Averi stepped out of the girls' bathroom. The hallway was relatively quiet, most students still in the cafeteria.

She had barely taken ten steps when the heavy wooden door of the boys' bathroom across the hall swung open.

Holt Chavez walked out. He had his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his uniform trousers, a piece of gum snapping loudly in his mouth.

He spotted Averi immediately. His upper lip curled into his signature sneer. He opened his mouth, the insult already forming on his tongue.

Before he could speak, the door to the girls' bathroom cracked open.

Tinsley Vance stumbled out. Her designer blazer was wrinkled and covered in dirty water from the floor. Her hair was a tangled mess, and mascara ran down her cheeks in thick black rivers. She was hyperventilating.

Tinsley looked up. She saw Averi's back.

A high-pitched squeak of pure terror escaped Tinsley's throat. She scrambled backward, almost tripping over her own feet, and ran down the opposite end of the hallway as fast as she could.

Holt stopped chewing his gum.

His gaze darted back and forth between the terrified school beauty and Averi.

He wasn't an idiot. He recognized the look in Tinsley's eyes. It wasn't embarrassment. It was primal, physical fear.

Holt closed the distance between them in three long strides. He stepped directly into Averi's path, blocking her way.

"What the hell did you just do in there?" Holt demanded, his voice dropping an octave.

Averi stopped. She looked down at her shoes. She pushed her thick glasses up her nose.

"I don't know what you mean," Averi said, her voice trembling with the fake Rust Belt accent. "I think she slipped on some water near the sinks."

Holt let out a harsh, barking laugh. He took a step closer, invading her personal space.

"Cut the crap," Holt hissed. "I don't buy this little innocent bunny act for a second. What are you hiding?"

Averi slowly raised her head.

She stopped trembling. She dropped the hunched posture.

She looked Holt dead in the eyes.

The thick lenses of her glasses couldn't hide the sudden, terrifying shift in her gaze. It was the look of a predator staring at a very loud, very annoying piece of meat. The air around them seemed to drop ten degrees.

Holt's breath hitched. A strange chill ran down his spine. His body reacted before his brain did-he instinctively took a half-step backward. What the hell was that? For a second, she didn't look like a scared rabbit... she looked like a wolf. He shook his head, dismissing the absurd thought with an angry scowl.

Averi held his gaze for one more second. Then, she blinked. The terrifying aura vanished. She hunched her shoulders, sidestepped his frozen body, and continued down the hall.

Later that afternoon, Averi sat alone on a wooden bench at the edge of the campus.

She reached into the deep pocket of her oversized sweater. She pulled out a sleek, black smartphone. It wasn't the cheap flip phone the Chavez family had given her. It was heavily encrypted.

The screen lit up with a single text message from Finn Emerson.

Boss. Abandoned industrial park in Brooklyn tonight. Big stakes. We need a closer.

Averi's thumbs flew across the digital keyboard.

She slipped the encrypted phone away and pulled out the cheap flip phone. She typed a message to Brennan.

Going to the library to work on a project. Don't need a ride. I'll take the bus later.

Brennan replied almost instantly. Stay safe. Don't stay out too late.

Averi snapped the phone shut, her face expressionless.

She stood up and walked toward the back of the school. She bypassed the security cameras with practiced ease, slipping through a known gap in the rusted chain-link fence.

She navigated the labyrinth of Manhattan alleys until she reached a nondescript brick building. She walked down a flight of concrete stairs to a heavy steel door.

She punched a sixteen-digit code into the keypad. The deadbolt clicked.

Averi stepped into the underground safe house and hit the lights.

She immediately stripped off the hideous brown sweater and the baggy jeans. She walked into the small bathroom and used a harsh chemical solvent to strip the yellow foundation and thick eyebrows from her face.

She walked back into the main room. She pulled open a metal locker.

She stepped into a skin-tight, reinforced black leather racing suit. The material hugged every curve of her body, acting as a second skin. She zipped it up to her collarbone.

She reached to the top shelf and pulled down a matte black, carbon-fiber motorcycle helmet. The visor was tinted pitch black.

Averi walked to the back of the room and yanked a heavy canvas tarp off the floor.

Beneath it sat a heavily modified, matte black Ducati Panigale V4. It was a monster of a machine, built for pure, terrifying speed.

Averi swung her leg over the seat. She slid the key into the ignition and turned it.

The engine roared to life, a deep, guttural growl that vibrated through the concrete floor and up her spine.

She pulled the helmet over her head and snapped the chin strap. She reached up and pulled the dark visor down, completely obscuring her face.

The underground garage door rolled up. Spectre twisted the throttle, shooting out into the neon-lit New York night like a bullet fired from a gun.

The abandoned industrial park in Brooklyn was alive with chaos.

Hundreds of people crowded the cracked asphalt. The air was thick with the smell of burning rubber, cheap beer, and high-octane fuel. Bass-heavy music pounded from the open trunks of modified cars.

A deafening roar echoed down the access road.

The crowd instantly parted like the Red Sea.

Averi rode the black Ducati into the center of the arena. She didn't rev the engine for show. She just let the deep, menacing idle of the bike speak for itself.

Finn Emerson jogged out of the crowd. He wore a worn leather jacket, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes lit up when he saw her.

Averi killed the engine. She planted one heavy leather boot on the asphalt to stabilize the bike. She didn't take off her helmet. She just gave Finn a single, sharp nod through the dark visor.

Finn leaned in close, resting his hand on the Ducati's tank.

"Boss, you made it," Finn muttered, his voice barely carrying over the noise. "We got a problem. Some rich kid rolled in an hour ago. Dropped a massive bag of cash and challenged the whole yard. He's been smoking everyone."

Averi turned her helmeted head. She followed Finn's gaze through the crowd.

Parked under the harsh glare of a halogen floodlight was a silver Aston Martin Valkyrie. It was a multi-million-dollar hypercar, a street-legal spaceship. It had no license plates, a deliberate choice to obscure the owner's identity in this illicit playground, but everyone knew exactly who it belonged to.

The driver's side door swung upward.

Clarke Chavez stepped out.

He wasn't wearing his usual stiff boardroom attire. He wore a tailored charcoal blazer over a black t-shirt. He wore a dark baseball cap pulled low over his brow, a rare concession to anonymity, though his commanding presence was unmistakable. His face was a mask of cold, arrogant boredom.

Averi's hands tightened on the handlebars. The thick leather of her gloves creaked. Her nominal fiancé was standing fifty feet away, slumming it in the underground racing scene.

Clarke's eyes scanned the crowd. They stopped dead when they landed on the rider in the black leather suit sitting on the Ducati.

He pushed off the side of his car and walked straight toward her. The crowd scrambled to get out of his way.

Clarke stopped three feet from the front tire of Averi's bike. His eyes dragged over the sleek lines of the motorcycle, then up the tight leather suit, lingering on the dark visor of her helmet. His gaze was heavy with raw, unfiltered conquest.

"They say you're the best here," Clarke said. His voice was smooth, commanding, and laced with absolute certainty. "I want a race. Name your price."

Averi stared at him through the tinted plastic. She didn't speak. Her voice would give her away instantly.

She slowly raised her right hand. She extended a single finger.

One lap. Winner takes all.

Clarke's lips curved into a dangerous smile. "Done."

The Aston Martin and the Ducati rolled up to the starting line. The engines revved, screaming against each other, shaking the ground beneath them.

A girl in a ripped tank top walked between the two machines. She raised a checkered flag high above her head.

Averi gripped the clutch. She leaned her chest against the gas tank, becoming one with the machine.

The flag dropped.

Clarke launched the Aston Martin. The hypercar's all-wheel-drive system gripped the pavement, rocketing him forward with explosive force. He took an immediate lead.

Averi didn't panic. She twisted the throttle, the Ducati screaming as she chased the silver blur.

The track was a dangerous loop around the abandoned warehouses, filled with sharp turns and debris.

They approached the first hairpin turn. Clarke hit the brakes perfectly, the Aston Martin sliding into the apex of the corner with clinical precision.

Averi didn't brake.

She threw her body weight to the side, forcing the motorcycle into a terrifyingly steep lean. Her knee slider scraped against the rough asphalt.

Screeeech!

A shower of bright orange sparks exploded from beneath her footpeg. She hugged the inside line, inches from the concrete barrier, carrying impossible speed through the corner.

She shot past the Aston Martin on the exit.

Inside the car, Clarke's eyes widened in shock. He watched the black shadow tear past his window. A surge of pure adrenaline and fierce competitiveness exploded in his chest.

They hit the final straightaway.

Clarke slammed his hand onto the nitrous button. The Aston Martin surged forward with terrifying violence, the engine howling as it closed the gap.

Averi tucked her head behind the small windshield. She flattened her body completely, reducing her aerodynamic drag to zero. She pinned the throttle to the absolute limit.

The Ducati shrieked.

They crossed the finish line side by side.

The crowd erupted.

Averi hit the brakes and threw the bike into a violent, sliding stop, the rear tire smoking as she spun around to face the track.

She had won by half a wheel.

Clarke slammed his car into park. He threw the door open and marched toward her. His chest was heaving. His jaw was locked tight. It was the first time in his life he had been utterly, completely defeated.

He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a checkbook, and ripped out a blank check.

"Again," Clarke demanded, holding the check out toward her. "Right now."

Averi looked at the check. Then she looked up at his face.

She let out a low, muffled scoff from behind the helmet.

She kicked the Ducati into gear. She twisted the throttle hard. The front wheel lifted off the ground in a massive wheelie.

The bike surged forward. The spinning front tire missed Clarke's chest by inches, the wind of its passing whipping his blazer open.

Averi dropped the wheel and tore off into the darkness, leaving Clarke standing in the middle of the track.

Clarke didn't move. He watched the red taillight disappear into the night. His fists slowly clenched at his sides. His eyes burned with a dark, obsessive fire.

Averi unlocked the heavy steel door of the safe house.

She pulled off the helmet, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, damp with sweat. She stripped off the leather racing suit, her muscles aching slightly from the extreme G-forces of the race.

She moved quickly. She washed her face, applied the thick yellow foundation, drew the harsh eyebrows, and pulled the oversized brown sweater over her head. She shoved the glasses onto her face.

By the time the sun rose over Manhattan, Averi Marsh was back in the Chavez estate dining room, staring blankly at a bowl of oatmeal.

Holt was pacing the length of the dining table. He was practically vibrating with excitement.

"You don't understand, Zane," Holt said, waving his fork wildly. "Spectre is a god. She took that hairpin turn at a hundred and twenty. Sparks were flying everywhere. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Averi kept her head down. She scooped a spoonful of bland oatmeal into her mouth, her face a mask of dull incomprehension.

The dining room doors opened. Clarke walked in.

He wore a pristine navy suit, but his eyes were bloodshot. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent. He hadn't slept a wink.

Holt immediately turned to him. "Clarke! Tell him! Tell Zane how she smoked you on the straightaway. I heard you tried to buy a rematch and she nearly ran you over!"

Clarke stopped dead. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He shot Holt a look so venomous the younger brother instantly snapped his mouth shut.

"Shut your mouth, Holt," Clarke said, his voice dangerously low. "Before I shut it for you."

Averi felt a laugh bubble up in her throat. She quickly turned it into a violent coughing fit, grabbing her napkin and pressing it to her mouth to hide her smirk.

Ricardo walked into the room, leaning heavily on his cane. He looked at Clarke's exhausted face and frowned.

"Clarke," Ricardo said. "I need Brennan at the office early today. You will drive Averi to school."

Clarke stiffened. He looked at Averi, taking in her muddy complexion and hideous sweater. His jaw clenched, but he nodded sharply. "Yes, Grandfather."

Ten minutes later, Averi walked out to the driveway.

Sitting there was the silver Aston Martin Valkyrie. The exact same car she had beaten by half a wheel last night.

Averi opened the passenger door and slid into the low bucket seat.

Clarke got in behind the wheel. He slammed his door shut. The air pressure in the cabin spiked.

He didn't look at her. He started the engine and threw the car into drive.

The ride to the academy was agonizingly silent. The tension radiating from Clarke was palpable. He drove aggressively, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his mind clearly a million miles away-likely replaying the race in Brooklyn over and over again.

Averi leaned her head against the window, watching the city pass by, perfectly content in her silence.

At three o'clock, the Aston Martin was waiting at the school gates. Averi climbed in, ignoring the stares of the students.

When they walked through the front doors of the Chavez estate, the butler immediately stepped forward to take Clarke's coat.

"Mr. Chavez," the butler said. "You have a guest in the living room."

Clarke walked into the living room, Averi trailing a few steps behind.

Sitting on the white leather sofa was a stunning woman. She wore a tailored Chanel tweed suit. Her blonde hair was styled in perfect, effortless waves.

Izabella Mueller.

The moment Izabella saw Clarke, her eyes lit up. She stood up and practically glided across the room. She threw her arms around Clarke's neck, pressing her body against his in a highly intimate embrace.

"Clarke," Izabella purred. "I missed you so much in Paris."

Clarke didn't push her away, but his arms remained loosely at his sides. "Welcome back, Izabella."

Izabella pulled back, her perfectly manicured hands resting on his chest. Then, her eyes shifted.

She looked at Averi.

For a fraction of a second, Averi saw the raw, unfiltered disgust flash in Izabella's eyes. It was the look one gives a dead rat on the sidewalk.

But Izabella was a master of the social game. The disgust vanished, replaced by a wide, sickeningly sweet smile.

She walked over to Averi and grabbed her hands.

Averi felt the muscles in Izabella's fingers lock tight. She was touching Averi, but her body was physically repulsed by the contact.

"You must be Averi!" Izabella said, her voice dripping with fake warmth. "I've heard so much about you. You are just... so unique. I can completely see why Ricardo brought you here."

Averi gently pulled her hands free. She hunched her shoulders and looked at the floor. "Thank you, ma'am."

Holt bounded down the stairs. When he saw Izabella, he let out a loud cheer.

"Finally!" Holt yelled. "A woman with actual taste in this house. My eyes have been bleeding for two days."

Izabella covered her mouth and let out a delicate, tinkling laugh. She shot a sideways glance at Averi, her eyes full of triumphant superiority.

Averi retreated to the corner of the room. She stood near a large potted fern, blending into the shadows. She twisted the hem of her ugly brown sweater around her fingers.

She watched Izabella fawn over Clarke. She watched Holt laugh.

She played the perfect, invisible wallflower. But behind the thick lenses of her glasses, her eyes were cold and calculating, dissecting Izabella's every weakness.