direct shade at me. The one who had stylishly called me incompetent in front of the entire world.
"Do you still believe the grid belongs to you now that Alaric has returned?" the reporter pressed, leaning in closer.
Nico didn't even hesitate. "Of course. The grid is still mine." He looked straight at me, his expression unreadable for a split second, then winked. "The seat was getting a little dusty anyway. I'm just glad someone is finally coming back to keep it warm for me."
I almost rolled my eyes. I would have, if it weren't for the sea of cameras recording our every move.
What the hell is wrong with him?
My eyes searched the red carpet for Harold, but he was nowhere in sight. He had left me all alone to face these annoying interviews—especially the ones involving Nico Park.
The reporters leaned forward eagerly, shoving their microphones toward my face.
"Alaric, what do you think about that statement?"
I had a lot of things I wanted to say to Nico Park. I wanted to tell him "fuck you" right there in front of everyone. But I didn't. Instead, I forced a tight smile and glanced at him.
"The grid doesn't belong to anyone," I said calmly, still smiling while deep down I was busy thinking of every way I could cuss him out on live television. "The grid belongs to whoever crosses the finish line first. Everything else is just expensive noise."
Nico's lips curved slightly and he let out a low chuckle. "Well, that's convenient. And you just proved my point."
"Oh?" I raised my brows. "And how exactly is that?"
"Me," he said lightly, pointing to himself. "Because lately, that's been me. I've been the one ruling the grid for two years now." He ran a hand through his hair, smirking like he had already won the season. "I've almost forgotten what the back of another car looks like."
Seriously, I had never felt so much irritation just by meeting a person.
How could someone be that cocky?
He was only a beta, a nobody with no family line of racers. If he were anyone of actual status, I would have at least heard of him by now, but there was absolutely nothing. He was a nobody who became famous because I had been on hiatus.
"That's only because I've been absent for years," I snapped, my voice losing a bit of its calm.
Nico chuckled lightly. "Your return won't change the podium results, Alaric. It made zero noise, by the way," he joked, casting a playful look at the reporters. "I almost missed the announcement entirely."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some of them laughed. Others kept snapping pictures.
As for me, I was burning inside. I was trying so hard not to punch his annoying, pretty face.
How could someone be that attractive and that irritating at the same time?
Nico Park. Even his name sounded like a headache.
"What do you have to say about this, Alaric? Should we expect a great return from you this season?"
I faced the reporters again and nodded at their annoying questions. I knew exactly what they were doing. They were trying to pit us against each other and sell their rivalry headlines to the public, and it was already working.
I hated it—because Nico Park was, without a doubt, the most annoying person I had ever met.
"Now that I am back on the track, I will recover all I have lost and show everyone," I paused briefly, glancing at Nico for a second before looking away. "I will make sure I show everyone why I was the King of the Track two years ago. That title was only ever on loan while I was gone, and I'm here to collect."
I said it proudly, staring directly into the cameras.
Beside me, I heard Nico Park grumble something under his breath, but he said nothing more. He simply turned around and started heading into the hall.
I had thought my words had finally gotten to him and he had accepted defeat. But instead, he stopped, turned back to face me, and when our eyes met, he winked again and spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear.
"See you on the track, De Villier. Try to stay in my rearview mirror."
And with that, he entered the hall, leaving me alone with the reporters who immediately threw more questions at me.
I didn't answer them. Fortunately, my agency arrived just in time to guide me toward the entrance.
As I walked inside the building, Nico and I met at the entrance again. He glanced briefly at me. I returned the look. Then he smiled—a real, mocking smile.
I scoffed, my eyes widening at his crazy attitude. One minute he was throwing shade at me on the carpet, and now he was smiling?
What the hell is his problem? I almost screamed. I almost grabbed my own hair and pulled, but he was already walking away.
"Arrogant bastard," I muttered under my breath.
"This way please, Alaric," my manager, Dorothy, said as she pointed to the left side of the hall.
I followed her, my eyes still searching the crowd for any sign of Harold, who had abandoned me on the red carpet with Nico. But he was nowhere to be found in the sea of faces.
I clenched my fists tightly, cursing him under my breath and wondering where he was hiding.
The hall was elegant. Dorothy led me through it as crystal chandeliers illuminated the space. Wealthy guests moved between tables displaying artworks made by the cancer patients and rare collections for the charity auction.
Harold suddenly appeared beside me, hands in his pockets. "Hey."
I frowned and stopped for a moment, facing him while Dorothy continued walking ahead.
"Where the hell have you been?" I demanded. "I was looking all over for you! How could you leave me on the red carpet with that annoying wannabe driver!"
Harold chuckled, completely unbothered. "I found the red carpet boring. Also, I had to use the restroom quickly."
I groaned. "You missed how that boy looked down on me. He had this condescending tone when he spoke and—"
"There!" Harold cut me off, pointing toward an artwork.
I followed his finger to a large painting displayed near the center stage. The artwork was dramatic and powerful—a storm crashing against a coastline beneath a blood-red sky. Guests had gathered around it, whispering about the artist and the price. It easily caught my attention because it was the most beautiful piece in the entire hall.
"Well now. That artwork is insane. You should get it," he suggested.
I nodded and started walking toward the painting. At the same time, Nico walked up right beside me.
We both stared at the canvas—and then at each other. I was frowning. He was smiling.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we will now begin the bidding for this extraordinary piece," the auctioneer announced, breaking the tension between us. "Please take your seats as we start the fundraising."
I turned to head toward my seat, but Nico stopped me.
"I hope you do not want this painting?" he asked suddenly.
I stopped in my tracks but didn't turn around yet. "What is it to you if I want it?"
Nico chuckled lightly and stepped closer until he was nearly brushing against my shoulder. "Because this painting is already mine. I've already picked out the wall for it."
Already his? Who did he think he was? I scoffed and turned to meet his brown eyes, my jaw set in a hard line.
"This auction just started, Park. May the highest bidder win—and in case you forgot, there are no head starts here. This is going to get very expensive, very fast."
Nico's smile didn't fade. If anything, it deepened into something dark and knowing. He let his gaze linger on me, trailing slowly from my eyes down to the fit of my suit before meeting my stare again with a look that felt far too possessive.
"Don't worry, darling," Nico said proudly, his voice dropping into a smooth, dangerous silk. "I am known for owning expensive things."
The way he said it made my blood run hot. He wasn't just talking about the painting—his eyes were fixed on me as if I were the prize he was planning to bid on.
"And if I win anyway?" he asked, looking at me like he was making a deal for my soul.
I chuckled and slipped my hands into my pockets, refusing to let him see how much that "darling" had rattled me. "You think highly of yourself, Nicholas Park, but this painting will be mine," I told him, bumping my fists together as the spirit of competition surged through me.
There was no way I was letting him win this painting now. Not after he had just looked at me like I was something he could buy.