Julian Moretti's car lost control at the first bend, slamming straight into the barrier wall. The impact sent the venue into chaos. Medical crews rushed the wreckage. It took a long time before they lifted his bloodied body onto a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance.
The race was called off. Spectators rose from their seats in a wave of panic. The captains, the soldiers, the wives of allied families, all of them wore grim expressions as they headed for the hospital. Adrian Winslow didn't bother finishing whatever she'd been saying. She dissolved into tears, face crumpling like wet silk, and followed the ambulance out.
Only I remained, start to finish, calm to the point of numbness.
The conversation I'd just overheard still echoed in my head. I knew perfectly well that this crash was no accident. It was an ending he had staged for himself.
To stay at Adrian Winslow's side, he was willing to gamble his own life.
In that moment, I didn't know whether to marvel at the madness of what he felt for her, or to grieve at how pathetic my own years of devotion had been.
On the third day, I received a call from the hospital.