Samantha had spent her life outrunning everyone's expectations. The roaring engines of the streets had always been her freedom, her escape from the suffocating world of wealth and duty. But tonight, there were no engines. No smoke. No adrenaline pumping through her veins. Instead, there was a designer gown clinging to her figure, expensive jewelry that felt like shackles, and a room full of people she despised.
The grand ballroom of the Sinclair estate was a spectacle of luxury. Crystal chandeliers dangled from the high ceilings, their golden light bouncing off marble floors. Champagne glasses clinked as well-dressed guests whispered behind painted smiles. And at the center of it all, standing on an elevated stage beside Maxwell Kingston, Samantha felt like a caged animal.
"Ladies and gentlemen," her father's voice boomed through the microphone. "Tonight, we celebrate not just a partnership of two powerful families, but the union of two exceptional individuals. My daughter, Samantha Sinclair, and the brilliant Maxwell Kingston."
A wave of polite applause followed. Samantha's fingers curled into fists at her sides.
Maxwell, ever the perfect gentleman, placed his hand on the small of her back. "Smile, darling," he murmured for only her to hear. "Wouldn't want the world to think you aren't thrilled to be my future wife."
She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. His lips were curved in a charming smirk, but his icy blue eyes held nothing but amusement at her discomfort. "Enjoy this moment while it lasts," she whispered back. "Because I'll burn this entire circus down before I let it happen."
His smirk widened. "Feisty. I like that."
The evening dragged on in a blur of forced conversations and introductions to business elites who barely acknowledged her existence beyond her father's name. Samantha played her part, nodding when necessary, smiling when expected, but her mind was elsewhere—calculating, planning.
She needed an out.
As the night progressed, her father finally took her aside, away from the prying eyes of the guests. "You will not embarrass this family, Samantha," he warned, his voice low and controlled. "Tonight is merely the beginning. This marriage will happen."
Her jaw clenched. "You don't get to decide my life."
"I already have."
A familiar heat of anger surged through her veins, but before she could retaliate, Maxwell appeared beside them, his presence a silent but powerful force. "Mr. Sinclair," he greeted smoothly. "Would you mind if I stole Samantha for a moment?"
Her father hesitated before giving a short nod. "Be civil," he muttered to her before walking away.
Once alone, Maxwell leaned against a nearby pillar, studying her. "You're not as good at hiding your frustration as you think."
"I don't hide it," she shot back. "I don't play pretend like you."
He chuckled. "Oh, but you do. Every time you step onto the track under a fake name, wearing that helmet like armor. You play pretend every day."
Her blood ran cold. "You don't know anything about me."
"Don't I?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I know that you race illegally. I know that if the press got a hold of that little secret, your father's empire would take a serious hit."
Her pulse quickened, but she kept her expression neutral. "Are you threatening me?"
"I don't have to," he said simply. "I'm just reminding you that whether you like it or not, you and I are in this together now. And maybe, just maybe, I'm not the enemy you think I am."
She scoffed. "You are exactly the enemy I think you are."
Before he could respond, a commotion near the entrance stole their attention. A man, dressed in a sleek leather jacket, pushed past the security guards with a cocky grin.
Razor.
Samantha's stomach twisted. What the hell was he doing here?
Maxwell caught the tension in her body. "Friend of yours?"
"Far from it," she muttered.
Her father's security moved toward Razor, but he lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Relax, boys. I'm just here for a chat." His sharp gaze landed on Samantha. "Word on the street is that the Queen of the Streets is hanging up her crown."
A hush fell over the ballroom. Whispered murmurs slithered through the crowd.
Maxwell arched a brow. "Queen of the Streets?"
Razor's smirk widened. "Didn't tell your fiancé about your midnight hobbies, princess?"
Samantha's heart pounded. The secret she had fought so hard to keep was now dangerously close to unraveling. Her father's furious gaze burned into her from across the room.
"You should leave," she said through gritted teeth.
"Not until I get what I came for," Razor said, stepping closer. "One last race. You and me. If you win, I disappear. If I win… well, let's just say your little engagement party gets a lot more interesting."
Maxwell's gaze flickered between them before a slow, amused grin tugged at his lips. "Now this," he said, "is getting interesting."
Samantha swallowed hard. She had wanted a way out of this nightmare, but this… this was a different kind of trap.
And there was no easy way out.