Both Summer and Tristan laughed, the tension finally breaking as the crowd around them erupted into cheers. The commentator's voice came back on, barely audible over the deafening applause. "What an absolutely incredible race, folks! Dark Horse and Little Turtle gave us a show like no other! And what a dramatic finish! Little Turtle takes back her number one spot, but not without a fiery finale! Give it up for our racers!"
But neither of them were paying attention to the crowd or the commentary. In that moment, they were just Sam and Trish, laughing in the aftermath of the chaos, holding each other tightly, and feeling more alive than ever.
As the award distribution ceremony concluded, the atmosphere in the lounge of the stadium was markedly quieter, yet thick with an unspoken tension. Summer sat on a cushioned chair, the faint buzz of excitement from the crowd still lingering in the air outside. Tristan, or Trish, she knew him as, sat beside her with a furrowed brow, carefully tending to the minor scratches she had sustained during the race. His touch was gentle, despite the simmering rage visible in the tightness of his jaw.
Summer winced slightly as he cleaned a scratch on her arm, and he immediately softened, his thumb brushing the area in apology. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice low, almost tender, though his eyes still burned with fury.
"It's okay," she said, offering him a reassuring smile. "It's just a scratch. I'm fine, really."
But Tristan wasn't convinced. The tension in his body remained palpable, his protective instincts flaring up fiercely. Once he was done tending to her, he stood up abruptly, his jaw clenched as he walked to the corner of the room. His aura shifted as he pulled out his phone, a bone-chilling iciness now emanating from him. Summer watched him, knowing exactly what was going through his mind. She'd seen this side of him before— but she was unaware that he was the ruthless, unyielding Tristan Stark, who wouldn't hesitate to burn the world down if anyone dared to harm someone he cared about.
He dialed his assistant, his tone dangerously calm. "Find out who tampered with Sam's car," he said, each word laced with barely contained fury. "I want names. I want details. And I want them now."
The call ended abruptly, and Summer could almost feel the chill in the air as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. He was a storm barely held in check, and anyone in his path was bound to get swept away. Meanwhile, she calmly pulled out her own phone and sent a quick text to Wayne, instructing him to dig into the incident as well. Despite the gravity of the situation, her demeanor remained composed—cool, collected. She knew how to balance Tristan's fire with her ice. They were two forces that complemented each other, especially in moments like this.
Just then, the organizer of the race hurried into the lounge, his face pale, clearly anxious about the incident. "Miss Turtle,… I-I'm terribly sorry about what happened," he stammered, his hands trembling slightly as he wrung them together. "This is a mistake—a terrible oversight."
Before he could continue his apologetic rambling, Tristan's gaze locked onto him, making the poor man freeze in place. His voice was quiet, but the threat in it was unmistakable. "Don't apologize. Fix it. Find out how it happened and who's responsible. This wasn't some random mistake. Someone from your team knew exactly which car to target, and I don't tolerate incompetence or betrayal."
The organizer visibly shrank under Tristan's piercing gaze. Summer, sensing the man was on the verge of breaking down, chimed in, her voice calm yet firm. "We'll need access to the surveillance footage and a list of everyone who had access to the cars before the race. That should help narrow it down."
The organizer looked even more nervous as he stammered, "T-the cameras… they were broken. I'm afraid there's no footage."
Tristan's expression darkened further, his patience wearing thin. His fists clenched at his sides, and Summer could sense that he was on the verge of snapping. But before he could unleash his wrath, she stood, stepping closer to the organizer, her eyes equally cold. "Broken?" she asked, her voice deceptively soft. "That's quite convenient, isn't it? And yet, highly suspicious. I'd suggest you start talking to your staff, or this situation is going to get a lot worse for you."
The organizer swallowed hard, nodding quickly. "I-I'll get the staff right away," he stammered before scurrying off like a frightened rabbit.
As they waited, Tristan paced back and forth, his hands clenched into fists. His anger was palpable now, barely held in check. Summer watched him, noting the way his shoulders were tense, the way his jaw kept tightening. His fury was almost tangible, a protective instinct that ran deep.
"Trish," she said softly, stepping in front of him to stop his pacing. She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm. "Breathe. We'll get to the bottom of this. I'm fine."
He stopped, his eyes meeting hers, still blazing with anger. "Someone tried to kill you," he said through gritted teeth. "If you hadn't jumped on time—"
"But I did jump on time," she interrupted, her voice calm, soothing. "And that's what matters. We'll figure this out together. Don't let your anger cloud your judgment."
He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, though his anger didn't fully dissipate. She could tell it wouldn't until they had answers.
The organizer returned, this time with a nervous group of staff members introducing them to the couple. Tristan checked the document listing all information about the staff. He swept his scanning gaze at the staff standing in front of them. All of them looked uneasy but one man was conspicuously absent. Tristan's eyes narrowed. "Where's Ross?" he asked, his voice low and menacing.
The organizer flinched. "H-he's in charge of the car slots, but he… he didn't show up after the race."
Tristan's expression turned ice-cold. "Find him," he ordered. He pulled out his phone and made another call, this time to Alex. "I want Ross found. Now."
It didn't take long. About an hour later, two of Tristan's men entered the lounge with Ross in tow. The man's face was pale, and he was shaking visibly, knowing the storm he was about to face.
"Who told you to tamper with Sam's car?" Tristan's voice was low, dangerously calm, as he stepped toward the trembling man.