Their enigmatic exchange baffled the onlookers, sparking chatter.
“What are they discussing? Can’t catch a single word.”
“Why’d she stop? Can’t Tequila handle defeat?”
“Didn’t you see? Moonshadow signaled her not to unmask.”
The murmurs flew past Declan’s ears, unnoticed. He was fixated on the enigmatic figures at center stage, his mind awash with questions.
Out of nowhere, a hand touched his wrist.
“What’s on your mind, Declan?”
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Roused from his reverie, Declan glanced at Eliana next to him, masking any trace of emotion.
“Usually, racers would have left the track by now, not stand there chatting.”
Savoring a sip of freshly-served champagne, Declan continued, “Mr. Mitchell would be furious if he knew about this blunder.”
Eliana inquired, “Is Mr. Mitchell really that influential? Never heard of him before I went overseas.”
Taking the last gulp of his champagne, Declan replied dispassionately, “He’s a recent addition to Mitchell Group but quickly became an uncontested leader.”
His gaze returned to the intriguing drama unfolding in the arena, as if seeking a distraction from the unease settling within him.
The pre-race interaction between Hannah and Bryson had been a lingering irritant for Declan.
As he was about to refill his glass, his hand froze, eyes widening in disbelief.
“No deal,” Hannah declared, her tone unyielding.
“I detest being manipulated.”
The man looked like he was going to say something, but Hannah had already snatched up her mask.
Her face, radiant despite a light sheen of sweat, beamed with unapologetic confidence.
This was Hannah, who’d leaned casually against the railing just a while ago.
She tossed the mask aside, gripped her helmet, and extended her hand toward the man.
“Your skills aren’t bad, though. Maybe we’ll have a rematch someday.”
The man stayed quiet, eyeing her open palm, and then burst into laughter.
Hannah’s brow furrowed. She had braced herself for an insult, but instead, he took off his mask.