AGAINST THE RULES: their scentless omega-Chapter 69: The performance

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," the presenter’s voice boomed across the arena, echoing against the towering screens and steel beams above, "before we end our lovely game, let us invite Tracy on stage to bedazzle us with her singing voice while we wait for the riders to return!"

A wave of cheers rolled through the stadium like thunder. The presenter stepped off the stage with an exaggerated bow, his polished shoes clicking against the floor before disappearing behind the curtains.

For a brief moment, darkness swallowed the arena.

The giant spotlights dimmed one by one until only faint glimmers of blue and purple neon lingered around the edges. The crowd hushed instinctively, anticipation tightening in the air like a drawn string. Phones were raised. Whispers fluttered from seat to seat. Somewhere in the distance, a single whistle pierced the silence.

Then ,the lights flared back on.

A golden beam fell at the center of the stage, and there she stood.

Tracy.

Her silhouette shimmered under the spotlight, the fabric of her outfit catching the light like scattered stars. She took a small breath, steadying herself, though her smile remained effortless ,practiced, warm, and disarming. The crowd erupted the moment they recognized her, voices overlapping into a roaring chant of excitement.

"Goooooood evening!" she greeted, her voice smooth and melodic even without the music.

"GOOOOOD EVENING!" the audience thundered back, their energy vibrating through the very floor.

She laughed softly, placing a hand over her chest as if to calm her own racing heartbeat. "I’m sure this event has been nerve-wrecking for all of us... hmm, I know it was for me." Her eyes scanned the sea of faces, lights reflecting in them like distant galaxies. "But now—" she tilted her head playfully, a mischievous spark dancing in her expression, "—it’s time to let go of all that tension... and just breathe."

She winked.

The band’s first note sliced through the air , clean, electric, alive.

The screens behind her burst into color, waves of light moving in rhythm as the music swelled. Her voice followed, rich and controlled, wrapping around the arena like silk. The earlier chaos of competition melted away, replaced by swaying arms, glowing phone lights, and faces softened by melody. Even those who had been shouting moments ago now stood still, caught in the gravity of her performance.

Some sang along.

Some closed their eyes.

Some simply watched, mesmerized.

For a few fleeting minutes, the battlefield of rivalry transformed into a shared moment of calm , a pause between storms , where victories and losses no longer mattered, and all that remained was the echo of her voice filling the night.

(VIP Station)

"Oh my God, Rebecca, I’m so proud that your son won first place!" Clara squealed, her voice half-drowned by the distant music vibrating through the glass walls of the VIP lounge. "And this music is divine ,urgh, it’s a ten out of ten. Ill be coming here more often"

She leaned closer to her hand mirror, carefully reapplying lipstick for what had to be the hundredth time, tilting her chin left, then right, chasing a perfection that only she seemed to notice slipping away every few seconds.

Mrs. Gray offered a soft smile, the kind polished by years of social gatherings and polite applause. "Of course... that’s my... son right there. Always full of surprises."

The word son lingered on her tongue like a foreign taste she could neither swallow nor spit out.

Her gaze drifted beyond the glass panel, past the lights, past the cheering crowd , somewhere toward the stage, toward the arena, toward him.

If the truth comes out...

Her fingers tightened unconsciously on the fabric of her dress.

Will Timothy still see me as his mother?

...or just a criminal?

A dull ache pressed behind her ribs. She straightened her posture immediately, smoothing invisible creases on her lap as though she could iron out the thoughts with the same motion.

No. Not now. Not here. Smile. Just smile.

"Ohhh, Rebecca, four o’clock." Clara’s tone dropped into an excited whisper as she nudged her friend with her elbow. "That Russian male is Morozov Castell. He owns his own signature scent ,ranked top ten worldwide."

Her eyes sparkled with unashamed admiration. "Urgh, mamma mia... I heard he spends a lot of-" she rubbed her fingers together in the universal sign for money, "and he’s the type of guy who can buy a car with his change money, now that is rich rich." She sighed dramatically. "If only he wasn’t married."

"Clara... you’re also married."

"And that, my sweet Rebecca," Clara said, closing her lipstick with a decisive click, "is exactly why we can’t let our spouses stop us from finding our soulmates." She licked her tongue lightly and glanced back at the man through the tinted glass. "I bet his pheromones are good enough to eat."

"I’m telling your husband."

"Please don’t!" Clara gasped, clutching Rebecca’s arm with theatrical horror before dissolving into quiet laughter.

A brief silence settled between them, filled by Tracy’s distant singing and the muffled roar of the crowd below. The lights from the arena flickered across their faces like passing memories.

"Wait," Mrs. Gray finally asked, her brow lifting, "how did you even know who that guy was?"

"Google..." Clara sang, flashing her phone screen like a magician revealing a trick.

"And how were you able to know his na—" Mrs. Gray stopped herself mid-sentence, exhaling through her nose. "You know what? Forget about it, i don’t wanna know how much of a creep you are"

She rolled her eyes, but her smile returned , thin, controlled, and carefully placed. Yet as Clara resumed admiring her reflection, Rebecca’s gaze drifted once more to the arena below.

The applause thundered. The music soared.

And beneath the glittering spectacle, her heart beat with a quiet, persistent fear ,the kind no amount of luxury glass or golden lighting could ever fully conceal.

Just then her phone vibrated.

The small tremor against her palm felt louder than the music flooding the arena. Mrs. Gray instinctively glanced at Clara , still busy admiring herself in the mirror , before sliding the phone from her purse. The screen lit up.

’Unknown Number.’

Her heart skyrocketed.

She didn’t need a name.

She didn’t need a profile picture.

She knew.

Her thumb hesitated above the notification, a thin sheen of sweat forming along her fingertip. For a second, the world around her dulled , Tracy’s singing became a distant echo, the crowd’s cheers nothing but muffled thunder behind glass. She opened the message.

’Nice music they got here.’

A second bubble appeared beneath it.

An image loaded.

Tracy ,center stage, spotlight draped over her shoulders like liquid gold, microphone in hand, the crowd roaring in adoration.

Mrs. Gray’s face drained of color.

He was here.

Not watching from afar.

Not threatening from the shadows.

Here.

Her fingers trembled as she typed.

’What are you doing here?’

The three little dots appeared almost instantly. Disappeared. Appeared again. Each blink tightened the invisible rope around her lungs.

A second passed.

Then another.

Her pulse thudded painfully in her ears.

’Why else would I be here, huh Rebecca?

Oh... you wanna play a guessing game?’

Her chair scraped lightly against the floor as she stood up without realizing it. Rebecca’s grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles whitened.

There was only one reason he would come this close.

Only one motive strong enough to drag him into a public arena filled with cameras, sponsors, and influential families.

To expose her.

Her throat went dry. Images flashed behind her eyes ,hospital lights, blankets, incubators, a decision made in panic and jealousy that had never truly stopped haunting her. She suddenly felt as if the VIP room had shrunk, the glass walls closing in, the oxygen thinning.

Another vibration.

’You look beautiful tonight, by the way.

Would be a shame if your smile disappeared on the big screen.’ Another message popped out

Her breath hitched.

She slowly lifted her head and scanned the arena below. Thousands of faces. Endless lights. Every shadow suddenly looked like him. Every camera lens felt like an execution device waiting for a signal.