Asher answered the call immediately, pushing open the door and stepping into the quiet garden, phone pressed to his ear.

"Mr. Sullivan." The sanatorium director's cautious voice came. "Miss Dixon's condition has worsened. Her emotions are volatile, and she's now showing physical symptoms. We believe she needs a specialized psychological intervention, but none of our staff can calm her..."

Asher pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowing. "What about the international psychologist I asked you to contact—Dr. Sophia Russell?"

"Mr. Sullivan, Dr. Russell left the country three years ago for further studies. Since then, she has disappeared; she hasn't accepted a patient or a case from the hospital. We've exhausted every lead."

A muscle in Asher's jaw tightened. "Then I'll send someone to track her down."

Without another word, he ended the call and strode back toward the house, determination hardening his expression.

When he got upstairs, the master bedroom lay in silence. Scarlett was nowhere in sight.

Where had she gone?

After a long search through the quiet house, he finally discovered her curled up on the sofa in the study.

A soft blanket draped over her, her long hair spilling across her cheek in loose waves.

Asher stepped closer, his shadow falling over her.

"Why did you choose to sleep here?" His voice came low, edged with fatigue.

Turning her head slightly, Scarlett met his gaze with calm resignation. "We're signing the divorce papers tomorrow. Sharing a bed tonight feels... inappropriate, don't you think?"

Even though her sleep was disturbed, not a hint of anger colored her tone—only quiet composure.

She had always faced Asher with patience, even now.

For a fleeting second, Asher's expression wavered. Yet he said nothing. The decision to divorce tomorrow had been his, after all.

"You can sleep in the bedroom. I need to leave and take care of something."

Asher didn't linger for her to reply—just grabbed his keys and strode out, the door shutting with a hollow thud that echoed through the room.

His midnight departure could only have one reason—Nora.

Sleep fled from Scarlett as she thought about that. She lay staring into the dark, her chest tight with restless ache. The silence around her seemed to mock her calm façade.

Pushing herself upright, she dragged her fingers through her hair, the motion rough. A sharp glint caught her eye—scissors. Without hesitation, she seized them and sheared through the long, silky strands.

She had grown her long hair for Asher. Now that their marriage was ending, so was the reason to keep it.

An hour later.

Scarlett quietly entered the garage, swung a leg over a motorcycle, and sped off into the darkness.

The engine roared like a beast beneath her, the vibration thrumming through her bones as she shot toward the racetrack skirting Aneville's edge.

Three years ago, this place had been her sanctuary—a strip of asphalt where speed drowned out every ache. Whenever her mood soured, she came here chasing the rush. She had never shown her face when racing here.

She hadn't imagined she'd come back after her marriage was about to end.

Tonight, she joined the race on a whim, drawing a ripple of surprise from the regulars.

Crowds of privileged heirs and swaggering rich boys filled the track, each one itching to prove something.

Among them lounged Charlie Mason—the Mason couple's youngest son and Asher's reckless cousin.

His designer gear gleamed under the lights, matching the shine of his million-dollar custom motorcycle. Leaning against it with effortless arrogance, he let his smirk falter the moment he realized his opponent was a woman.

"You're telling me they're letting women race now? That's absurd," he muttered, crossing his arms.

He'd come looking for danger and glory, but the sight of a female racer left him unimpressed and irritated.

The tinted visor hid nearly all of Scarlett's face, leaving Charlie clueless that the woman standing beside him was the quiet, compliant wife of his cousin.

Scarlett, however, recognized him in an instant.

Asher had spoken often of Charlie's obsession with motorcycles—how Charlie had grown up worshiping him, the country's legendary racing genius.

When Charlie's smirk twisted into open contempt, Scarlett merely rested a gloved hand on her helmet, unmoved by the insult.

From the sidelines, someone said, their voice thick with mockery, "Come on, Charlie! Take a look at that rust bucket she's riding—it's older than my dad's! Probably just some gold digger looking to catch a rich boy's attention here. You'll leave her in the dust before the first turn! We're all betting on you!"

Charlie noticed that at a casual glance, the woman's motorcycle did seem like an antique—its once-bright paint now dulled, the frame showing faint scars of age.

But the longer he looked, the more unease stirred in his chest. Something about the motorcycle clawed at his memory.

It couldn't be... yet the shape, the sound—it all pointed to one name: Lightning, the limited-edition racer that had been in Asher's garage for years.

No, that couldn't be right.

Asher guarded that motorcycle like a relic.

Charlie had never been allowed near it—so how could some random woman be riding it now?

Before he could voice the thought, the spoiled heirs lounging beside him burst into laughter.

"Come on, she's nowhere near Charlie's level—she should do everyone a favor and leave now!" someone mocked.

Another chimed in with a mocking grin. "She's not here to race—probably just here to get a rich man's attention."

"Hey, sweetheart, take off that helmet—let's see the face hiding under there. If you're easy on the eyes, maybe Charlie will go easy on you."

"Right? Everyone knows he's got a soft spot for a pretty face."

Laughter and whistles broke out, rippling through the crowd until the air buzzed with mockery.

Exhaling slowly, Scarlett turned toward them, her eyes locking on Charlie with calm defiance.

"Big talk—how about we make it interesting with a bet?" she said.

She hadn't come here to trade barbs with spoiled heirs, but tonight, she wasn't exactly in a good mood to let them taunt her without consequences.

"What kind of bet?" Charlie scoffed, incredulous at the thought of losing to a woman in a race like this.

The woman's voice sounded familiar, uncannily like his cousin's worthless wife.

But before Charlie could think further, Scarlett's tone cut through his thoughts.

"Here's my deal," she said, flicking her wrist toward the basketball court nearby, her eyes sharp with challenge. "If I win, all of you hop across that court like frogs—twenty full laps."

She knew the area well.

The crowd of spoiled heirs blinked in surprise, then burst into wild laughter again.

"You're serious? And when you lose, what then?"

"You really think someone like you can win? Don't be absurd."

Their mockery rolled through the group like a tide.

Scarlett's jaw tightened; she believed she really needed to teach them a lesson.

She said evenly, "If I lose, I'll take on all your punishments—twenty frog-jump laps for each of you."

The taunts died off, replaced by stunned silence.

After a while, Charlie let out a low chuckle. "You? Doing fifteen sets of that? You trying to break your legs or something?"

Laughter erupted again. One person muttered, "Just pack it up and walk away. We won't hold what you just said against you."

"Yeah, save yourself the embarrassment!"

Scarlett's voice cut through the jeers, low and icy.

"Do you dare to take the bet or not?"

Charlie's frown deepened. Something about her voice tugged at the edge of recognition—it sounded far too familiar.

But before he could say anything, the crowd around him erupted.

"Count us in! No way we're letting some woman show us up!"

A sneer followed from the back. "But forget about the punishment you mentioned. If you lose, you'll put on a show and strip for us."

The words were clearly meant to humiliate.

Scarlett's lips twisted into a cold smile as she met their eyes. "Keep dreaming. You'll never get the chance to see that."

Just then, the sharp crack of the starter's gun split the air, and the race began.

Engines thundered as a dozen motorcycles tore off the line, streaking across the track like arrows loosed from a drawn bow.

Charlie hadn't taken Scarlett seriously at first. If she lost, a simple apology would do.

But that smug thought vanished the instant a sleek black blur streaked past him, vanishing so fast that he barely caught a glimpse of her taillight.

The track, rebuilt to international specs, twisted through more than twenty turns—Scarlett's specialty. She devoured each corner with effortless precision, overtaking Charlie easily.

She was riding Lightning, the motorcycle Asher had once ruled the track with. Though it had been sitting in the garage for years, it was immaculately kept and still a beast on the track.

Scarlett sped past the group of people one by one, the gap widening with every turn.

But up ahead, a stubborn racer gunned his throttle, body low against the frame, cutting her off at every turn, refusing to let her through.

Dust churned violently across the track, swallowing the world in a blinding haze.

Only one turn stood between Scarlett and the finish line—her last chance to overtake him. If she missed it, victory would slip away.

Behind her, the men's taunts rose above the storm of engines.

"Forget it! You'll never outrun Eric—one wrong move and you'll be scraping yourself off the rocks!"

"Just give up! We'll skip the stripping—just kneel and say sorry when you lose!"

Their mocking voices tore through the roaring wind, sharp and mean, yet Scarlett's focus didn't waver.

Her gaze hardened beneath the visor, lashes catching the grit in the air.

A soft, contemptuous hum escaped her throat as she lowered her body closer to the motorcycle.

She twisted the throttle to the limit, braked hard into the razor-thin bend, the rear wheel skimming off the asphalt as she slid through in one flawless arc. In that breathless instant, she surged past Eric Davidson.

Rubber shrieked across the track.

Moments later, Lightning skidded to a stop right at the finish line.

Scarlett watched as the others arrived behind her, one by one.

Three years spent tucked away as a housewife had blunted Scarlett's racing skills—she could feel the difference deep in her muscles.

That final, daring overtake through the curve had drained more out of her than it ever used to.

When she was lost in thought, Charlie and his friends were already dismounting.

The look on Charlie's face was worth every drop of sweat—his eyes wide, mouth parting in stunned disbelief as he took in Scarlett's motorcycle. That sleek frame, the custom paint, the signature hum—everything screamed of one name: Lightning, Asher's legendary motorcycle.

But how could this woman before him possibly be riding that? Was she involved with Asher? His secret lover, perhaps?

Charlie's mind whirled, chasing one wild scenario after another.

Just then, Scarlett unclipped her helmet and lifted it free. The breeze swept across the track, tossing her freshly shorn hair against her cheeks, revealing a strikingly beautiful face.

Every head turned toward her, including Charlie's.

A jolt of disbelief crossed his face, awe tangled with shock.

"S-Scarlett..."

His voice trembled.

He stumbled closer, circling her like he couldn't trust his own eyes.

"Is that really you?" he muttered, his tone uncertain. "I can't wrap my head around it. You know how to race? Does Asher have any idea you're out here?"

In Charlie's eyes, Scarlett had always been the quiet, well-mannered housewife—the woman who'd once saved Asher and married him because of it.

She knew how to race? And she was so skilled at it?

The idea shattered everything he thought he knew.

Scarlett angled her chin, a faint, cold smile touching her lips. "What's wrong? You think women don't belong on a track? And do I have to report everything I do to my husband?"

The words hit like a slap. Charlie's mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Had he known she was Scarlett, he never would've dared to mock her.

After all, everyone knew Asher's temper—who would be foolish enough to cross his wife?

Their exchange hadn't gone unnoticed.

The people nearby, lounging by their motorcycles, had caught every word, and murmurs rippled through the crowd.

This woman was Asher's wife?

Suddenly, everything clicked—the composure, the skill, the way she commanded that motorcycle...

Naturally, the woman married to a man like Asher would be nothing short of remarkable.

Thinking of that, no one dared utter another word—until Eric, the last racer Scarlett had overtaken, stepped forward with a skeptical arch of his brow. "With skills like that, how come I've never seen your name on Aneville's racing leaderboard?"

Scarlett's lips curved into a calm, knowing smile. She gave no reply.

That Aneville's rankings meant nothing to her. Once, her name had been etched onto far greater ranks—those that stretched across the world.

But that chapter of her life was buried, and she had no desire to revisit it now.

Scarlett turned to look at the group of people. "Anyway, a bet's a bet. Move it—across the court, twenty rounds. Frog jumps. Don't skip a single one."

A chorus of groans erupted.

These weren't ordinary racers but heirs with pedigrees and polished shoes.

The mere thought of squatting and hopping like children while the crowd watched made blood drained from their faces. They couldn't stand the humiliation.

They, realizing this fearless woman was none other than Charlie's cousin-in-law, began murmuring and elbowing him, urging him to step in—plead their case before humiliation set in.

Charlie cleared his throat and stepped closer to Scarlett, dropping his voice to a low murmur. "Scarlett... for Asher's sake, maybe let this one go. Everyone's got their pride."

Scarlett shifted her weight, crossing her arms with deliberate ease, a cool, teasing smile ghosting over her lips. "If pride's what you're clinging to, then show it—keep your word. And as for Asher..."

Her eyes hardened, the smile fading. "He no longer matters to me."

Charlie blinked, caught off guard by her words. He wanted to ask her why. But before he could do that, Scarlett leaned casually against the motorcycle as she tilted her head toward the court and spoke. "What's the holdup? Get moving. I'll be watching."

A ripple of dread passed through the group. The heirs glanced at one another, faces paling as the reality of their situation sank in.

Scarlett's voice cut through the air. She clearly meant what she said. Charlie clenched his jaw before he threw his arm out.

"Fine. We'll do it! Real men always keep their word!" he said.

He strode onto the court first, launching into the awkward hops.

He was the leader of the group, and his surrender left the others cornered. One by one, despite their reluctance, they followed.

A single man hopping looked foolish enough.

And a dozen pampered heirs bounding across the court together was pure comedy.

The absurd sight tugged at the corners of Scarlett's mouth until a small, satisfied smile finally surfaced.

The tight knot in her chest finally unraveled, leaving behind a weightless calm.

"Phew... I'm done," Charlie gasped, bending over with his hands braced on his knees before dragging himself back to Scarlett's side. A grin, half disbelief and half admiration, stretched across his flushed face. "I'll be damned, Scarlett. You can actually race, and you are incredible at it."

For once, his gaze lingered on her with something new—real respect. The old assumptions about her being a sheltered housewife dissolved like dust in the wind.

He'd spent half his life chasing speed, so he could recognize the precision and grit behind her run.

The others might've seen only the surface, but he knew how skilled she was.

"There's still a lot you don't know about me," Scarlett said with an easy smile, slipping her phone from her pocket and giving it a quick glance before striding toward the ridge, her steps steady, the evening breeze tugging lightly at her hair.

Charlie's voice chased after her. "Where are you going?"

"To watch the sunrise," she replied without turning.

Each step up the slope felt like a quiet goodbye to her past.

The world around her shifted—charcoal clouds melting into pale blue, then igniting into a blaze of crimson as the first light crowned the horizon.

Soon, she would leave this place.

She had braced herself for regret, yet what settled in her chest was a tranquil stillness instead.

A deep, rhythmic thrum broke the silence—rotor blades slicing through the dawn air. Tilting her head toward the sky, Scarlett let a faint smile curve her lips.

Before leaving Asher's place, she'd placed a call to her father, asking him to arrange for people to pick her up.

She just hadn't expected them to come so fast.

After all these years, she suddenly felt the unmistakable tug to return home.

"Long time no see," said Alfred Turner, his voice gentle as Scarlett boarded the helicopter. Time had carved creases into his face, but his eyes still glowed with loyal affection—and a hint of sympathy.

For decades, he'd been the Riley family's steadfast butler, the man who had watched Scarlett grow up.

Scarlett's throat constricted as old memories flickered through her mind. She gave a small nod, voice barely above a whisper. "Alfred, take me home."

The helicopter rose with a thunderous sweep, cutting through the pale dawn. Wind whipped against the windows as the land shrank below them.

Down on the ground, Charlie stood rooted to the spot, gaze fixed on the fading helicopter, a strange feeling stirring inside him.

Scarlett just left like this.

Where was she heading? And she hadn't even bothered to bring the motorcycle back.

It wasn't just any ride; it was Asher's favorite motorcycle.

Charlie tamped down the rising unease in his chest, tossed his own keys to a friend, and swung onto Lightning in one fluid motion. The engine roared as he gunned the throttle and tore down the road toward Asher's place.

"Asher! I brought it back safe and sound—your motorcycle's here!" he shouted the moment he pulled up.

Inside the house, Asher heard the noise outside. With a slight tilt of his chin, he signaled to his sister, Isla Sullivan—standing before him—to stop talking.

Then, he rose, crossed the room, and pulled the door open.

And there it was—Lightning.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Who said you could touch it, Charlie?" His voice was low, edged with restrained fury.

He hadn't ridden it in years, yet it still carried too much meaning to him.

So, even though Charlie was family, Asher had no intention of letting this matter slide.

Charlie flinched, hands shooting up in surrender. "Not me! It wasn't me who took it—it was Scarlett!" he said, stumbling over his words before the storm could hit him. "She was the one who took Lightning to the track. And she crushed me out there! Her racing skills—they're unreal. I'm telling you, I've never witnessed anything like that. Yeah, she rubbed it in and made sure I faced punishment for losing, but damn, she was incredible."

The admiration in his words was unmistakable.

Asher stayed silent, but a flash of surprise flickered in his eyes.

Not once in all their years together had he pictured that the gentle, compliant Scarlett as the kind of woman who could tear up a racetrack.

"I'm telling the truth," Charlie added, straightening as if to prove his point. "If you think I'm lying, ask Scarlett yourself about this when she comes back."

Asher nodded. Before he could say anything, Isla jumped in, her voice sharp with disbelief.

"Racing? Charlie, have you completely lost your mind? Scarlett is skilled at racing? Isn't she just a gold digger who latched onto Asher for the money? Aside from taking care of my brother's meals and clothes, what else can she possibly do?"

Isla's words dripped with contempt. She knew all too well how Scarlett had entered the Sullivan family—by saving Asher's life three years ago and then asking him to marry her as repayment. In Isla's mind, Scarlett was nothing more than an opportunist who'd clawed her way into wealth, a woman with no real abilities beyond playing the dutiful wife.

Charlie's jaw tightened as irritation flared across his face. "You really think everyone's like you, Isla? All looks and no depth?" he shot back, voice edged with sarcasm.

Isla's cheeks flushed scarlet. "Excuse me? This is the Sullivan family's residence, not your home. How dare you talk to me like that?" she snapped, hands balling at her sides.

Her grudge against Charlie didn't come from nowhere—her mother had loathed the Masons for as long as she could remember, and that bitterness had seeped into her bones. So when Charlie fired off a comment like that, her temper lit up, and she shot back without hesitation.

But Charlie refused to yield.

He met her glare head-on. "How dare you insult Scarlett! She is your brother's wife—you will show her some respect!"

"She's nothing but a gold-digger!" Isla exclaimed, her voice laced with venom. "She doesn't deserve my respect at all!"

"You—" Charlie started, anger flashing in his eyes.

"Enough!" Asher's voice sliced through the tension, low and glacial.

His gaze locked on Isla, the chill in his eyes enough to freeze her in place.

"What exactly did you come here for?" he asked, tone calm but edged with unmistakable impatience.

Isla's confidence flickered out. Her jaw tightened, and after a hesitant breath, she held out the folder she had brought with both hands.

"Dad asked me to bring the reports to you," she murmured, voice low and restrained.

Asher barely spared her a glance as he took the folder, his expression unreadable.

"You've finished your task," he said coldly. "Now leave."

Charlie's lips curved into a triumphant grin at that, satisfaction lighting his eyes.

It seemed that Asher was on his side after all.

"See? Asher said you can go now," he said to Isla.

Isla's fingers twitched at her sides. The retort on her tongue died quickly. She wasn't intimidated by Charlie, but she was afraid of Asher. After all, he was the head of the Sullivan family.

So, no matter how much bitterness coiled in her chest, she could only lower her head in reluctant submission.

"Of course, Asher. I'll be going now." Her voice was steady as she spoke.

Charlie flashed her an overly bright grin and gave a theatrical wave. "See you!" he called out, his tone dripping with mock cheer.

The moment he turned back, though, he met Asher's cold eyes.

His smile faltered. He stiffened, then scrambled to recover with a nervous chuckle. "Right... I should, uh, get going, too. Wouldn't want to bother you further."

Asher inclined his head in silent approval, eyes softening just a fraction.

At least his cousin knew when to take his leave.