Nyra black cut the engine listened.

Silence.

The private test track stretched out under white floodlights, smooth and flawless. Too flawless. The kind of place meant for men with money and names that mattered.

Vale Motors.

She shouldn’t be here.

But debt didn’t care about rules.

“Five minutes,” she whispered, sliding off her bike.

Her boots hit the ground softly. She moved fast, vaulting the barrier and heading straight for the prototype bay. The bikes inside gleamed like weapons, carbon frames, untouched engines, worth more than her entire life.

She cracked open a panel and got to work.

Hands steady. Heart racing.

A click sounded behind her.

Then,

Light.

Blinding, sudden, everywhere.

Nyra froze.

“Well,” a man’s voice said calmly, “this is inconvenient.”

She straightened slowly and turned.

He stood a few steps away, tall and still, dressed in a black suit that didn’t belong on a racetrack and yet somehow ruled it. His gaze was sharp, cold, and entirely focused on her.

Dante Vale.

The CEO.

Damn it.

She didn’t run.

“You should upgrade your security,” she said lightly. “This place is wide open.”

His eyes flicked to the open bike panel. Then to the motorcycle she’d ridden in on.

“You rode that past my gates,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“This track is closed.”

“So is your mouth,” she shot back. “Yet here we are.”

A pause.

Not anger.

Interest.

“You know where you are,” Dante said.

“I do.”

“And you still broke in.”

“I needed parts.”

“For what?”

Nyra smiled. “Survival.”

For a long second, he just watched her, like he was weighing her value.

Then he nodded toward the sleek black behind him.

“Race me.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“One lap,” he said. “Winner keeps what they want.”

“And the loser?”

His lips curved faintly. “The loser answers my questions.”

Her pulse jumped.

This was stupid.

This was dangerous.

This was exactly her problem.

“Fine,” she said. “But don’t cry when you lose.”

They mounted their bikes.

Engines roared to life.

Nyra shot forward, pushing hard, fast, reckless. The track blurred beneath her as adrenaline took over .Dante stayed beside her, riding clean and controlled, close enough to feel.

He was good.

Too good.

They hit the final turn,

And her bike jerked violently.

“No,”

The brakes locked.

The world tilted.

Nyra went down hard, sparks exploding as metal scraped asphalt. Pain tore through her shoulder as she rolled, breath ripped from her lungs.

Another crash followed.

Heavier.

She lay still, staring at the lights, chest burning.

Footsteps approached.

Dante crouched in front of her, blood rushing from his temple, suit ruined, His eyes were dark, unreadable.

“You alive?” he asked.

She swallowed. “Unfortunately.” She swallowed.

His gaze flicked to the wrecked bike.

“That machine,” he said quietly, “cost eight million dollars.”

Nyra pushed herself up, ignoring the pain.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t let strangers ride it.”

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Security.

Finally.

Dante stood and picked up her helmet turning it slowly in his hands.

“You don’t belong here,” he said.

She smirked. “Neither do you.”

He leaned in, voice low enough only she could hear.

“You’re wrong,” Dante Vale said. “Everything here belongs to me.”

Guards rushed in from all sides.

Hands grabbed her arms.

Nyra’s smile faltered.

“Wait,”

Dante didn’t look away from her.

“Take her with us,” he said calmly. “And clear my schedule.”

Her heart slammed into her ribs.

“What?” She demanded.

His gaze locked onto hers.

“You crashed my bike,” he said. “You raced me. And now,”

His lips curved slightly.

“You’re my problem.”

And as they dragged her away, Nyra realized one thing with terrifying clarity.

This wasn’t an arrest.

It was possession.