The aftermath of the race buzzed with electric energy. The air was thick with the sound of clapping, whistling, and low murmurs of disbelief. The grandstands, filled with high-profile guests, were on their feet. Some looked on with wide eyes, others in the throes of admiration. Camera flashes illuminated the moment in rapid succession, capturing the shock and awe of those who had witnessed something extraordinary.
Alexander stood off to the side of the track, a picture of calm precision. He had dismounted from Firenze Fire with the practiced ease of a seasoned rider. The horse, still heaving from the exertion, nuzzled its master, its coat glistening with sweat under the harsh light. Alexander stroked the horse's neck, his gaze steady as though the spectacle around him didn't even register.
As the crowd began to shift, eager to move toward the victory circle, the air buzzed with quiet speculation. A groom rushed over to Firenze Fire, draping a black and gold Getty sash across the horse's shoulders. The animal's flanks gleamed, a fitting crown for the champion of the day.
The murmur among the guests grew louder. A group of women in pristine gowns exchanged glances, their eyes following Alexander.
"I didn't even know who he was until now," one woman whispered, her voice barely audible over the increasing chatter. "But did you see how he rode? Like it was second nature to him. Like he was born for it."
"Unbelievable," another replied, shaking her head. "I didn't think anyone could challenge the horses Linton had chosen. But there he was, cutting through the pack like a knife through butter."
A man, adjusting his tie with a grin, muttered, "Who is he? Where did he come from?"
Their voices blended with the rest of the crowd, all trying to puzzle out the mystery of the man in the cap and shades who had so effortlessly triumphed.
But amidst all this, Mr. Linton did not move immediately. He sat for a moment longer, his fingers resting lightly on the carved lion's head of his chair. His gaze remained locked on Alexander, the figure of the champion who had just dethroned his carefully chosen favorites. Linton's face was unreadable, yet his eyes gleamed with a strange intensity.
Eric, seated beside him, glanced over at the man who had engineered every detail of the race. "This is it, sir. This is the moment. It's already all over the news-every headline. They're calling it the most luxurious race in history."
Linton didn't respond right away, his eyes still tracking Alexander's every move. There was no overt sign of anger or disappointment, but Eric could sense the underlying current in the air.
"That's how you make history," Linton replied, his voice low, smooth. "It's not in the race itself. It's in the silence after. When they start to wonder... how did he do it?"
Eric hesitated. "You mean, when they start asking about you."
Linton's lips curled into a faint smile. "Exactly. Legacy isn't about the applause-it's about the legacy they'll try to chase."
For a moment, they both sat in silence as the guests continued to shuffle toward the victory circle. But then, without a word, Mr. Linton stood. He adjusted his dark suit jacket, his movements slow, deliberate. There was no urgency to his stride, only the undeniable presence of a man who had always controlled the room.
The crowd parted as he made his way toward the racetrack. Their whispers intensified, but Linton remained unaffected, as though he were walking through a dream. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the turf as he neared the winner.
Alexander still stood with his horse, his head bowed slightly as though deep in thought, unaware of the storm of murmurs that swirled around him. It wasn't until Linton was almost within reach that the man lifted his head, his eyes locking with Linton's for a brief moment. The silence between them was palpable, thick with the tension of two powerful forces finally meeting.
The crowd hushed as Linton reached Alexander, and there, in the fading light of the late afternoon, the moment stretched out.
Linton did not extend a hand. Instead, he simply stared at Alexander for several long seconds, his gaze sharp and calculating.
And then, finally, he spoke, his voice cutting through the heavy silence with surprising clarity.
"We bear the same name," Linton said, his eyes narrowing just slightly, his voice carrying a note of surprise. "Can I see the face of my champion?"
The words hung in the air, pregnant with meaning. The request was simple, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. Mr. Linton, the man who had orchestrated this entire event, who had pulled strings and bent the world to his will, was asking to see the face of the man who had won everything in one fell swoop.
The silence around them deepened, the audience holding their breath in anticipation. A few gasps could be heard from the crowd, unsure of what would happen next.
Eric stood a little to the side, watching, his face unreadable as the tension escalated. The murmurs from the crowd increased, voices rising in speculation. Some wondered if the champion would reveal himself. Others whispered about Linton's uncanny ability to control every aspect of the race-was this part of his design as well?
Behind them, a few of the guests began to exchange hushed words, their curiosity growing by the second.
"Who is he, really?" one woman asked, her eyes darting between the two men.
"He's no ordinary rider," another man replied. "Look at how Linton's looking at him. He's not just the winner-he's someone else entirely."
Linton's gaze remained fixed on Alexander, a mixture of intrigue and calculation in his eyes. He waited, watching for a reaction, for any sign that this encounter would give him the answers he was seeking.