The Return of the Cannon Fodder Trillion Heiress-Chapter 886 Sharp Tongues

The intensity drew attention; those who didn’t know Hera turned to look at the passionate group, then at Hera herself. Only then did many realize just how striking and captivating this racer truly was.

Some of the male audience members, who had originally come to support other racers, found themselves mesmerized, practically starstruck with hearts in their eyes. Their loyalty started to waver, and a few even looked longingly toward Hera’s fan section, tempted to join in.

Even the banners, shirts, and fan merchandise for Hera looked premium and high-end, and no wonder. Most of her supporters now came from the upper class: influential executives, entrepreneurs, and high-profile figures who had once underestimated her but now fully backed her. Not only did they vote for her, but they also poured in as much money as they could spare without impacting their own companies, adding to her massive betting pool.

Though Hera had fewer total votes, the amount of money behind her was the largest. The sheer size of the prize pool tempted fans of other racers to get greedy. Hoping to strike it rich, they invested everything they could into the bet, dreaming of life-changing winnings.

And while their lives were about to change after the race, it wouldn’t be in the way they had expected.

As Hera walked toward her car, someone suddenly bumped into her from behind, nearly knocking her off balance. She quickly steadied herself, stepping back and bending one knee to regain control. Once grounded, she turned around, only to see a cocky young man with bleached blonde hair, lip and brow piercings, and a smug expression stretched across his face. He blew a bubble with his gum and popped it loudly, staring at her with a mockingly confident glint in his eyes.

"Hey, pretty sister," he drawled, "how about this, if I win, I get you for seven days. Strip and wait in my bed."

Behind him, his crew burst out laughing, their jeers echoing through the pit lane. Clearly, they thought Hera was an easy target, just another delicate-looking woman in a male-dominated race. But Hera didn’t even flinch. She had faced plenty of arrogant challengers like him before. And every time, the outcome had been the same.

She smirked, her expression calm and unreadable.

’Another fool judging a book by its cover. Perfect.’ She thought.

"Oh?" Hera raised an eyebrow, her voice sweet but laced with steel. "Then what do I get if I win? What’s in it for me?"

She fluttered her lashes in an exaggerated way, not to flirt, but to mock them. Still, the group of men misread her completely. Their eyes lit up, mistaking her sarcasm for seduction. To them, Hera was the embodiment of temptation: striking features, flawless skin without a trace of makeup, and a body with curves and lines that seemed almost sculpted to perfection. Their grins stretched wider, but their laughter grew thinner, forced, as their throats dried from the rising tension.

The blond man leading the group eyed her hungrily, not even trying to hide his desire.

What none of them realized was that the entire interaction was being captured live. Ever since Hera had stepped out of the garage, the cameras had been zoomed in on her every move. Now, the feed broadcasts their little standoff to every massive screen around the race circuit.

While most fans couldn’t hear the exchange, a staff member in the broadcasting room, trained in lip reading and sign language, quickly typed out subtitles in real time. A line of text scrolled beneath the footage:

"If I win, I get you for seven days. Strip and wait in my bed."

"Oh? Then what do I get if I win?"

The audience erupted in a mix of shocked gasps, cheers, and outraged boos.

Suddenly, the spotlight shifted, not just literally but metaphorically. Some viewers mocked Hera, accusing her of relying on her looks to earn her place in the race. Rumors and slander began to swirl online and among the crowd. Massie and Stacy, sitting proudly in the front rows, overheard a group of women, fans of the blonde racer, talking trash about Hera, loudly enough for others to hear. They weren’t whispering; they wanted their venom to spread.

But Massie and Stacy just clenched their fists and glared. They knew better.

Then Stacy, ever the fiery one with no concept of restraint, scoffed loudly.

"Huh! Ugly women really do know how to slander. One look from a pretty girl and you’re already screaming seduction? Must be rough waking up every day looking like that... ugly. Sorry, I can’t relate, I’m not ugly, inside or out."

Her words sliced through the air like a blade, sharp and unapologetic. Even Massie, who’d heard and delivered her fair share of comebacks, blinked in surprise at the precision of Stacy’s verbal strike.

And Stacy wasn’t done. With a face as sweet as a spoiled kitten and a tongue like a Gatling gun, she unleashed a barrage so quick and brutal that the women on the receiving end were left stunned into silence. They clutched their pride like handbags, wide-eyed and speechless.

The insult cut especially deep, because for women who prided themselves on appearances, being called ugly by someone as cute and well-dressed as Stacy was like being stabbed with a jeweled dagger. And with Massie standing beside her, elegant, poised, the picture of a vintage beauty, it only made the hit harder to swallow.

To make matters worse for them, the men seated nearby, executive types supporting Hera, gave the girls dirty looks like fathers catching their daughters gossiping in church. Their stern, disapproving glares were enough to make the hecklers lower their heads and slink back into their seats, thoroughly chastised.

After all, Stacy had grown up watching her mother battle it out in the morning markets, trading barbs with seasoned aunties while haggling for the best produce. Stacy had learned to defend herself and sharpen her tongue long before she learned how to use lip gloss.

Who would’ve thought those skills would come in handy, silencing bullies in the stands?

Massie turned to her young assistant, eyes twinkling with pride, and gave her a big thumbs-up. Stacy tilted her chin toward the sky, smug and satisfied, proud to have defended her big sister Hera’s name, all while Hera was still in the middle of her face-off out on the track.

"If you win, you can do anything to me..." the blonde racer said with a smirk, as if he were offering Hera a favor instead of degrading himself.

Hera’s expression darkened immediately. The audacity of his words made her stomach turn; what he said was no different from his earlier demand. Whether he won or lost, he still wanted the same outcome: to get her into his bed. So, where was the fairness in this so-called bet?

She scoffed, eyes glinting coldly. "No need," she snapped. "I already have boyfriends with sculpted abs, towering height, drop-dead gorgeous faces, and I can promise you, they’re far better than you in every possible way."

It was the truth. Every word. But Hera had no idea her comeback was being broadcast live. She was too focused on shutting down the arrogant man in front of her, too focused on standing her ground. After all, if she let this kind of behavior slide, what kind of message would it send? He might try it again with other women. And that, Hera would never allow.

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