Chapter 3: I Hate You Already

The morning of the first official press day, Ryder ran six miles before dawn and still could not outrun the thought of Evelyn Hart watching Lucas Thorn.

He showered. He drank black coffee. He stood at the window of his suite and watched the circuit lights come on across the complex, one row at a time, and tried to think like an Alpha instead of like a man who was angry about something he could not fully explain yet.

She had recognized something in Lucas. He had seen it. The specific sharpness of someone who was not just observing but connecting pieces.

The question was what pieces she had.

The question that kept him awake at four in the morning was why that mattered to him when the answer should have been simple. She was a Hart. Whatever she found or did not find was not his problem. He did not need her digging. He did not need anything from her.

His wolf disagreed.

He had been trying not to think about that. The word his wolf had spoken in the paddock yesterday, standing six feet from a woman whose family had destroyed his. Mine. It was impossible. The mate bond did not work like that. It did not land on enemies. It did not choose without his consent.

Except that it had.

He pushed it down and went to work.

The morning schedule was brutal. Two engineering debrief sessions, a sponsor call that ran forty minutes over, and a tire compound evaluation that required him to personally approve three technical adjustments to the suspension setup. By eleven he was behind on everything and in no mood for what Noah told him next.

"League Comms confirmed. Hart has been granted a one-on-one interview slot. Mandatory. Thirty minutes. Today at two."

Ryder set down his coffee. "No."

"Ryder."

"I said no."

"And I'm saying we lose eight championship points if you refuse a mandatory media obligation." Noah spread his hands. "I tried. I pushed back three times. The league is not moving on this. Media access is in the competition framework agreement. You signed it."

Ryder picked his coffee back up. Drank it. Set it down again.

"Thirty minutes," he said.

"Thirty minutes. I'll be in the room."

"You will not be in the room."

Noah blinked. "Ryder, that's not a great idea."

"If you're there she plays to an audience. I want her uncomfortable." He checked his watch. "Book the secondary meeting room. Not the media suite. The secondary room."

"The secondary room has one working light and chairs from what I believe was a previous decade."

"Exactly."

The room was worse than he remembered. One overhead bulb. Two chairs that did not match. A table with a coffee ring stain that had been there since the original complex was built. He arrived early and sat with his arms folded and waited.

She was three minutes early.

He gave her credit for that.

Evelyn Hart walked into the room, clocked the conditions, and did not so much as blink. She sat down across from him, set her recorder on the table, and opened her notepad.

"Thank you for your time," she said.

"You have twenty eight minutes now."

She looked up from her notepad. "You were two minutes early."

"My room, my rules."

Something that was almost a smile crossed her face and disappeared. She clicked on her recorder. "You're entering your third season as lead driver for Blackthorne Racing. Your last two seasons placed you second in the championship standings. What changes this year?"

He answered. Clipped and precise. Season preparation. Technical upgrades. Driver fitness. The answers he had given a hundred times.

She moved through four more questions the same way. Professional. Not pushing. Not performing.

On the sixth question, she said, "How do you handle the pressure of carrying the Blackthorne legacy on the circuit?"

The room got quieter.

"I carry it fine," he said.

"Your father was a champion. The scandal surrounding his final years changed how a lot of people in the supernatural community view the Blackthorne name. Does that affect your approach to racing?"

There it was.

He leaned forward. "Are you asking me about my father?"

She met his gaze. "I'm asking how you handle the pressure of legacy. Yes."

"The story about my father was built on lies."

"I know," she said.

He had not expected that. "Excuse me?"

"I've been reviewing the original reporting." Her voice stayed steady. "There are inconsistencies in the source documentation that I think deserve a second look. I'm not here to relitigate what my father published. I'm here to cover this season. But I want you to know that I don't accept that story as settled truth."

Ryder stared at her.

His wolf went very still inside him.

"Why are you telling me that?" he said.

"Because you deserve to know where I stand." She held his gaze without blinking. "I understand why you hate me. My name is attached to the worst thing that ever happened to your family. I'm not asking you to stop hating me. I'm just telling you the truth."

The room was silent for a long moment.

"You have fourteen minutes left," Ryder said.

She nodded. Looked back at her notepad. "Tell me about the new circuit modifications and how your team is preparing for the opening race."

He answered. She wrote. The recorder clicked off at exactly thirty minutes.

She packed up and stood.

At the door she stopped without turning around. "For what it's worth, Mr. Blackthorne. I'm sorry. For what the story did to your family. You didn't deserve that."

She left.

Ryder sat alone in the bad light and tried to remember the last time someone had said sorry to him and meant it.

He could not think of a single instance.

He hated that it had been her.