Chapter 5 Betrayal

The paparazzi caught us at dawn.

I was still in Charlotte’s bed, tangled in sheets and restless from nightmares of spinning race cars and hospital corridors, when my phone—her phone—exploded with notifications.

*#AidenCross spotted leaving rockstar’s apartment at 5AM!*

*F1 heartthrob’s secret rendezvous with Violet Hour frontwoman—PHOTOS*

I bolted upright. The attached grainy images showed Charlotte—in my body—exiting Charlotte’s own apartment building at sunrise, wearing yesterday’s clothes, my face carefully averted from the cameras.

My fingers flew over the screen: *Why were you at your place last night??*

Her reply came instantly: *Went back for more of my stuff. Didn’t see the photographers. Shit.*

Before I could respond, Samantha’s name flashed across the caller ID. I braced myself before answering.

“Turn on ESPN.” Her voice was clipped.

I fumbled for the remote. The sports channel showed Tyler Walsh smirking at a press scrum outside the Monaco paddock.

*“—just concerned about Aiden’s mental state,”* Tyler said, oozing false sympathy. *“First the crash, now these bizarre late-night outings? I’ve raced alongside him for years—this isn’t normal behavior.”*

The ticker below screamed: *RIVAL DRIVER QUESTIONS CROSS’S FITNESS TO COMPETE*

Samantha’s voice cut through the noise. *“You’ve got exactly ten minutes to explain why Aiden Cross was photographed leaving your apartment while you were supposedly home with me.”*

Ice flooded my veins. “I—”

*“Not over the phone.”* The line went dead.

I threw on clothes and ran.

---

Charlotte arrived at my trailer in the paddock just as Tyler’s interview ended. She slammed the door shut behind her, my face flushed with anger.

“They’re petitioning for a medical evaluation.” She shoved a tablet in my face—official FIA letterhead. *Request for Competitor Fitness Review: Aiden Cross.*

My stomach dropped. “They can’t force that.”

“They can if enough teams agree.” Charlotte paced the narrow space. “Tyler’s been whispering in ears all morning. Says you’ve been ‘erratic’ since the crash.” She air-quoted the word with my hands.

I pulled up the latest gossip sites. The narrative was already twisting: *Is Aiden Cross hiding a brain injury?* *Violet Hour singer’s ‘close friendship’ with racing star raises questions.*

Charlotte’s phone buzzed—a call from her ex, Daniel. She rejected it with a snarl. “Third time today. He saw the photos and suddenly remembers I exist.”

A new alert popped up: *Violet Hour Label Statement: “Charlotte Moore’s recent behavior is not indicative of our brand values.”*

We were under attack from all sides.

I pulled up the flash drive files. “We need to go public with Tyler’s tampering evidence.”

Charlotte shook her head. “Without proof he caused the crash directly, it’s just dirty racing. Not enough.” She hesitated. “But I found something else.”

She swiped to a hidden folder—security footage from the hospital parking lot. A timestamped video showed Samantha arriving at 2:47 AM, sixteen minutes before our souls switched.

“She could’ve been checking on you,” I said slowly.

Charlotte’s mouth flattened. She pulled up another file—my medical records. “Then explain why she accessed your file twelve hours *before* your crash?”

The screen showed Samantha’s employee ID badge on the records request. Same date as my last neurological scan.

I felt sick. “She knew about the tumor.”

A sharp knock interrupted us. Charlotte hastily closed the files as my engineer, Raj, poked his head in.

“Aiden, the stewards want to see you. Tyler filed a formal protest.” He glanced nervously between us. “Also… there’s a guy outside causing a scene?”

We peeked through the blinds. Daniel, Charlotte’s ex, was arguing with security, his face flushed with anger.

“I just want to talk to Charlotte!” His voice carried across the paddock. “She’s been acting crazy since—”

Charlotte recoiled. “Shit. He knows about my…” She mimed popping pills.

Raj frowned. “Since when does Aiden Cross hang out with indie musicians and angry boyfriends?”

The pieces were crumbling.

---

The FIA hearing was a farce.

Seated across from the stewards, Charlotte—as me—struggled to answer technical questions about tire compounds and engine mappings. Tyler smirked as she fumbled, his lawyer whispering in the chief steward’s ear.

I watched from the back, hidden under a cap and oversized sunglasses, gripping Charlotte’s phone as it streamed messages from Samantha:

*Where are you? The label is furious.*

*Call me NOW or the showcase deal is void.*

Then, a new message popped up—this one from an unknown number:

*Ask Samantha about her brother. Ask her how he really died.*

My breath caught. I quickly forwarded it to Charlotte. Across the room, I saw her stiffen as her phone buzzed.

The chief steward cleared his throat. “Mr. Cross, given your unusual behavior and these medical concerns, we’re mandating a full evaluation before—”

Charlotte stood abruptly. “I’ll submit to any tests.” Her voice was steady. “But first, I’d like to show you something.”

She plugged the flash drive into the room’s monitor. Tyler’s telemetry data filled the screen—his throttle inputs suspiciously smooth right before my crash.

“This shows deliberate brake-checking.” She zoomed in. “And here—his steering inputs suggest he targeted my car specifically.”

Tyler laughed nervously. “That’s circumstantial at best.”

Charlotte clicked again. A new video appeared—garage footage from Monaco. Tyler’s mechanic skulking near my car pre-race, fiddling with the pedal assembly. The timestamp: one hour before qualifying.

The room erupted. Tyler’s lawyer started shouting about fabricated evidence. The stewards called for order.

In the chaos, Charlotte met my eyes and mouthed one word: *Go.*

I slipped out, Samantha’s name burning in my mind.

---

Samantha wasn’t at Charlotte’s apartment or the label offices.

I tried every location I could think of before remembering the dive bar where Charlotte and I had met. The place was empty except for a bartender and one figure seated at the far end.

Samantha.

She didn’t turn as I approached. “Knew you’d come here eventually.” She swirled her gin, ice clinking. “Where’s your racing boyfriend?”

“Why were you at the hospital before the crash?” I demanded.

Her smile faded. “Checking on my client.”

“Bullshit. You pulled my medical records a day *before* I crashed.” I leaned in. “You knew about the tumor.”

Samantha sighed, suddenly looking exhausted. “I knew more than that.” She reached into her bag and slid a photograph across the bar—a young man in racing gear, his smile achingly familiar.

“My brother, Jason.” Her voice cracked. “He tested cars for your team in 2018. Died during a practice run when his throttle stuck wide open.”

The pieces clicked together. “The same malfunction Tyler rigged on my car.”

She didn’t deny it. “I spent years getting close to racing insiders, waiting for proof it wasn’t an accident. Then you—” she jabbed a finger at me “—got diagnosed right as Charlotte’s career peaked. The symmetry was… poetic.”

Ice flooded my veins. “You orchestrated the swap.”

Samantha’s eyes glistened. “An experimental neuro-resonance procedure. Meant to disrupt your brain activity just enough to force medical retirement.” She took a shaky breath. “But the machine synced your neural patterns to Charlotte’s instead. A happy accident.”

The confession hung between us. I suddenly understood why she’d been pushing Charlotte so hard—keeping her exhausted, medicated, vulnerable.

“You didn’t care if she broke,” I whispered.

Samantha tossed back her drink. “Funny. Neither did you.”

A notification buzzed on Charlotte’s phone—a news alert:

*BREAKING: FIA disqualifies Tyler Walsh for race manipulation. Aiden Cross cleared to compete pending medical review.*

I looked up as the bar door opened. Charlotte stood silhouetted in the doorway, rain glistening on my jacket, my face a mask of fury.

She’d heard everything.

Samantha calmly reached for her purse. “Now. Shall we discuss how to undo this?”