The apartment was quiet when I got back. Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind that pressed against my ears until they rang.

I locked the door behind me and dropped my keys on the counter. They clattered too loud. Everything felt too loud now. My arm throbbed where the bandage covered the gash from Ashton's garage door. I peeled back the edge of the gauze and looked at the wound. It wasn't deep enough for stitches, but it would scar.

I walked to the bathroom and sat on the cold tile floor. The chill seeped through my jeans. I pulled out my phone and opened my photo gallery. I didn't mean to. My thumb just moved on its own, scrolling back through weeks and months of pictures I'd saved without thinking.

There was Ashton at the spring gala, his arm draped over Kimora's shoulders while she leaned into him, laughing at something only they understood. I was three feet away in that photo, cut off at the edge of the frame. There was another from a car meet last month—Ashton crouched beside his McLaren, Kimora perched on the hood in a sundress, his hand resting casually on her ankle. I'd taken that picture. He'd asked me to.

I kept scrolling. There was the video I'd never meant to see, the one burned into my brain now. My own face on his TV screen while his friends made comments I couldn't unhear. And then there was yesterday—the way he'd shoved me away from the Pagani like I was a threat, inspected the paint with more care than he'd ever shown my bleeding arm, then laughed when Kimora's stilettos scratched the same surface.

My thumb found the inside of my wrist and pressed down hard. The pressure centered me. Kept me from shaking.

I opened my contacts. Titus's name sat at the top, pinned there since I'd left for this trial. One call. That's all it would take. He'd have a jet at Teterboro in two hours. He'd mobilize the legal team, the PR machine, the entire apparatus of the Chapman name. He'd been waiting for this call since the day I walked away from the penthouse.

My finger hovered over his name.

But I didn't press it.

Because Ashton loved me. He had to. People didn't beg you to make intimate videos unless they loved you. They didn't introduce you to their father unless you mattered. They didn't keep you around for eight months unless there was something real underneath all the rest.

He just didn't know how to show it. That's what I told myself. He grew up with Julian Rivera, a man who measured affection in quarterly earnings. Ashton learned to love cars because cars didn't ask for things he couldn't give. And Kimora—she was just his friend. His childhood buddy. The girl who made him laugh.

I could be patient. I could teach him. I could show him what real love looked like, and eventually he'd reflect it back.

One more chance.

I closed Titus's contact and set my phone on the tile beside me. The screen went dark. The bathroom mirror reflected a girl I barely recognized—soft and small and willing to disappear.

I pressed my thumb harder against my wrist until the ache in my arm faded into the background.

---

Two nights later, we met Ashton's circle at a rooftop bar in Tribeca. The kind of place with Edison bulbs strung overhead and a view of the Hudson that cost forty dollars a cocktail. I wore a simple black dress, the kind that didn't compete for attention. Ashton arrived late with Kimora, both of them laughing about something that had happened on the drive over.

We took a long table near the railing. I sat beside Ashton, my hand resting on the table between us. He didn't take it.

The conversation turned to cars within five minutes. It always did. Someone mentioned a vintage Porsche auction. Someone else argued about the best track for amateur racing. I listened and sipped water, my wine glass untouched.

Kimora leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her eyes bright. "You know, Averie's not really into car culture," she said with a warm, easy smile. "Which is totally fine. Not everyone gets it."

I felt the table's attention shift toward me.

"She'd probably be happier at a book club or something," Kimora continued, laughing lightly. "Somewhere quieter. Less... intense."

Ashton grinned and nodded. "She's not a car girl. But that's fine—I don't need her to be."

The words landed soft, but they cut deep. I sat very still. My thumb found my wrist under the table and pressed down until my pulse throbbed against the pressure.

No one asked what I thought. No one asked if I wanted to be included. They just smiled and moved on, the conversation flowing around me like I was a stone in a river.

Kimora caught my eye across the table. Her smile didn't waver. It was perfect. Warm. Impossible to challenge without looking petty.

I looked away first.

Later, when Ashton dropped me off at my apartment, he kissed my forehead and said, "You were quiet tonight."

"I was tired," I said.

He nodded and drove away.

I stood on the sidewalk and watched his taillights disappear. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Titus: *Still breathing?*

I typed back: *Fine.*

He didn't reply. He never did when I lied.

The McLaren unveiling was at a private gallery in Chelsea. All glass walls and concrete floors. The kind of place where sound echoed and everyone's voice carried. Ashton had been talking about this event for weeks. A limited-edition 720S in a custom cobalt blue. Only fifty made worldwide. He'd put a deposit down months ago.

I wore a cream silk dress. Simple. Elegant. The kind of thing that didn't compete for attention but still looked expensive enough to belong. I'd chosen it carefully.

The gallery was packed with Ashton's circle. Men in tailored suits clustered around the McLaren, talking about horsepower and carbon fiber. Their dates stood in small groups near the champagne table, scrolling phones and checking makeup.

Kimora arrived twenty minutes after we did. She always arrived late. It was her thing. She wore a red jumpsuit that hugged every curve and heels so high I didn't understand how she walked. Ashton's face lit up when he saw her.

"Kim!" He waved her over. She weaved through the crowd and threw her arms around his neck. He hugged her back, lifting her slightly off the ground. I stood three feet away, holding my untouched champagne flute.

When they finally separated, Kimora turned to me with a bright smile. "Averie! You look so cute."

Cute. Not beautiful. Not elegant. Cute.

"Thanks," I said. My thumb pressed against my wrist.

The three of us moved toward the McLaren. Ashton launched into a detailed explanation of the car's specs, his hand gesturing at the hood, the doors, the exhaust. Kimora leaned in close, nodding like she understood every word. Maybe she did. I stood slightly behind them, listening.

Someone called Ashton's name from across the room. He turned, distracted, and stepped away to shake hands with a man in a navy suit. That left Kimora and me standing beside the car.

She picked up a fresh champagne flute from a passing tray. Held it delicately between two fingers. Turned toward me with that same warm smile.

"It's so great that you come to these things," she said. "Even though they're not really your scene."

I opened my mouth to respond, but she was already moving. Her hand tipped. The champagne arced through the air in slow motion. Cold liquid splashed across the front of my dress, soaking through the silk instantly. The fabric clung to my skin. The stain spread dark and wet from my chest to my waist.

"Oh my God!" Kimora's voice rang out, loud enough to turn heads. "Averie, I'm so sorry! I'm such a klutz!"

Everyone looked. Conversations stopped. I stood frozen, champagne dripping onto my shoes.

Kimora grabbed a cocktail napkin from a nearby table and pressed it against my dress. The gesture was theatrical. Useless. The napkin was too small, the stain too large. She kept apologizing, her voice bright and distressed, drawing more attention with every word.

"I can't believe I did that. You poor thing. That dress is ruined."

Ashton returned, his eyes moving from Kimora to me. He frowned at the stain, then looked at Kimora's hand.

"You okay, Kim?" He handed her a clean napkin. "Did you get any on yourself?"

She dabbed at her wrist where a single drop had landed. "I'm fine. I just feel terrible about Averie's dress."

Ashton nodded. Turned back to the man in the navy suit. Kept talking about the McLaren's suspension system.

I stood there, wet and cold, the silk clinging to my skin. No one asked if I was okay. No one offered to help me find a bathroom. Kimora had already moved on, her apology complete, her attention back on the car.

I pressed my thumb hard against my wrist and walked toward the restroom sign at the back of the gallery.

The bathroom was empty. All white marble and gold fixtures. I locked the door and stood in front of the mirror. The stain covered most of my torso. The silk was ruined. I'd never get the champagne out.

I gripped the edge of the sink. My knuckles went white. I stared at my reflection until my breathing slowed. Until the heat in my chest cooled into something manageable.

I stayed in that bathroom for ten minutes. When I came out, the event was still going. Ashton was sitting in the driver's seat of the McLaren, Kimora leaning through the open window, both of them laughing. I walked past them and waited by the exit.

---

The drive home was quiet. Ashton's hands moved over the steering wheel of his Lamborghini like he was touching something sacred. The city blurred past the windows. I sat in the passenger seat, my ruined dress still damp against my skin.

I waited until we were on the highway. Until the silence felt stable enough to break.

"Ashton," I said softly. "Can we talk about something?"

He glanced at me, then back at the road. "Sure. What's up?"

I pressed my thumb against my wrist. "The other night. At your poker game. The video."

His jaw tightened slightly. "What about it?"

"It hurt me," I said. The words came out smaller than I wanted. "Seeing it on the screen like that. Hearing them talk about me. You promised it was just for us."

Ashton sighed. He didn't look at me. "Babe, the guys aren't going to say anything. It's not a big deal. They were giving you compliments."

"It didn't feel like compliments."

"Because you're being dramatic." His voice was patient. Like he was explaining something obvious to a child. "They thought you looked hot. That's a good thing. You should be flattered."

My throat tightened. "But you told them not to joke about Kimora."

His hands flexed on the wheel. "That's different."

"How?"

"Because Kimora's my friend. She's off-limits. You know that." He reached over and turned up the stereo. Music filled the car, loud enough to end the conversation. "Stop killing the mood, Averie. We were having a good night."

I looked out the window. Watched the lights streak past. My thumb pressed harder against my wrist until I felt my pulse hammering beneath the skin.

I didn't bring it up again.

Kimora waited until Ashton left his phone on the bathroom counter. It was during one of those lazy Sunday mornings at his penthouse. Coffee brewing. Sunlight cutting through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He was in the shower, singing off-key to something playing through the speaker.

She picked up his phone. No passcode between them. Never had been. That's what best friends were—total access, total trust.

She opened his photos. Scrolled past the cars, the track days, the group shots from poker nights. Found the folder buried three layers deep. The one labeled with a single initial that wasn't hers.

There it was. The video.

She watched thirty seconds. Just enough to confirm. Then she tapped the share icon and airdropped it to her own phone. The transfer took four seconds. She deleted the sent notification from his phone, cleared the share history, and set the device back exactly where he'd left it.

The shower turned off. Kimora was scrolling through Instagram when Ashton walked out, towel around his waist, steam following him into the bedroom.

"Coffee's ready," she called without looking up.

"You're the best, Kim."

She smiled at her screen.

---

The plan took shape over the next two weeks. Kimora was patient. Methodical. She'd learned a long time ago that the best destruction looked like accident.

The racetrack event was perfect. Ashton's amateur racing league hosted it twice a year—high-profile, exclusive, attended by everyone who mattered in his world. Manufacturers sent reps. Influencers showed up for content. There was always a DJ, always champagne, always massive LED screens broadcasting live feeds from the track.

Kimora volunteered to help coordinate. Ashton didn't question it. She always helped.

She met with the AV tech two days before the event. Told him she had a surprise video tribute for Ashton—something fun to play during the break between heats. The tech was young, eager to please. He loaded the file onto the system without previewing it. Why would he?

Kimora tipped him two hundred dollars and told him to cue it up at exactly 3:15 PM. Right after the second heat. When the crowd would be gathered around the screens, drinks in hand, attention focused.

Then she handled the logistics.

The service road that ran parallel to the main track was rarely used during events. But it was the fastest route from the parking lot to the viewing platform. If someone needed to get to the screens in a hurry—say, to stop something from playing—they'd take that road.

Kimora drove it three times. Noted the blind curve at the halfway point. The spot where the asphalt dipped slightly and the shoulder widened. She bought two boxes of industrial tire spikes online. The kind used for parking enforcement. Sharp enough to shred rubber in seconds.

She scattered them across the service road the night before the event. Wore gloves. Took her time. Made sure they were positioned just past the blind curve, where someone moving fast wouldn't see them until it was too late.

When she was done, she stood at the edge of the road and looked back toward the parking lot. Imagined the trajectory. The panic. The inevitable momentum carrying a small electric scooter directly into the spikes and onto the track.

She didn't feel guilty. She felt efficient.

---

The morning of the event, Kimora woke up early. She laid out her outfit on the bed. White jeans. A fitted black tank top. Understated. The kind of thing that photographs well in a crisis. She practiced her expression in the mirror. Shock. Horror. Helplessness. She needed to look frozen. Vulnerable. The kind of damsel Ashton's instincts would override everything else to protect.

She curled her hair. Applied minimal makeup. Chose small gold earrings that wouldn't distract.

When Ashton picked her up at noon, she was perfect.

---

They spent the afternoon at the track. Ashton prepped his car. Kimora stayed close. Handed him tools. Laughed at his jokes. Let her hand rest on his shoulder when she leaned in to look at the engine.

She checked her phone twice. The AV tech confirmed the file was loaded. 3:15 PM. Locked in.

At 2:00 PM, Averie texted Ashton. Kimora saw the notification light up his phone on the workbench.

*Hope it's going well. Miss you.*

Ashton didn't reply. He was too focused on adjusting the suspension.

Kimora picked up his phone and handed it to him. "Averie's checking in."

He glanced at the screen. Set it back down. "I'll text her later."

Kimora nodded. Kept her face neutral.

---

That evening, Ashton and Kimora sat in his living room. The event was tomorrow. Everything was set. He scrolled through the race lineup on his tablet. She sat beside him on the couch, legs tucked under her, a glass of wine in her hand.

"Is Averie coming tomorrow?" she asked casually.

Ashton shook his head without looking up. "Nah. It's just a guys' thing. Plus you. She'd be bored."

"You sure? She might want to support you."

"She doesn't even like cars, Kim. It's fine."

Kimora sipped her wine. Let the silence settle. Then, softly: "I think she feels left out sometimes."

Ashton finally looked up. Frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Just... I don't know. I feel bad that she's not part of this world. It's such a big part of your life."

Ashton's frown deepened. He looked back at his tablet. "She's fine. She knew what she was getting into."

Kimora nodded. Took another sip. Let it go.

---

The next morning, Averie called Ashton while he was loading gear into the Lamborghini. Kimora stood beside him, holding his helmet.

She watched his face as he answered. Listened to the one-sided conversation.

"Babe, I told you. It's not your kind of event... No, it's just going to be loud and boring... Kim's only here because she helps with logistics..."

A pause. Averie was saying something. Ashton's jaw tightened.

"Averie, I said no. Don't make this a thing... I'll see you tonight, okay? I gotta go."

He hung up. Tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. Looked at Kimora and shook his head.

"She wanted to come?"

"Yeah. I don't know why she's being clingy lately."

Kimora handed him the helmet. Gave him a sympathetic smile that didn't reach her eyes. "She probably just misses you."

"She'll be fine."

Kimora nodded. Climbed into the passenger seat. Buckled her seatbelt.

As they pulled out of the garage, she checked her phone one last time. The AV tech had sent a final confirmation.

*All set for 3:15.*

Kimora deleted the message. Looked out the window. Felt the hum of the engine beneath her.

Everything was in place.