Driven by Revenge

I stared at the comments on my phone as Whitney Cross walked out of the kitchen with a glass of water.

She frowned and pressed a hand to her chest. "Honey, I'm getting dizzy again. Put your phone down and help me to bed, will you?"

I stood and shoved my phone in her face.

"The Queen of Suicide Mountain? You broke two ribs and still wouldn't get out of the car? I thought you couldn't even ride an elevator without throwing up."

Her face went pale, and she stepped back.

"What are you talking about? The queen of what? You believe everything you read online now? They obviously have me confused with someone else!"

She tried to push my phone away, but I caught her wrist. "Someone else?"

I tapped an old video linked in the comments.

The footage was grainy, but the woman in the passenger seat was easy to recognize, even in a helmet.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the road as she shouted directions over the roar of the engine. The car drifted around a curve at the edge of a cliff, and she didn't so much as flinch.

It was Whitney. After three years of sharing a bed with her, I would know her face anywhere.

Whitney pulled her arm free.

"You're hurting me! Fine, I used to race! So what? That was before I met you! I get carsick now, okay? I can't handle those speeds anymore. Why is that so hard to believe?"

Her eyes reddened, and tears spilled down her cheeks.

"Eric, you'd rather believe a bunch of trolls online than your own wife? Do you have any idea how much I gave up for this marriage?"

I gave a bitter laugh. "Gave up what? Craig Fisher?"

Whitney stiffened at his name. "You've been checking up on me?"

"Why would I need to? The whole internet won't stop talking about your epic love story!"

I pointed toward the garage.

"I spent half a million on a custom race car, and you wouldn't even sit in the passenger seat. Not once. You kept telling me the smell of gas made you sick. But now I know the truth. You don't get carsick. You just can't stand riding with anyone but Craig!"

"Shut up!" Whitney shouted. "Craig retired years ago! Why are you dragging him into this? You know I have health problems! Why are you acting like a lunatic?"

Her phone rang, and a number with no name attached lit up the screen. She glanced down, panic flashing across her face, and quickly declined the call.

"Who's calling?" I stepped toward her.

"A telemarketer." She tightened her grip on the phone.

It rang again. I snatched it from her hand, answered, and put it on speaker.

A man's deep voice filled the room.

"Whitney, I'm back. Nine tonight, same place. My car's finally fixed, and I need my navigator."

Whitney went white.

I stared at her. "A telemarketer, huh?"

She lunged for the phone, but I slammed it onto the floor.