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.

At his place, Asher couldn't get Charlie's words out of his head.

Before he knew it, his feet were taking him upstairs. He was driven by a pull he couldn't resist, going straight toward his bedroom with Scarlett.

The space looked the same as before—her clothes still neatly arranged, the bed perfectly made.

Only the desk felt different.

Something lay there, stark against the polished wood—a document.

Asher's expression shifted slightly. He crossed the room in a few long strides and picked it up.

It was a divorce agreement.

His eyes swept over the lines. Scarlett's name was already scrawled at the bottom, bold and certain.

His chest tightened. He hadn't expected her to have signed the divorce papers already.

For a while, he stood motionless, then pulled out his phone and tapped her number.

The dial tone droned—once, twice—long, hollow echoes that stretched into silence before the call disconnected on its own.

She wasn't answering the call.

Asher's gaze lingered on the dark screen, his expression unreadable, before he slid the phone back into his pocket.

Maybe it was better this way.

If Scarlett had chosen to walk away, her absence would spare them both unnecessary complications, especially now that Nora was returning to his life.

Telling himself that, Asher put the document away.

Time moved on, and a month had slipped by.

Asher was stretched thin, dividing his time between running the company and visiting Nora at the sanatorium.

Nora's health had stabilized, yet her reliance on him deepened with each visit.

He seldom thought of Scarlett, but sometimes, when he looked into Nora's eyes, an unbidden image would surface in his mind—Scarlett's face.

He didn't know why.

"Sir, we're here."

The driver's voice shattered Asher's reverie. The car had halted before the police station.

Asher had come here in person to obtain copies of some files for Nora's further medical treatment.

No matter how busy he was, he made time for this because of Nora.

The station chief met him at the entrance and personally escorted him inside. As they passed the interrogation wing, Asher's steps suddenly faltered.

A voice drifted toward him—soft, familiar, enough to twist something deep in his chest.

"Yeah, I've arrived."

He turned toward the sound. Even from a glimpse of her profile, Asher knew instantly—it was Scarlett.

A flicker of confusion cracked his usual composure.

What was Scarlett doing here?

He smoothed his expression before anyone could notice and asked casually, "Who's that?"

One of the officers walking alongside him answered, "That's Ms. Scarlett Riley. She's here assisting us on a case."

As he spoke, they were already in the observation room outside the interrogation room. A handcuffed man sat silently at the interrogation table.

"The suspect's meticulous about covering his tracks. We've been on this case for months without solid evidence," the officer continued. "Ms. Riley's a renowned hypnotist. She often works with us. Hypnosis helps subjects relax; they tend to speak freely, and even buried memories can surface. It's invaluable for drawing out critical details fast."

Hypnosis?

Asher's face remained composed, but a ripple of surprise stirred beneath the surface.

When had Scarlett mastered something like that?

Unaware of Asher watching her, Scarlett stepped into the interrogation room, notebook in hand.

She eased into the chair across from the suspect, her posture unhurried, her expression calm enough to melt tension. A faint, almost friendly smile touched her lips as she spoke.

"Good evening, Mr. Burgess. I'm only here to help with the investigation. There's no reason for you to be nervous."

Her voice carried a gentle lilt, warm as velvet, coaxing him to let his guard slip.

The suspect, Kayce Burgess, squirmed slightly, his mouth set in a firm line. He looked uncomfortable, but nowhere near as guarded as he'd been in front of the police officers.

"I didn't do it. I didn't kill anyone, I promise. You've got the wrong man."

Though his words came out steady, the white-knuckled fists hidden beneath the table betrayed the tremor of unease he couldn't mask.

Scarlett inclined her head in quiet acknowledgment, studying him with patient eyes. She noticed that a flash of something feral—sharp and mean—flickered in his gaze before vanishing. She leaned forward slightly, lowering her tone to a soothing murmur that slipped under his defenses.

"Don't worry—the police won't accuse an innocent man, and we'll make sure the guilty one can't slip away. Mr. Burgess, there's no need to be anxious in front of me. Just breathe and try to relax."

After speaking, she slipped a silver pocket watch from her coat, letting it dangle between her fingers before setting it into a slow, rhythmic swing.

Kayce shifted in his chair, unease coiling tight in his stomach. Still, his gaze betrayed him—drawn helplessly to the pendulum's steady arc.

"Easy now. Keep watching. Let your thoughts quiet down..." Scarlett murmured, her voice smooth and hypnotic. Within moments, the tension drained from Kayce's shoulders, his pupils dilating slightly as the resistance in his eyes softened.

At that moment, Scarlett said, "Tell me, what's your name?"

"Ka... Kayce Burgess," Kayce answered sluggishly, his tone dazed, no trace of defiance left.

Scarlett gave a subtle nod to the officer at her side, and he started to take notes. She then turned back to Kayce, her voice calm yet firm.

"Kayce, tell me honestly—where were you on the afternoon of the twentieth last month?"

"At home," Kayce replied.

Scarlett's tone softened but carried weight. "And what about Bruce Palmer? Where was he at that time?"

The name landed like a spark on dry tinder.

Kayce stiffened, a shudder rippling through his shoulders. Beads of sweat broke across his forehead as his fingers twitched uncontrollably against the tabletop.

"To hell with him! He deserves to die!"

The words burst out raw and jagged, Kayce's voice cracking under the strain.

Scarlett's brows drew together in tension.

Kayce's sudden volatility made it clear this wasn't a straightforward case. Otherwise, his reaction to that name wouldn't be so intense.

Keeping her tone calm, she spoke with quiet reassurance. "Take a breath. Calm down. Bruce is dead now, right?"

As she spoke, she lit a small scented candle. It had the same fragrance as the ones Kayce had at home.

The air was filled with its gentle warmth, the sweet orange scent said to have been his daughter's favorite.

The familiar aroma washed over Kayce, softening the tension in his shoulders and stilling the tremor in his hands.

He sank back into a more coherent state and, before Scarlett could press further, began to speak on his own.

"Mia... Dad has done it. You will get your revenge soon. That bastard's going to die—in the worst way."

His lips twisted into something like a smile. "I will watch him take his last breath. When he's gone, Dad will join you."

The officer, who had been jotting down notes, lit up with shock and excitement.

For weeks, everyone had assumed Bruce was already dead—the entire session was meant to uncover where his body had been hidden.

Now, the implication that he might still be alive sent a jolt through the officer.

Scarlett leaned in, her voice soft.

"What are you planning to do to him?" she asked.