The Return of the Cannon Fodder Trillion Heiress-Chapter 889 Have One Goal

Viewers on the livestream began to notice something was off. Hera still looked composed, but those with sharp eyes caught it—her shoulders tense, her eyes flicking too often to her dashboard. She was struggling, and it was clear to anyone paying attention.

She tried the emergency brake.

It was barely responding too. But it was better than nothing frёewebnoѵēl.com

They hadn’t even finished the first lap, and after that, there was still one more to go. There was no time to return to the garage, and Hera had no registered spare car. She and her team never needed one; her car was always in top condition. The tires were replaced before every race, the brake plates regularly swapped out, and the engine monitored obsessively. There was no reason for this to happen.

And yet... it did.

Which meant only one thing: it was sabotage.

Her jaw tightened as her eyes darkened, glinting cold and sharp. The idea that someone had tampered with her car while her own tech crew and engineers worked around the clock chilled her. That could only mean one thing: it was an inside job.

She’d hunt down the traitor later.

Right now, she had one goal—survive this race.

Hera gripped the emergency brake, keeping her hand firmly on it as she steered one-handed through the sharp curve. It looked cool, effortless, even, but anyone who knew racing would understand how reckless it was. She had to spin the wheel fast, and doing it with one hand made it even harder. But she couldn’t let go of the brake; it was her only lifeline. If anything went wrong, she’d need to pull it in a heartbeat.

Her heart pounded in her chest, sweat beginning to bead on her forehead. Only she knew just how close to disaster she was. If she’d panicked the moment she realized her brakes weren’t working, she would’ve crashed, especially with her habit of braking at the very last second. But she’d kept her head.

Quick thinking had saved her.

As she shot out of the curve, Hera calmly pressed the comms in her helmet to contact the NRT manager and coach. Her voice was steady, despite everything.

"Please prepare a safety cushion at the finish line. I’ll be needing it after the final lap."

And then she floored the gas.

Sure, her brakes were gone, but that didn’t mean she would lose. No. Someone had either wanted her dead or humiliated on the track. She wasn’t sure which, but either way, she wasn’t giving them the satisfaction.

She had no idea who could have such malicious intent. Alice was already out of the picture. After being exposed for plagiarism and false accusations, Alice had been blacklisted, hit with a wave of lawsuits, and was likely on her way to prison. She didn’t have the power or resources to bribe anyone on Hera’s crew.

Which meant this went deeper than Alice.

And Hera would deal with that later. First, she had a race to win.

She wanted the person behind the sabotage to choke on their own rage when she crossed the finish line victorious, despite every dirty trick thrown her way. That thought alone lit a fire in Hera’s veins. She was more determined than ever.

She wanted whoever was behind the sabotage to choke on their rage when she crossed the finish line, despite every trap they’d set for her. That thought fueled Hera’s determination. But her calm, measured words over comms didn’t stay private. Because of the lapel mic fixed to her helmet, the entire livestream audience heard her.

And when they did, a chill swept through the viewers.

They finally realized why Hera had been steering one-handedly and why her other hand never left the emergency brake. Panic rippled across the chat. This wasn’t a strategy. This was her own way to survive a possible crash.

No one was more shaken than those closest to her. Xavier, Luke, Zhane, Dave, Rafael—and even Alexandre—all watched in stunned silence, eyes fixed on the screen as Hera’s voice echoed in their ears. The realization hit them like a punch to the gut.

Inside the garage, cold sweat rolled down the NRT manager’s forehead as he barked urgent orders. He was no rookie. He’d seen countless races, countless malfunctions. But this wasn’t just a technical glitch. No, this reeked of sabotage.

He immediately locked down the garage, allowing only his most trusted personnel to move. No one was allowed in or out. Hera’s crew wore grim expressions, the weight of the situation settling heavily on their shoulders. That car was their pride. Their masterpiece. And someone had turned it into a death trap.

Even the national team, hardened by years of competition, stood in tense silence, terrified of what might happen next.

"Hera, come back to the garage and let us check the car. Nothing is more important than your safety. We can skip this year’s Europe Race and aim for next year!" the manager urged, his voice tight with concern.

But Hera didn’t respond.

She kept her foot on the gas, the roar of the engine drowning out everything else. ’Give up? Not a chance in hell.’

If she lost, it wouldn’t just be about pride; it would be public humiliation. She’d lose the bet, and she had no illusions about that arrogant blonde racer being a gentleman. He’d likely treat her defeat as an invitation to collect in the most demeaning way possible.

And worse, someone out there was pulling strings to orchestrate her accident.

The prime suspect would obviously be the blonde racer, after all, he had the most to gain from her loss. But Hera knew the tampering had started before she even crossed paths with him. Which raised an unsettling possibility: either it was him, or what if he was just a pawn? Sent to provoke her, to goad her into placing a reckless bet, to lead her exactly where someone wanted her to be, defeated, disgraced, and vulnerable. Worst in the hospital.

Still, that was all just speculation.

Right now, her focus wasn’t on unraveling the conspiracy. It was surviving it, and winning anyway.

Because of her broken brakes, Hera barely used them anymore. She just kept accelerating, fast, precise, fearless.

In no time, she was right behind the blonde racer and the second-place driver, both of whom were fiercely battling for the top spot. They taunted and blocked each other aggressively, determined not to let anyone else slip past. But Hera’s sudden appearance behind them threw both men off.

The blonde racer’s eyes widened when he recognized her. Without hesitation, he swerved in front of her and slammed on his brakes—trying to rattle her, to force her to slow down and lose momentum.

But Hera didn’t flinch.

Instead of braking, she downshifted and floored the gas. Her car surged forward, its nose practically lifting the rear of the blonde racer’s vehicle.

He panicked.

With a sharp turn just ahead, he was forced to swerve aside to avoid being rear-ended. "What a crazy bitch!" he yelled out of his open window, throwing her a middle finger in frustration.

Hera didn’t even glance at him. One hand on the wheel, the other still poised on the emergency brake, she handled the sharp curve with unnerving calm.

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