~Katia~

Vegas heat hit me like a wave the second I stepped off the private jet. The runway shimmered under the late afternoon sun, and I squinted past my sunglasses, already half-listening to the ping of updates on my encrypted racing burner phone. Six hours before the race, my heart was already trying to climb out of my chest. But I wasn't nervous.

I was hungry.

The black Rolls-Royce Ghost waiting for me outside the hangar wasn't subtle, but nothing about this trip was supposed to be. My crew greeted me like I was a CEO arriving for a hostile takeover. I didn't speak; they knew why I was here.

The underground race wasn't some little street corner showdown. This was the elite of the elite, with closed invitations, encrypted access, and enough luxury vehicles to make a Formula 1 grid look like a used lot. They held it at a decommissioned airfield just outside the city. From the sky, it looked abandoned. From the ground? It was a neon-lit colosseum, pulsing with noise and heat and money.

My car was already there.

A midnight-blue Aston Martin Valkyrie AMR Pro, customized down to the bolts. The engine purred like a lion in a cage. I ran my hand along the hood, letting the vibration travel up my arm. This machine was built to win. Just like me.

I pulled on my suit in the back trailer, matte black, form-fitted, and made from materials that cost more than some people's homes. The helmet was blacked out, with only a blood-red visor slit. I didn't need people seeing my face. They didn't deserve to.

By the time I stepped onto the tarmac, the place was alive.

Hundreds of people lined the barricades, some rich kids trying to live out their Fast & Furious fantasies, some seasoned racers who had bet money they couldn't afford to lose. Cameras flashed, and beats thumped from speakers the size of trucks. Drones hovered above, catching every movement.

But everyone turned when someone arrived. I believe it must be the infamous Jules.

Silver McLaren Sabre. Chrome trim with black spoilers. The engine sound was so deep it made the air feel heavier. He stepped out like a ghost in steel. His helmet mirrored mine, faceless and unreadable. He didn't look at me, not directly, but I felt his attention like static on my skin.

Everyone knew Jules, but no one knew who he was or what he looked like. He had never lost. Not once. Not in three years. His name was synonymous with fear on the track. Not just because he was fast. But because he made the others look like they were standing still.

Until now, I haven't come to Vegas for a vacation. I came to end his streak.

The announcer's voice echoed over the PA system.

"Ladies and gentlemen... this is the one you've been waiting for. The Queen of the Strip versus the Phantom King. Catwoman. Jules. One race, one winner."

The crowd screamed. Cameras whipped between us.

I stepped into my car and strapped in, letting the silence of the cockpit swallow me whole. My hands slid over the wheel like I was touching something sacred. The world outside didn't exist anymore. There was just the road, the engine, and the finish line.

The lights went red.

Then yellow.

Then, Green and I launched.

The G-force hit like a punch to the chest. My vision tunneled as I hit the first corner, tires screaming against the pavement. Jules was there, always there like a shadow glued to my rearview mirror. Every turn, he matched. Every burst of speed, he answered. But I had studied him.

I knew how he took his corners. Knew where he hesitated by a millisecond. And tonight, I wasn't just racing; I was attacking.

We blazed through lap one in under a minute. Lap two blurred with flames from the sidelines, the smell of burned rubber, and the deafening chant of the crowd. My pulse synced with the growl of my engine.

By lap three, I took a chance.

He pulled left, I cut inside and clipped the corner, skimming the barricade by inches. My car shook. My teeth rattled. But I surged ahead.

The crowd exploded.

The final stretch was chaos-necks craning, bets screaming, people recording history with shaky hands. I kept my foot down. No fear. No mercy. The finish line tore toward me like a beast.

I crossed it first.

By 0.7 seconds.

I slammed the brakes and spun the car halfway into a drift before it stopped. My breath came in ragged bursts, and for a moment, I didn't move. I let it sink in.

I had just beaten Jules. The motherfucking undefeated legend. And I'd done it in his city.

I stepped out slowly. Cameras swarmed. Fans screamed. But I didn't take off my helmet. I raised one gloved hand to the crowd and walked away. Jules looked at me. He raised two fingers to his helmet and gave me a slow, almost amused salute.

Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

He was gone before I could look again.

No confrontation. No handshake. Typical, but I didn't care.

I'd done what no one else could do. And I needed a drink.

The bar was tucked away in the kind of luxury hotel that only old money could afford-one of those places with marble floors, glass elevators, and cocktails that cost more than a pair of shoes. I sat at the corner table in my small black dress. My street clothes and helmet locked in the car, eyes hidden behind designer shades.

I ordered something strong and didn't care what it was.

Halfway through my second drink, they approached-two guys. Mid-twenties or late twenties, suits undone, confidence turned up too high. Rich, clearly. One had a dark smirk that didn't quite match his relaxed posture. The other looked like the kind of guy who didn't need to try to be charming; it just happened.

"Mind if we sit?" one of them asked.

I shrugged. "Vegas, isn't it?"

They slid into the booth and started talking. I wasn't listening to the words. I just needed noise. Something to drown the thoughts.

We drank. More than we should have.

I didn't ask for names. They didn't either.

Somewhere between laughing too hard and the floor tilting beneath me, I felt a hand brush mine. Warm. Gentle. Not urgent. Just there. I didn't pull away. Instead, I grabbed his hand and led him to the dance floor. We danced, but I didn't know what came over me; maybe it was the drink, maybe it had to do with "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."

I turned and laughed at him. "Trouble," he said, grabbed my hand, and led me outside. We went to the top of the building, and there was a chopper waiting for us. He led me inside the chopper. The pilot didn't even bother looking at us. The man kissed me; I took off his shirt first. He looked at me as though pitying me. But I kept rubbing on his arm while we kissed.

I writhed under him, and that seemed to encourage him. His warm breath formed a trail along my neck. "I want to be gentle, but I can't. The drug was too much." He whispers.

We arrived at a hotel; he was holding me like I was a prize. "Wanna get married." He asked, and I nodded. We bought a ring for a man.

"Where is mine?" I asked, and he laughed.

"My hotel room, yours is special," he says, and a man arrived with some documents, and we both signed. I don't know what I was signing, but I just signed.

~Katia~

"Do you know how hard I've been holding myself?" I didn't answer because all I wanted was to get laid. I could still feel the ache between my legs. He carried my bridal style and led me to his hotel room.

"Now, I can have you however I want because you are now my wife, princess." The room was dark, and I was feeling all sorts of things; I doubt I even remember my name at this point. He sent me launching onto a bed. His finger ran along my lips. His lips traced along my neck. It tickles, and it feels so good. My mind zigzags in pleasure and confusion.

"I love your body, wifey." He pulls up my dress, and now I am exposed. "I couldn't wait to get you here so I could taste you from the chopper. I want to make it memorable for you." His words shocked me like a live wire.

*

Morning slammed into me with cruel sunlight and a splitting headache. I woke up in a room I didn't recognize.

The room screamed money, expensive cologne, maybe. My head throbbed. My body... ached. I was naked under the sheets, tangled in them like I'd been tossed there, and beside me, a man lay asleep. A stranger, panic hit me like a punch to the chest.

I couldn't even look at him. I didn't want to. I didn't want to know what kind of face went with the body that had touched mine, claimed mine. I sat up too fast, and pain shot between my legs like a warning. I gasped and clutched the sheets tighter.

Everything down there was sore and swollen. The ache in my thighs was sharp, deep, and humiliating.

I scanned the floor, found my dress-crumpled and reeking of bar smoke and sweat-and yanked it on, wincing with every movement. My heels were on their sides by the door. I hobbled toward them like I was learning to walk again, forcing myself to stand tall even when I wanted to curl into myself and disappear.

What the hell happened last night?

I remembered the race. The victory. The roar of the crowd. I remembered heading to the bar to celebrate. I ordered one drink, then another, then... then two guys approached me.

Their faces were blurry. Everything after that? Blank, like someone hit the erase button on my memory. There was laughter, I think. Maybe a game of pool. A joke. Something about tequila. And then-nothing.

Just soreness. Just this stranger. Just a room I didn't know.

I found my purse by the couch, slung it over my shoulder, and didn't look back. I didn't want to wake him. I didn't want him to speak. I didn't want him to remember me, either.

I made my way to the parking garage, ignoring the way my legs trembled with every step, found my car, and drove back to my hotel like a ghost at the wheel.

When I finally made it to my suite, I didn't even stop to breathe. I stripped the dress off again, went straight into the bathroom, and turned on the shower like I could rinse off the confusion clinging to me.

The water hit my skin, and I almost jumped, like someone else's body had touched hardly every inch of mine, and I didn't even get the decency of a name.

My chest was tight, my eyes burned, and when I splashed water on my face, something cold clicked against my cheek. I froze and looked down at my left hand, and my stomach dropped into my feet.

I was wearing a ring.

Not costume jewelry. Not something cheap from a souvenir shop. This thing sparkled. It shone. It looked like commitment, permanence, and possibly a felony.

"What the fuck?" I whispered.

I yanked the shower curtain open and stepped out, dripping, breath shallow. My fingers trembled as I turned the ring around, trying to figure out if it was real. It looked expensive. Too expensive. But I didn't remember anything. Not a proposal. Not a chapel. Not even a kiss.

I threw clothes on, barely drying off, and rushed out of my room to find the guy. Any guy. But I remembered I don't remember anything; there was no trail to follow, no clue, not even a room number. I hadn't even checked what floor I was on this morning.

Even if I passed him in the lobby... I wouldn't recognize his face.

"My god," I whispered again, gripping my temple.

I remembered nothing.

Katia

I woke up to the sour taste of bile creeping up my throat, and my legs threw me out of bed before my brain could even catch up. The morning light seared into my eyes like punishment, and I stumbled across the cold floor, my feet slapping against the wood, straight into the bathroom. My knees hit the tile, and my head dipped into the toilet as I heaved, every muscle in my stomach wrenching like it was trying to pull itself inside out.

It was the third morning in a row. No, the fifth. Hell, I'd stopped counting.

I could hear my mother's footsteps behind me, the sharp, impatient kind that clicked like a metronome of judgment. I knew she would follow me. My mom never misses a chance to remind me that I'm a fuck-up. She stood in the doorway like a sentry, arms folded, her expression already set to that self-righteous scowl she reserved just for me.

"It's been two weeks since you came back from Las Vegas," she muttered, her voice hard, like she'd been rehearsing that line for maximum guilt.

I didn't respond; my face was still half inside the toilet, and I wasn't in the mood to explain how morning sickness works to the woman who had raised me with more slaps than hugs.

"David!" she yelled suddenly, like her voice alone wasn't enough of a siren.

From somewhere in the house, I heard the crash of the remote hitting the floor, followed by heavy footsteps. Dad appeared a few seconds later, still wearing his worn-out robe, his hair a mess, and his face confused like someone had just told him his truck was pregnant.

"What is it, woman?" he grunted.

"Your daughter is pregnant," my mother said with the kind of dramatic flair that should've come with a stage spotlight. "I've been watching her for some time now, and today is the day I've confirmed it. Katia is pregnant."

I wished the toilet would just suck me down. Swirl me into the pipes, and flush me away from all of this.

"Martha, what do you mean? Our daughter is only twenty! How can she be pregnant?"

Gee, Dad. Should I draw you a diagram? I thought it, but I didn't have the strength to say it. My hands were shaking, my forehead pressed to the cool toilet seat, and my stomach felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper.

Mom was already shoving the bathroom door open wider. "Katia, get out here!" she snapped.

I wiped my mouth with shaking fingers and pulled myself up, grabbing the edge of the sink. My reflection looked like a ghost with a hangover. I had pale skin, sunken eyes, and lips that were cracked and raw.

I stumbled out of the bathroom just in time to turn around and vomit again.

My dad's face turned to panic. "Katia, why? Baby, tell me you ate something bad. Maybe it's food poisoning, an allergy, or something like that, right?"

Hope bloomed in his voice like he actually believed it. Poor man, my dad is the only person who has shown me love, not the woman who pushed me out to this world with her pussy and acted like it didn't matter. Mom only cared about my younger sister. To her, everything I have should be given to my sister Delia.

"Stop it, David," Mom snapped. "Katia is pregnant."

She reached into her bathrobe pocket and pulled out a small white box like it was a weapon. "I actually bought this yesterday. Just in case."

She shoved it into my hand. The box was light but felt like it weighed fifty pounds.

"Go inside and pee. I'll do it myself."

"Of course you will," I muttered under my breath. She didn't care what I thought. Never did. This was never about me, not really. It was about what I'd done to her life, her reputation, and her delusions of having a perfect daughter.

I walked back into the bathroom with the test in my hand, my fingers clutching it like it might explode. The plastic felt foreign and wrong. My heart thumped behind my ribs like it was trying to escape.

I peed on the stick.

My mother barged in before I could even stand up properly and snatched the test out of my hands like a jailer collecting contraband. She marched out of the bathroom, her mouth twisted into that grim line that meant she was going to pretend she was the victim in all of this.

She stood there in the hallway, tapping one foot on the tile like she was counting the seconds until the results confirmed how much she hated me.

Two minutes later, she screamed.

"I TOLD YOU!" she bellowed, holding the test like it was bloody evidence. "She's pregnant!"

My dad sat down slowly on the couch like his knees had given up. "Jesus Christ..."

"WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?" Mom yelled.

I didn't say a word. My throat was dry and cracked, and no sound wanted to come out. Besides, she wasn't asking. Not really. She was performing.

She stepped forward and slapped me so hard that my head jerked sideways, and for a second, the room spun.

"I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, YOU FUCKING SLUT!" she screamed.

The slap wasn't the worst part. The worst part was how easy it was for her. Like it was second nature.

I started crying, my hands up but not really protecting anything. She didn't care. She never did. Her love came with strings, with rules, with conditions I never managed to meet.

Her eyes narrowed, scanning me, like she was looking for more sins to accuse me of. That's when she saw it. The ring on my finger and her whole body went still.

"What's this?" she asked, her voice low now and dangerously calm.

She stepped forward and grabbed my hand. The ring wasn't small; it was unmistakably bold. The silver band was smooth and heavy, sculpted like something out of another era. Set into it was a large, deep red gem that was so rich in color it looked like it had been plucked from the heart of a fire. It didn't sparkle like cheap jewelry; it burned, slow and low, like it was alive with its own light. The design was intricate and elegant in a way that made you stop and stare, the kind of craftsmanship that whispered money without ever saying a word. You could feel the weight of it. The importance of it. Like it had a story.

The ring wasn't from any mall jewelry store, and it sure as hell didn't belong on the hand of a girl like me. I searched for the ring online, but nothing. Because your girl didn't just get pregnant in Vegas; well, she also got married.

My mom started laughing. Not a normal laugh. Not the kind people do when something's funny. It was manic, broken, and high-pitched, like something cracked inside her and spilled out in the shape of madness.

"WHO GAVE YOU THIS RING?" she shrieked, her voice ricocheting off the walls.

I didn't answer. Couldn't. My voice felt like it had been locked inside me.

I looked at her, and then I looked past her to the blank TV, the broken remote, the wilted houseplant in the corner, and the chipped mug my dad always used, and I knew this wasn't the end of the beginning.

This was the beginning of the end.

She shook the test in front of me like it was my death certificate. "You want to play grown-up?" she hissed. "Well, welcome to grown-up consequences. Who. Gave. You. That. Ring?"

I clenched my jaw. Her voice dropped lower, venom wrapped in velvet. "Are you ashamed of him, or is he just long gone?"

Dad finally spoke, voice thin. "Martha, stop."

She didn't even look at him. "Don't defend her. She has no idea what she's done."

"I know exactly what I've done," I said suddenly. My voice didn't sound like mine; it was harder, raw, and scraped down to the bone. "It was a mistake."

Her face twisted in disgust. "And now you're going to ruin your life. You've thrown it all away."

I looked at her for a long moment, and something cold settled in my chest. "You act like my life was ever mine to begin with."

That shut her up for a second. Just a second.

"You're not staying here," she said, final and sharp.

"Martha-" Dad started again.

"No," she snapped. "She made her choice. Let her figure it out."