Chapter 1She Pulled The Plug On Me

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I smelled wasn't the sterile, cold scent of a hospital room. It was high-octane fuel and burnt rubber.

I was back. Back to the day the official race circuit was announced.

In my past life, the supercar I had spent three years meticulously engineering was a carbon copy of Beau Montgomery’s. Even though I’d released a time-lapse of the entire build to prove my innocence, all it took was one tearful video from Beau. He’d looked into the camera, playing the martyr, and told his millions of followers, "Just let Jamie have the design. He clearly needs it more than I do. I’ll just have to rely on my raw talent to win."

That one sentence branded me a thief in the eyes of the world.

The next day, as I turned the ignition, a rigged component turned my masterpiece into a bomb. I didn’t die—not then. I spent years in a persistent vegetative state, a "locked-in" ghost watching the world through a haze. I watched Beau’s fans celebrate my "divine retribution." I watched my career, my reputation, and my fiancée all slide into Beau’s pocket as if they had always belonged to him.

Then, my fiancée pulled the plug.

But this time? This time, I wasn't going to play his game. Twenty-four hours before the qualifiers, I stood in my garage, watched my life's work go up in flames, and announced my withdrawal from the season.

The internet exploded. My fan club dissolved in hours. The casual observers turned into a lynch mob.

And Beau, my "sole rival," posted a status dripping with fake sympathy: "Without him, the summit feels a little cold. Whatever happened, I hope Jamie finds his way back to the track. I was looking forward to proving who the better man really is."

I stared at my phone and felt a cold, sharp laugh bubble up in my chest.

* * *

"Test run number fifty. We’re still clocking the fastest lap in the country, Jamie!"

Coop slapped me on the back, the force of it nearly sending me stumbling forward. My legs moved. My spine didn't scream in phantom pain. I wasn't a paralyzed shell in a bed.

I was alive.

"You earned this, man," Coop cheered, oblivious to the fact that I was vibrating with the shock of a second chance. He gestured toward the paddock. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we show the world."

"Wait!" I barked, my voice raspy. "Don't submit the telemetry data yet. I need to check the car one last time."

I sprinted toward the garage, my heart hammering against my ribs. As I ran, I pulled up Beau Montgomery’s social media feed. He had just posted his preliminary specs.

In my first life, our cars had been identical, but I hadn't noticed until it was too late. I assumed we had just followed the same logic of physics. But as I reached my car, my screen refreshed.

"Jamie! What the hell?" Coop ran in after me, his face pale as he stared at his own tablet. "Beau just updated his public specs. They’re... they’re a mirror image of ours. Every decimal point. Every gear ratio."

I felt a sickening sense of déjà vu.

"The submission window closes at midnight," I said, my voice deathly calm. "We have time."

In my previous life, Beau had "accidentally" leaked both sets of data simultaneously, framing me as the one who had hacked his servers. The harassment had been instantaneous. When I posted my build videos, his fans swarmed:

“Deepfakes are getting scary. Nice try, Jamie.”

“Everyone knows Beau is a visionary. Why don't you just steal his DNA while you’re at it?”

“Beau is betting his entire legacy on this race, and Jamie is trying to bury him with his father’s money. Disgusting.”

My team had been harassed out of their homes. My parents were doxxed. And I, stubborn and proud, thought I could prove them wrong on the track. I thought the car would speak for itself.

It did. It spoke in fire.

Even the forensic investigators couldn't find a reason for the explosion. The narrative was perfect: I had committed a sin against the sport, and the universe had punished me for it. I deserved to die.

I laid in that hospital bed for years while my parents spiraled into a depression that ended with them jumping from the fourteenth floor of their apartment building. I couldn't even attend their funeral.

And then there was Ivy. Ivy St. Claire, my fiancée of eight years. She had walked into my room, hand-in-hand with Beau, pretending to be a grieving fan as she reached for the oxygen line.

“Jamie would want this,” she had whispered to the nurses. “He can’t live with the guilt of what he did.”

I died with my eyes wide open, unable to blink, unable to scream.

But the universe made a mistake. It let me back in. And this time, the guilty would be the ones to burn.