He Called Me Gold Digger, Now He Can't Let Go

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.