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---Chapter 1 The Arrangement Katia I woke up to the sound of people singing badly. “Happy birthday to you...” I blinked hard against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, my brain slow to reboot. The voices were getting louder, and for a second, I thought I was dreaming. A really weird, off-key dream. “Happy birthday, dear Katia...” My bedroom door flung open. I sat up so fast the blanket tangled around my legs like a trap. My vision adjusted just in time to see a small parade entering my room, Delia leading the way with a cupcake on a tray, Dad trailing behind her holding a phone like he was filming a hostage video, and then, my mother, smiling. I nearly choked because my mom has never smiled at me. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she said; her voice was smooth and artificial, like she’d sprayed it with perfume before letting it out of her mouth. I stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Because here’s the thing: Martha didn’t do birthdays. Not mine, anyway. Delia got birthdays. Princess themes, balloons, new dresses, and a chorus of relatives pretending they liked each other. I got awkward silences and last-minute gas station cards. I once got a vacuum cleaner. I was twelve. So this? This felt like a setup. “Um... thanks?” I said, my voice rough from sleep and suspicion. Delia plopped the tray down in my lap like she was presenting a peace offering. “I made the cupcake myself,” she said sweetly, which meant the maid probably did it while Delia supervised with a glass of wine. I looked down at it. Vanilla with white frosting and one lonely candle jammed in the center like a warning flare. “Blow it out,” my dad said cheerfully, but his eyes were doing that thing they always did when he was nervous, darting around like they were looking for an exit. I narrowed my eyes. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on?” My mom gave a soft laugh, as if I was being silly for having the correct instincts. She sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the comforter like she’d ever touched it before. “You’re twenty now,” she said gently. “That’s a very important age.” “Cool,” I said, unimpressed. “Should I be bracing for a tax seminar or something?” Delia giggled. Dad coughed. Mom kept going, undeterred. “You’re a woman now, Katia. And your father and I have something very exciting and important to tell you.” There it was. The sting in the frosting. The trap under the ribbon. I sat up straighter. “Okay…” She looked at me like she was about to hand me a tiara. “You’ve been chosen to marry Julian Windsor.” The room didn’t go quiet; it went hollow. For a second, I couldn’t even process the words. I stared at her, waiting for a punchline, a camera crew, or something. “Who?” I asked, even though I’d heard her perfectly. “Julian Windsor,” she repeated. “The Windsor heir. Their family has been interested in an alliance for years. You were betrothed when you were sixteen.” I blinked. “What?!” Dad gave me a sheepish look. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you at the time.” “At the time? You mean when I was sixteen?!” Mom’s smile never wavered. “It was a strategic match. His family is very private. Very powerful. This is a good thing, Katia. You’re incredibly lucky.” Lucky? Like this was some kind of prize. Like I should’ve been jumping up and down because I was the golden ticket in a billionaire breeding lottery. “I’ve never even met him,” I said, still struggling to wrap my head around the casual horror of what she’d just dropped on me like it was a brunch topic. “Neither has Delia,” she replied smoothly. “But if things had gone differently, she would’ve married him instead. You should be grateful it’s you.” “Wow,” I muttered. “How generous of you, Mother.” Delia leaned against the bedpost, swirling her hair around her finger. “He’s supposed to be really handsome. And rich. Like... rich rich. The Windsors own, like, everything. Casinos. Oil. Maybe a spaceship? I don’t know. They’re super secretive.” “Oh great,” I snapped. “So I’m marrying a ghost with a trust fund, and you know this how?” My mom’s eyes hardened, just for a second. “Don’t be dramatic. He’s real. And they chose you. That should mean something.” “No,” I said. “What means something is that you waited four years to tell me I was promised to a complete stranger like this is a medieval auction.” My dad cleared his throat. “We thought we’d wait until the Windsors reached out. And... they have.” I stared at him. “You mean this is happening now?” “They’ve arranged to meet in a few weeks,” my mother said. “There will be dinner. Formalities. You’ll get to know each other before the engagement becomes public.” Public? Right. Because this wasn’t a relationship. It was a press release waiting to happen. “I can’t believe this,” I said, my voice flat. “You didn’t even ask me.” “You don’t ask about opportunities like this,” she said firmly. “You accept them.” That was her tone now. The mask was slipping. She wasn’t the smiling mother with a cupcake anymore. She was the CEO of this family, and I was a failed acquisition being forced into a merger. I got out of bed, shoving the tray off my lap. The cupcake toppled sideways, the candle smearing frosting across the blanket like a smear of white lies. “I need air,” I said. Mom stood up. “Katia, don’t be ridiculous—” “No. I need to think. I’m going to Vegas.” That caught her off guard. “Vegas?” “Just a weekend,” I lied. “To clear my head. You want me to marry a stranger? Fine. But let me have one moment of freedom first.” She looked like she wanted to argue, but Dad touched her hand. “Let her go. She’ll come around.” I watched the silent war play out in her expression. In the end, control won. Because she thought she already had it. “Fine,” she said, that awful smile returning. “Go. Take some time. But don’t forget what’s waiting when you come back.” I didn’t answer. I was already packing the second the door closed. They thought they were giving me space. What they didn’t know was that I wasn’t going to Vegas for air. I was going for speed. Chapter 2 The Racer And The Popped Cherry 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, and 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 hand. 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 didn’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. 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 has to do with "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." He was hard, and I turned and laughed at him. "Trouble," he said and grabbed my hand and led me outside. We went on 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 him while we kissed. "I think my friend spiked our drinks; I just want to take you now." "Then take me." I couldn't believe my voice, but then I wanted him to be with me. He rubbed his finger on my body. His warm breath formed a trail along my neck. "I want to be gentle, but I can't. The medicine was too much." He whispers. "Just do it," I begged. "I'm going to inside you, princess." He says, and all I want is him inside me. He pushed against my tight nervous muscles to penetrate me. I screamed, and his free hand flew to my mouth. He looked at me but didn't continue. 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 men. "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. Chapter 3 I Will Inside You Katia "Do you know how hard I've been holding myself?" I didn't answer because all I wanted was to get to the bed. He carried my bridal style and led me to his hotel room. "Now, I can take 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." His words shocked me like a live wire. "You are so soft," he gritted. Before I could answer, he took my breath away. "Beg for it, wifey," he says, and I opened my mouth, but the only thing that came out was a moan, and he kept rubbing, his palm pressing against my body. His fingers meet my lips again; I can smell myself on his fingers. "Lick it with the tip of your tongue." He wanted me to taste myself, so I sheepishly darted my tongue to taste a hint of saltiness. He removes my dress and then removes his clothes too. He then captured my lips and started to move. "So perfect." He says. I moaned through tears as his free hand roved along my body, squeezing and rubbing. He then wrapped his hand around me and pulled me up. I was enjoying everything he was doing with me and to me. My moans got louder; I didn't care if there was anyone listening to us. "I'm going to fill you up, Princess." He says, and I mewl, and he goes on. He lowers himself along my body and starts grazing his teeth against my skin. He claimed me the whole night, and I don't remember what time we slept. 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, and the scent and something expensive—cologne, maybe. My head throbbed. My body... ached. I had no clothes 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 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. I smelled like sweat, like someone else’s body had touched 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?” 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. I remembered nothing.

---Chapter 1 The Arrangement Katia I woke up to the sound of people singing badly. “Happy birthday to you...” I blinked hard against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, my brain slow to reboot. The voices were getting louder, and for a second, I thought I was dreaming. A really weird, off-key dream. “Happy birthday, dear Katia...” My bedroom door flung open. I sat up so fast the blanket tangled around my legs like a trap. My vision adjusted just in time to see a small parade entering my room, Delia leading the way with a cupcake on a tray, Dad trailing behind her holding a phone like he was filming a hostage video, and then, my mother, smiling. I nearly choked because my mom has never smiled at me. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she said; her voice was smooth and artificial, like she’d sprayed it with perfume before letting it out of her mouth. I stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Because here’s the thing: Martha didn’t do birthdays. Not mine, anyway. Delia got birthdays. Princess themes, balloons, new dresses, and a chorus of relatives pretending they liked each other. I got awkward silences and last-minute gas station cards. I once got a vacuum cleaner. I was twelve. So this? This felt like a setup. “Um... thanks?” I said, my voice rough from sleep and suspicion. Delia plopped the tray down in my lap like she was presenting a peace offering. “I made the cupcake myself,” she said sweetly, which meant the maid probably did it while Delia supervised with a glass of wine. I looked down at it. Vanilla with white frosting and one lonely candle jammed in the center like a warning flare. “Blow it out,” my dad said cheerfully, but his eyes were doing that thing they always did when he was nervous, darting around like they were looking for an exit. I narrowed my eyes. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on?” My mom gave a soft laugh, as if I was being silly for having the correct instincts. She sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the comforter like she’d ever touched it before. “You’re twenty now,” she said gently. “That’s a very important age.” “Cool,” I said, unimpressed. “Should I be bracing for a tax seminar or something?” Delia giggled. Dad coughed. Mom kept going, undeterred. “You’re a woman now, Katia. And your father and I have something very exciting and important to tell you.” There it was. The sting in the frosting. The trap under the ribbon. I sat up straighter. “Okay…” She looked at me like she was about to hand me a tiara. “You’ve been chosen to marry Julian Windsor.” The room didn’t go quiet; it went hollow. For a second, I couldn’t even process the words. I stared at her, waiting for a punchline, a camera crew, or something. “Who?” I asked, even though I’d heard her perfectly. “Julian Windsor,” she repeated. “The Windsor heir. Their family has been interested in an alliance for years. You were betrothed when you were sixteen.” I blinked. “What?!” Dad gave me a sheepish look. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you at the time.” “At the time? You mean when I was sixteen?!” Mom’s smile never wavered. “It was a strategic match. His family is very private. Very powerful. This is a good thing, Katia. You’re incredibly lucky.” Lucky? Like this was some kind of prize. Like I should’ve been jumping up and down because I was the golden ticket in a billionaire breeding lottery. “I’ve never even met him,” I said, still struggling to wrap my head around the casual horror of what she’d just dropped on me like it was a brunch topic. “Neither has Delia,” she replied smoothly. “But if things had gone differently, she would’ve married him instead. You should be grateful it’s you.” “Wow,” I muttered. “How generous of you, Mother.” Delia leaned against the bedpost, swirling her hair around her finger. “He’s supposed to be really handsome. And rich. Like... rich rich. The Windsors own, like, everything. Casinos. Oil. Maybe a spaceship? I don’t know. They’re super secretive.” “Oh great,” I snapped. “So I’m marrying a ghost with a trust fund, and you know this how?” My mom’s eyes hardened, just for a second. “Don’t be dramatic. He’s real. And they chose you. That should mean something.” “No,” I said. “What means something is that you waited four years to tell me I was promised to a complete stranger like this is a medieval auction.” My dad cleared his throat. “We thought we’d wait until the Windsors reached out. And... they have.” I stared at him. “You mean this is happening now?” “They’ve arranged to meet in a few weeks,” my mother said. “There will be dinner. Formalities. You’ll get to know each other before the engagement becomes public.” Public? Right. Because this wasn’t a relationship. It was a press release waiting to happen. “I can’t believe this,” I said, my voice flat. “You didn’t even ask me.” “You don’t ask about opportunities like this,” she said firmly. “You accept them.” That was her tone now. The mask was slipping. She wasn’t the smiling mother with a cupcake anymore. She was the CEO of this family, and I was a failed acquisition being forced into a merger. I got out of bed, shoving the tray off my lap. The cupcake toppled sideways, the candle smearing frosting across the blanket like a smear of white lies. “I need air,” I said. Mom stood up. “Katia, don’t be ridiculous—” “No. I need to think. I’m going to Vegas.” That caught her off guard. “Vegas?” “Just a weekend,” I lied. “To clear my head. You want me to marry a stranger? Fine. But let me have one moment of freedom first.” She looked like she wanted to argue, but Dad touched her hand. “Let her go. She’ll come around.” I watched the silent war play out in her expression. In the end, control won. Because she thought she already had it. “Fine,” she said, that awful smile returning. “Go. Take some time. But don’t forget what’s waiting when you come back.” I didn’t answer. I was already packing the second the door closed. They thought they were giving me space. What they didn’t know was that I wasn’t going to Vegas for air. I was going for speed. Chapter 2 The Racer And The Popped Cherry 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, and 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 hand. 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 didn’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. 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 has to do with "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." He was hard, and I turned and laughed at him. "Trouble," he said and grabbed my hand and led me outside. We went on 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 him while we kissed. "I think my friend spiked our drinks; I just want to take you now." "Then take me." I couldn't believe my voice, but then I wanted him to be with me. He rubbed his finger on my body. His warm breath formed a trail along my neck. "I want to be gentle, but I can't. The medicine was too much." He whispers. "Just do it," I begged. "I'm going to inside you, princess." He says, and all I want is him inside me. He pushed against my tight nervous muscles to penetrate me. I screamed, and his free hand flew to my mouth. He looked at me but didn't continue. 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 men. "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. Chapter 3 I Will Inside You Katia "Do you know how hard I've been holding myself?" I didn't answer because all I wanted was to get to the bed. He carried my bridal style and led me to his hotel room. "Now, I can take 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." His words shocked me like a live wire. "You are so soft," he gritted. Before I could answer, he took my breath away. "Beg for it, wifey," he says, and I opened my mouth, but the only thing that came out was a moan, and he kept rubbing, his palm pressing against my body. His fingers meet my lips again; I can smell myself on his fingers. "Lick it with the tip of your tongue." He wanted me to taste myself, so I sheepishly darted my tongue to taste a hint of saltiness. He removes my dress and then removes his clothes too. He then captured my lips and started to move. "So perfect." He says. I moaned through tears as his free hand roved along my body, squeezing and rubbing. He then wrapped his hand around me and pulled me up. I was enjoying everything he was doing with me and to me. My moans got louder; I didn't care if there was anyone listening to us. "I'm going to fill you up, Princess." He says, and I mewl, and he goes on. He lowers himself along my body and starts grazing his teeth against my skin. He claimed me the whole night, and I don't remember what time we slept. 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, and the scent and something expensive—cologne, maybe. My head throbbed. My body... ached. I had no clothes 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 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. I smelled like sweat, like someone else’s body had touched 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?” 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. I remembered nothing.

---Chapter 1 The Arrangement Katia I woke up to the sound of people singing badly. “Happy birthday to you...” I blinked hard against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, my brain slow to reboot. The voices were getting louder, and for a second, I thought I was dreaming. A really weird, off-key dream. “Happy birthday, dear Katia...” My bedroom door flung open. I sat up so fast the blanket tangled around my legs like a trap. My vision adjusted just in time to see a small parade entering my room, Delia leading the way with a cupcake on a tray, Dad trailing behind her holding a phone like he was filming a hostage video, and then, my mother, smiling. I nearly choked because my mom has never smiled at me. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she said; her voice was smooth and artificial, like she’d sprayed it with perfume before letting it out of her mouth. I stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Because here’s the thing: Martha didn’t do birthdays. Not mine, anyway. Delia got birthdays. Princess themes, balloons, new dresses, and a chorus of relatives pretending they liked each other. I got awkward silences and last-minute gas station cards. I once got a vacuum cleaner. I was twelve. So this? This felt like a setup. “Um... thanks?” I said, my voice rough from sleep and suspicion. Delia plopped the tray down in my lap like she was presenting a peace offering. “I made the cupcake myself,” she said sweetly, which meant the maid probably did it while Delia supervised with a glass of wine. I looked down at it. Vanilla with white frosting and one lonely candle jammed in the center like a warning flare. “Blow it out,” my dad said cheerfully, but his eyes were doing that thing they always did when he was nervous, darting around like they were looking for an exit. I narrowed my eyes. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on?” My mom gave a soft laugh, as if I was being silly for having the correct instincts. She sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the comforter like she’d ever touched it before. “You’re twenty now,” she said gently. “That’s a very important age.” “Cool,” I said, unimpressed. “Should I be bracing for a tax seminar or something?” Delia giggled. Dad coughed. Mom kept going, undeterred. “You’re a woman now, Katia. And your father and I have something very exciting and important to tell you.” There it was. The sting in the frosting. The trap under the ribbon. I sat up straighter. “Okay…” She looked at me like she was about to hand me a tiara. “You’ve been chosen to marry Julian Windsor.” The room didn’t go quiet; it went hollow. For a second, I couldn’t even process the words. I stared at her, waiting for a punchline, a camera crew, or something. “Who?” I asked, even though I’d heard her perfectly. “Julian Windsor,” she repeated. “The Windsor heir. Their family has been interested in an alliance for years. You were betrothed when you were sixteen.” I blinked. “What?!” Dad gave me a sheepish look. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you at the time.” “At the time? You mean when I was sixteen?!” Mom’s smile never wavered. “It was a strategic match. His family is very private. Very powerful. This is a good thing, Katia. You’re incredibly lucky.” Lucky? Like this was some kind of prize. Like I should’ve been jumping up and down because I was the golden ticket in a billionaire breeding lottery. “I’ve never even met him,” I said, still struggling to wrap my head around the casual horror of what she’d just dropped on me like it was a brunch topic. “Neither has Delia,” she replied smoothly. “But if things had gone differently, she would’ve married him instead. You should be grateful it’s you.” “Wow,” I muttered. “How generous of you, Mother.” Delia leaned against the bedpost, swirling her hair around her finger. “He’s supposed to be really handsome. And rich. Like... rich rich. The Windsors own, like, everything. Casinos. Oil. Maybe a spaceship? I don’t know. They’re super secretive.” “Oh great,” I snapped. “So I’m marrying a ghost with a trust fund, and you know this how?” My mom’s eyes hardened, just for a second. “Don’t be dramatic. He’s real. And they chose you. That should mean something.” “No,” I said. “What means something is that you waited four years to tell me I was promised to a complete stranger like this is a medieval auction.” My dad cleared his throat. “We thought we’d wait until the Windsors reached out. And... they have.” I stared at him. “You mean this is happening now?” “They’ve arranged to meet in a few weeks,” my mother said. “There will be dinner. Formalities. You’ll get to know each other before the engagement becomes public.” Public? Right. Because this wasn’t a relationship. It was a press release waiting to happen. “I can’t believe this,” I said, my voice flat. “You didn’t even ask me.” “You don’t ask about opportunities like this,” she said firmly. “You accept them.” That was her tone now. The mask was slipping. She wasn’t the smiling mother with a cupcake anymore. She was the CEO of this family, and I was a failed acquisition being forced into a merger. I got out of bed, shoving the tray off my lap. The cupcake toppled sideways, the candle smearing frosting across the blanket like a smear of white lies. “I need air,” I said. Mom stood up. “Katia, don’t be ridiculous—” “No. I need to think. I’m going to Vegas.” That caught her off guard. “Vegas?” “Just a weekend,” I lied. “To clear my head. You want me to marry a stranger? Fine. But let me have one moment of freedom first.” She looked like she wanted to argue, but Dad touched her hand. “Let her go. She’ll come around.” I watched the silent war play out in her expression. In the end, control won. Because she thought she already had it. “Fine,” she said, that awful smile returning. “Go. Take some time. But don’t forget what’s waiting when you come back.” I didn’t answer. I was already packing the second the door closed. They thought they were giving me space. What they didn’t know was that I wasn’t going to Vegas for air. I was going for speed. Chapter 2 The Racer And The Popped Cherry 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, and 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 hand. 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 didn’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. 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 has to do with "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." He was hard, and I turned and laughed at him. "Trouble," he said and grabbed my hand and led me outside. We went on 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 him while we kissed. "I think my friend spiked our drinks; I just want to take you now." "Then take me." I couldn't believe my voice, but then I wanted him to be with me. He rubbed his finger on my body. His warm breath formed a trail along my neck. "I want to be gentle, but I can't. The medicine was too much." He whispers. "Just do it," I begged. "I'm going to inside you, princess." He says, and all I want is him inside me. He pushed against my tight nervous muscles to penetrate me. I screamed, and his free hand flew to my mouth. He looked at me but didn't continue. 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 men. "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. Chapter 3 I Will Inside You Katia "Do you know how hard I've been holding myself?" I didn't answer because all I wanted was to get to the bed. He carried my bridal style and led me to his hotel room. "Now, I can take 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." His words shocked me like a live wire. "You are so soft," he gritted. Before I could answer, he took my breath away. "Beg for it, wifey," he says, and I opened my mouth, but the only thing that came out was a moan, and he kept rubbing, his palm pressing against my body. His fingers meet my lips again; I can smell myself on his fingers. "Lick it with the tip of your tongue." He wanted me to taste myself, so I sheepishly darted my tongue to taste a hint of saltiness. He removes my dress and then removes his clothes too. He then captured my lips and started to move. "So perfect." He says. I moaned through tears as his free hand roved along my body, squeezing and rubbing. He then wrapped his hand around me and pulled me up. I was enjoying everything he was doing with me and to me. My moans got louder; I didn't care if there was anyone listening to us. "I'm going to fill you up, Princess." He says, and I mewl, and he goes on. He lowers himself along my body and starts grazing his teeth against my skin. He claimed me the whole night, and I don't remember what time we slept. 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, and the scent and something expensive—cologne, maybe. My head throbbed. My body... ached. I had no clothes 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 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. I smelled like sweat, like someone else’s body had touched 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?” 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. I remembered nothing.

---Chapter 1 The Arrangement Katia I woke up to the sound of people singing badly. “Happy birthday to you...” I blinked hard against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, my brain slow to reboot. The voices were getting louder, and for a second, I thought I was dreaming. A really weird, off-key dream. “Happy birthday, dear Katia...” My bedroom door flung open. I sat up so fast the blanket tangled around my legs like a trap. My vision adjusted just in time to see a small parade entering my room, Delia leading the way with a cupcake on a tray, Dad trailing behind her holding a phone like he was filming a hostage video, and then, my mother, smiling. I nearly choked because my mom has never smiled at me. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she said; her voice was smooth and artificial, like she’d sprayed it with perfume before letting it out of her mouth. I stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Because here’s the thing: Martha didn’t do birthdays. Not mine, anyway. Delia got birthdays. Princess themes, balloons, new dresses, and a chorus of relatives pretending they liked each other. I got awkward silences and last-minute gas station cards. I once got a vacuum cleaner. I was twelve. So this? This felt like a setup. “Um... thanks?” I said, my voice rough from sleep and suspicion. Delia plopped the tray down in my lap like she was presenting a peace offering. “I made the cupcake myself,” she said sweetly, which meant the maid probably did it while Delia supervised with a glass of wine. I looked down at it. Vanilla with white frosting and one lonely candle jammed in the center like a warning flare. “Blow it out,” my dad said cheerfully, but his eyes were doing that thing they always did when he was nervous, darting around like they were looking for an exit. I narrowed my eyes. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on?” My mom gave a soft laugh, as if I was being silly for having the correct instincts. She sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the comforter like she’d ever touched it before. “You’re twenty now,” she said gently. “That’s a very important age.” “Cool,” I said, unimpressed. “Should I be bracing for a tax seminar or something?” Delia giggled. Dad coughed. Mom kept going, undeterred. “You’re a woman now, Katia. And your father and I have something very exciting and important to tell you.” There it was. The sting in the frosting. The trap under the ribbon. I sat up straighter. “Okay…” She looked at me like she was about to hand me a tiara. “You’ve been chosen to marry Julian Windsor.” The room didn’t go quiet; it went hollow. For a second, I couldn’t even process the words. I stared at her, waiting for a punchline, a camera crew, or something. “Who?” I asked, even though I’d heard her perfectly. “Julian Windsor,” she repeated. “The Windsor heir. Their family has been interested in an alliance for years. You were betrothed when you were sixteen.” I blinked. “What?!” Dad gave me a sheepish look. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you at the time.” “At the time? You mean when I was sixteen?!” Mom’s smile never wavered. “It was a strategic match. His family is very private. Very powerful. This is a good thing, Katia. You’re incredibly lucky.” Lucky? Like this was some kind of prize. Like I should’ve been jumping up and down because I was the golden ticket in a billionaire breeding lottery. “I’ve never even met him,” I said, still struggling to wrap my head around the casual horror of what she’d just dropped on me like it was a brunch topic. “Neither has Delia,” she replied smoothly. “But if things had gone differently, she would’ve married him instead. You should be grateful it’s you.” “Wow,” I muttered. “How generous of you, Mother.” Delia leaned against the bedpost, swirling her hair around her finger. “He’s supposed to be really handsome. And rich. Like... rich rich. The Windsors own, like, everything. Casinos. Oil. Maybe a spaceship? I don’t know. They’re super secretive.” “Oh great,” I snapped. “So I’m marrying a ghost with a trust fund, and you know this how?” My mom’s eyes hardened, just for a second. “Don’t be dramatic. He’s real. And they chose you. That should mean something.” “No,” I said. “What means something is that you waited four years to tell me I was promised to a complete stranger like this is a medieval auction.” My dad cleared his throat. “We thought we’d wait until the Windsors reached out. And... they have.” I stared at him. “You mean this is happening now?” “They’ve arranged to meet in a few weeks,” my mother said. “There will be dinner. Formalities. You’ll get to know each other before the engagement becomes public.” Public? Right. Because this wasn’t a relationship. It was a press release waiting to happen. “I can’t believe this,” I said, my voice flat. “You didn’t even ask me.” “You don’t ask about opportunities like this,” she said firmly. “You accept them.” That was her tone now. The mask was slipping. She wasn’t the smiling mother with a cupcake anymore. She was the CEO of this family, and I was a failed acquisition being forced into a merger. I got out of bed, shoving the tray off my lap. The cupcake toppled sideways, the candle smearing frosting across the blanket like a smear of white lies. “I need air,” I said. Mom stood up. “Katia, don’t be ridiculous—” “No. I need to think. I’m going to Vegas.” That caught her off guard. “Vegas?” “Just a weekend,” I lied. “To clear my head. You want me to marry a stranger? Fine. But let me have one moment of freedom first.” She looked like she wanted to argue, but Dad touched her hand. “Let her go. She’ll come around.” I watched the silent war play out in her expression. In the end, control won. Because she thought she already had it. “Fine,” she said, that awful smile returning. “Go. Take some time. But don’t forget what’s waiting when you come back.” I didn’t answer. I was already packing the second the door closed. They thought they were giving me space. What they didn’t know was that I wasn’t going to Vegas for air. I was going for speed. Chapter 2 The Racer And The Popped Cherry 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, and 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 hand. 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 didn’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. 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 has to do with "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." He was hard, and I turned and laughed at him. "Trouble," he said and grabbed my hand and led me outside. We went on 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 him while we kissed. "I think my friend spiked our drinks; I just want to take you now." "Then take me." I couldn't believe my voice, but then I wanted him to be with me. He rubbed his finger on my body. His warm breath formed a trail along my neck. "I want to be gentle, but I can't. The medicine was too much." He whispers. "Just do it," I begged. "I'm going to inside you, princess." He says, and all I want is him inside me. He pushed against my tight nervous muscles to penetrate me. I screamed, and his free hand flew to my mouth. He looked at me but didn't continue. 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 men. "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. Chapter 3 I Will Inside You Katia "Do you know how hard I've been holding myself?" I didn't answer because all I wanted was to get to the bed. He carried my bridal style and led me to his hotel room. "Now, I can take 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." His words shocked me like a live wire. "You are so soft," he gritted. Before I could answer, he took my breath away. "Beg for it, wifey," he says, and I opened my mouth, but the only thing that came out was a moan, and he kept rubbing, his palm pressing against my body. His fingers meet my lips again; I can smell myself on his fingers. "Lick it with the tip of your tongue." He wanted me to taste myself, so I sheepishly darted my tongue to taste a hint of saltiness. He removes my dress and then removes his clothes too. He then captured my lips and started to move. "So perfect." He says. I moaned through tears as his free hand roved along my body, squeezing and rubbing. He then wrapped his hand around me and pulled me up. I was enjoying everything he was doing with me and to me. My moans got louder; I didn't care if there was anyone listening to us. "I'm going to fill you up, Princess." He says, and I mewl, and he goes on. He lowers himself along my body and starts grazing his teeth against my skin. He claimed me the whole night, and I don't remember what time we slept. 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, and the scent and something expensive—cologne, maybe. My head throbbed. My body... ached. I had no clothes 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 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. I smelled like sweat, like someone else’s body had touched 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?” 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. I remembered nothing.

---Chapter 1 The Arrangement Katia I woke up to the sound of people singing badly. “Happy birthday to you...” I blinked hard against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, my brain slow to reboot. The voices were getting louder, and for a second, I thought I was dreaming. A really weird, off-key dream. “Happy birthday, dear Katia...” My bedroom door flung open. I sat up so fast the blanket tangled around my legs like a trap. My vision adjusted just in time to see a small parade entering my room, Delia leading the way with a cupcake on a tray, Dad trailing behind her holding a phone like he was filming a hostage video, and then, my mother, smiling. I nearly choked because my mom has never smiled at me. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she said; her voice was smooth and artificial, like she’d sprayed it with perfume before letting it out of her mouth. I stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Because here’s the thing: Martha didn’t do birthdays. Not mine, anyway. Delia got birthdays. Princess themes, balloons, new dresses, and a chorus of relatives pretending they liked each other. I got awkward silences and last-minute gas station cards. I once got a vacuum cleaner. I was twelve. So this? This felt like a setup. “Um... thanks?” I said, my voice rough from sleep and suspicion. Delia plopped the tray down in my lap like she was presenting a peace offering. “I made the cupcake myself,” she said sweetly, which meant the maid probably did it while Delia supervised with a glass of wine. I looked down at it. Vanilla with white frosting and one lonely candle jammed in the center like a warning flare. “Blow it out,” my dad said cheerfully, but his eyes were doing that thing they always did when he was nervous, darting around like they were looking for an exit. I narrowed my eyes. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on?” My mom gave a soft laugh, as if I was being silly for having the correct instincts. She sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the comforter like she’d ever touched it before. “You’re twenty now,” she said gently. “That’s a very important age.” “Cool,” I said, unimpressed. “Should I be bracing for a tax seminar or something?” Delia giggled. Dad coughed. Mom kept going, undeterred. “You’re a woman now, Katia. And your father and I have something very exciting and important to tell you.” There it was. The sting in the frosting. The trap under the ribbon. I sat up straighter. “Okay…” She looked at me like she was about to hand me a tiara. “You’ve been chosen to marry Julian Windsor.” The room didn’t go quiet; it went hollow. For a second, I couldn’t even process the words. I stared at her, waiting for a punchline, a camera crew, or something. “Who?” I asked, even though I’d heard her perfectly. “Julian Windsor,” she repeated. “The Windsor heir. Their family has been interested in an alliance for years. You were betrothed when you were sixteen.” I blinked. “What?!” Dad gave me a sheepish look. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you at the time.” “At the time? You mean when I was sixteen?!” Mom’s smile never wavered. “It was a strategic match. His family is very private. Very powerful. This is a good thing, Katia. You’re incredibly lucky.” Lucky? Like this was some kind of prize. Like I should’ve been jumping up and down because I was the golden ticket in a billionaire breeding lottery. “I’ve never even met him,” I said, still struggling to wrap my head around the casual horror of what she’d just dropped on me like it was a brunch topic. “Neither has Delia,” she replied smoothly. “But if things had gone differently, she would’ve married him instead. You should be grateful it’s you.” “Wow,” I muttered. “How generous of you, Mother.” Delia leaned against the bedpost, swirling her hair around her finger. “He’s supposed to be really handsome. And rich. Like... rich rich. The Windsors own, like, everything. Casinos. Oil. Maybe a spaceship? I don’t know. They’re super secretive.” “Oh great,” I snapped. “So I’m marrying a ghost with a trust fund, and you know this how?” My mom’s eyes hardened, just for a second. “Don’t be dramatic. He’s real. And they chose you. That should mean something.” “No,” I said. “What means something is that you waited four years to tell me I was promised to a complete stranger like this is a medieval auction.” My dad cleared his throat. “We thought we’d wait until the Windsors reached out. And... they have.” I stared at him. “You mean this is happening now?” “They’ve arranged to meet in a few weeks,” my mother said. “There will be dinner. Formalities. You’ll get to know each other before the engagement becomes public.” Public? Right. Because this wasn’t a relationship. It was a press release waiting to happen. “I can’t believe this,” I said, my voice flat. “You didn’t even ask me.” “You don’t ask about opportunities like this,” she said firmly. “You accept them.” That was her tone now. The mask was slipping. She wasn’t the smiling mother with a cupcake anymore. She was the CEO of this family, and I was a failed acquisition being forced into a merger. I got out of bed, shoving the tray off my lap. The cupcake toppled sideways, the candle smearing frosting across the blanket like a smear of white lies. “I need air,” I said. Mom stood up. “Katia, don’t be ridiculous—” “No. I need to think. I’m going to Vegas.” That caught her off guard. “Vegas?” “Just a weekend,” I lied. “To clear my head. You want me to marry a stranger? Fine. But let me have one moment of freedom first.” She looked like she wanted to argue, but Dad touched her hand. “Let her go. She’ll come around.” I watched the silent war play out in her expression. In the end, control won. Because she thought she already had it. “Fine,” she said, that awful smile returning. “Go. Take some time. But don’t forget what’s waiting when you come back.” I didn’t answer. I was already packing the second the door closed. They thought they were giving me space. What they didn’t know was that I wasn’t going to Vegas for air. I was going for speed. Chapter 2 The Racer And The Popped Cherry 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, and 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 hand. 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 didn’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. 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 has to do with "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." He was hard, and I turned and laughed at him. "Trouble," he said and grabbed my hand and led me outside. We went on 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 him while we kissed. "I think my friend spiked our drinks; I just want to take you now." "Then take me." I couldn't believe my voice, but then I wanted him to be with me. He rubbed his finger on my body. His warm breath formed a trail along my neck. "I want to be gentle, but I can't. The medicine was too much." He whispers. "Just do it," I begged. "I'm going to inside you, princess." He says, and all I want is him inside me. He pushed against my tight nervous muscles to penetrate me. I screamed, and his free hand flew to my mouth. He looked at me but didn't continue. 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 men. "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. Chapter 3 I Will Inside You Katia "Do you know how hard I've been holding myself?" I didn't answer because all I wanted was to get to the bed. He carried my bridal style and led me to his hotel room. "Now, I can take 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." His words shocked me like a live wire. "You are so soft," he gritted. Before I could answer, he took my breath away. "Beg for it, wifey," he says, and I opened my mouth, but the only thing that came out was a moan, and he kept rubbing, his palm pressing against my body. His fingers meet my lips again; I can smell myself on his fingers. "Lick it with the tip of your tongue." He wanted me to taste myself, so I sheepishly darted my tongue to taste a hint of saltiness. He removes my dress and then removes his clothes too. He then captured my lips and started to move. "So perfect." He says. I moaned through tears as his free hand roved along my body, squeezing and rubbing. He then wrapped his hand around me and pulled me up. I was enjoying everything he was doing with me and to me. My moans got louder; I didn't care if there was anyone listening to us. "I'm going to fill you up, Princess." He says, and I mewl, and he goes on. He lowers himself along my body and starts grazing his teeth against my skin. He claimed me the whole night, and I don't remember what time we slept. 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, and the scent and something expensive—cologne, maybe. My head throbbed. My body... ached. I had no clothes 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 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. I smelled like sweat, like someone else’s body had touched 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?” 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. I remembered nothing.

---Chapter 1 The Arrangement Katia I woke up to the sound of people singing badly. “Happy birthday to you...” I blinked hard against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, my brain slow to reboot. The voices were getting louder, and for a second, I thought I was dreaming. A really weird, off-key dream. “Happy birthday, dear Katia...” My bedroom door flung open. I sat up so fast the blanket tangled around my legs like a trap. My vision adjusted just in time to see a small parade entering my room, Delia leading the way with a cupcake on a tray, Dad trailing behind her holding a phone like he was filming a hostage video, and then, my mother, smiling. I nearly choked because my mom has never smiled at me. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she said; her voice was smooth and artificial, like she’d sprayed it with perfume before letting it out of her mouth. I stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Because here’s the thing: Martha didn’t do birthdays. Not mine, anyway. Delia got birthdays. Princess themes, balloons, new dresses, and a chorus of relatives pretending they liked each other. I got awkward silences and last-minute gas station cards. I once got a vacuum cleaner. I was twelve. So this? This felt like a setup. “Um... thanks?” I said, my voice rough from sleep and suspicion. Delia plopped the tray down in my lap like she was presenting a peace offering. “I made the cupcake myself,” she said sweetly, which meant the maid probably did it while Delia supervised with a glass of wine. I looked down at it. Vanilla with white frosting and one lonely candle jammed in the center like a warning flare. “Blow it out,” my dad said cheerfully, but his eyes were doing that thing they always did when he was nervous, darting around like they were looking for an exit. I narrowed my eyes. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on?” My mom gave a soft laugh, as if I was being silly for having the correct instincts. She sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the comforter like she’d ever touched it before. “You’re twenty now,” she said gently. “That’s a very important age.” “Cool,” I said, unimpressed. “Should I be bracing for a tax seminar or something?” Delia giggled. Dad coughed. Mom kept going, undeterred. “You’re a woman now, Katia. And your father and I have something very exciting and important to tell you.” There it was. The sting in the frosting. The trap under the ribbon. I sat up straighter. “Okay…” She looked at me like she was about to hand me a tiara. “You’ve been chosen to marry Julian Windsor.” The room didn’t go quiet; it went hollow. For a second, I couldn’t even process the words. I stared at her, waiting for a punchline, a camera crew, or something. “Who?” I asked, even though I’d heard her perfectly. “Julian Windsor,” she repeated. “The Windsor heir. Their family has been interested in an alliance for years. You were betrothed when you were sixteen.” I blinked. “What?!” Dad gave me a sheepish look. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you at the time.” “At the time? You mean when I was sixteen?!” Mom’s smile never wavered. “It was a strategic match. His family is very private. Very powerful. This is a good thing, Katia. You’re incredibly lucky.” Lucky? Like this was some kind of prize. Like I should’ve been jumping up and down because I was the golden ticket in a billionaire breeding lottery. “I’ve never even met him,” I said, still struggling to wrap my head around the casual horror of what she’d just dropped on me like it was a brunch topic. “Neither has Delia,” she replied smoothly. “But if things had gone differently, she would’ve married him instead. You should be grateful it’s you.” “Wow,” I muttered. “How generous of you, Mother.” Delia leaned against the bedpost, swirling her hair around her finger. “He’s supposed to be really handsome. And rich. Like... rich rich. The Windsors own, like, everything. Casinos. Oil. Maybe a spaceship? I don’t know. They’re super secretive.” “Oh great,” I snapped. “So I’m marrying a ghost with a trust fund, and you know this how?” My mom’s eyes hardened, just for a second. “Don’t be dramatic. He’s real. And they chose you. That should mean something.” “No,” I said. “What means something is that you waited four years to tell me I was promised to a complete stranger like this is a medieval auction.” My dad cleared his throat. “We thought we’d wait until the Windsors reached out. And... they have.” I stared at him. “You mean this is happening now?” “They’ve arranged to meet in a few weeks,” my mother said. “There will be dinner. Formalities. You’ll get to know each other before the engagement becomes public.” Public? Right. Because this wasn’t a relationship. It was a press release waiting to happen. “I can’t believe this,” I said, my voice flat. “You didn’t even ask me.” “You don’t ask about opportunities like this,” she said firmly. “You accept them.” That was her tone now. The mask was slipping. She wasn’t the smiling mother with a cupcake anymore. She was the CEO of this family, and I was a failed acquisition being forced into a merger. I got out of bed, shoving the tray off my lap. The cupcake toppled sideways, the candle smearing frosting across the blanket like a smear of white lies. “I need air,” I said. Mom stood up. “Katia, don’t be ridiculous—” “No. I need to think. I’m going to Vegas.” That caught her off guard. “Vegas?” “Just a weekend,” I lied. “To clear my head. You want me to marry a stranger? Fine. But let me have one moment of freedom first.” She looked like she wanted to argue, but Dad touched her hand. “Let her go. She’ll come around.” I watched the silent war play out in her expression. In the end, control won. Because she thought she already had it. “Fine,” she said, that awful smile returning. “Go. Take some time. But don’t forget what’s waiting when you come back.” I didn’t answer. I was already packing the second the door closed. They thought they were giving me space. What they didn’t know was that I wasn’t going to Vegas for air. I was going for speed. Chapter 2 The Racer And The Popped Cherry 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, and 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 hand. 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 didn’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. 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 has to do with "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." He was hard, and I turned and laughed at him. "Trouble," he said and grabbed my hand and led me outside. We went on 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 him while we kissed. "I think my friend spiked our drinks; I just want to take you now." "Then take me." I couldn't believe my voice, but then I wanted him to be with me. He rubbed his finger on my body. His warm breath formed a trail along my neck. "I want to be gentle, but I can't. The medicine was too much." He whispers. "Just do it," I begged. "I'm going to inside you, princess." He says, and all I want is him inside me. He pushed against my tight nervous muscles to penetrate me. I screamed, and his free hand flew to my mouth. He looked at me but didn't continue. 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 men. "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. Chapter 3 I Will Inside You Katia "Do you know how hard I've been holding myself?" I didn't answer because all I wanted was to get to the bed. He carried my bridal style and led me to his hotel room. "Now, I can take 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." His words shocked me like a live wire. "You are so soft," he gritted. Before I could answer, he took my breath away. "Beg for it, wifey," he says, and I opened my mouth, but the only thing that came out was a moan, and he kept rubbing, his palm pressing against my body. His fingers meet my lips again; I can smell myself on his fingers. "Lick it with the tip of your tongue." He wanted me to taste myself, so I sheepishly darted my tongue to taste a hint of saltiness. He removes my dress and then removes his clothes too. He then captured my lips and started to move. "So perfect." He says. I moaned through tears as his free hand roved along my body, squeezing and rubbing. He then wrapped his hand around me and pulled me up. I was enjoying everything he was doing with me and to me. My moans got louder; I didn't care if there was anyone listening to us. "I'm going to fill you up, Princess." He says, and I mewl, and he goes on. He lowers himself along my body and starts grazing his teeth against my skin. He claimed me the whole night, and I don't remember what time we slept. 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, and the scent and something expensive—cologne, maybe. My head throbbed. My body... ached. I had no clothes 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 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. I smelled like sweat, like someone else’s body had touched 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?” 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. I remembered nothing.

---Chapter 1 The Arrangement Katia I woke up to the sound of people singing badly. “Happy birthday to you...” I blinked hard against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, my brain slow to reboot. The voices were getting louder, and for a second, I thought I was dreaming. A really weird, off-key dream. “Happy birthday, dear Katia...” My bedroom door flung open. I sat up so fast the blanket tangled around my legs like a trap. My vision adjusted just in time to see a small parade entering my room, Delia leading the way with a cupcake on a tray, Dad trailing behind her holding a phone like he was filming a hostage video, and then, my mother, smiling. I nearly choked because my mom has never smiled at me. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she said; her voice was smooth and artificial, like she’d sprayed it with perfume before letting it out of her mouth. I stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Because here’s the thing: Martha didn’t do birthdays. Not mine, anyway. Delia got birthdays. Princess themes, balloons, new dresses, and a chorus of relatives pretending they liked each other. I got awkward silences and last-minute gas station cards. I once got a vacuum cleaner. I was twelve. So this? This felt like a setup. “Um... thanks?” I said, my voice rough from sleep and suspicion. Delia plopped the tray down in my lap like she was presenting a peace offering. “I made the cupcake myself,” she said sweetly, which meant the maid probably did it while Delia supervised with a glass of wine. I looked down at it. Vanilla with white frosting and one lonely candle jammed in the center like a warning flare. “Blow it out,” my dad said cheerfully, but his eyes were doing that thing they always did when he was nervous, darting around like they were looking for an exit. I narrowed my eyes. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on?” My mom gave a soft laugh, as if I was being silly for having the correct instincts. She sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the comforter like she’d ever touched it before. “You’re twenty now,” she said gently. “That’s a very important age.” “Cool,” I said, unimpressed. “Should I be bracing for a tax seminar or something?” Delia giggled. Dad coughed. Mom kept going, undeterred. “You’re a woman now, Katia. And your father and I have something very exciting and important to tell you.” There it was. The sting in the frosting. The trap under the ribbon. I sat up straighter. “Okay…” She looked at me like she was about to hand me a tiara. “You’ve been chosen to marry Julian Windsor.” The room didn’t go quiet; it went hollow. For a second, I couldn’t even process the words. I stared at her, waiting for a punchline, a camera crew, or something. “Who?” I asked, even though I’d heard her perfectly. “Julian Windsor,” she repeated. “The Windsor heir. Their family has been interested in an alliance for years. You were betrothed when you were sixteen.” I blinked. “What?!” Dad gave me a sheepish look. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you at the time.” “At the time? You mean when I was sixteen?!” Mom’s smile never wavered. “It was a strategic match. His family is very private. Very powerful. This is a good thing, Katia. You’re incredibly lucky.” Lucky? Like this was some kind of prize. Like I should’ve been jumping up and down because I was the golden ticket in a billionaire breeding lottery. “I’ve never even met him,” I said, still struggling to wrap my head around the casual horror of what she’d just dropped on me like it was a brunch topic. “Neither has Delia,” she replied smoothly. “But if things had gone differently, she would’ve married him instead. You should be grateful it’s you.” “Wow,” I muttered. “How generous of you, Mother.” Delia leaned against the bedpost, swirling her hair around her finger. “He’s supposed to be really handsome. And rich. Like... rich rich. The Windsors own, like, everything. Casinos. Oil. Maybe a spaceship? I don’t know. They’re super secretive.” “Oh great,” I snapped. “So I’m marrying a ghost with a trust fund, and you know this how?” My mom’s eyes hardened, just for a second. “Don’t be dramatic. He’s real. And they chose you. That should mean something.” “No,” I said. “What means something is that you waited four years to tell me I was promised to a complete stranger like this is a medieval auction.” My dad cleared his throat. “We thought we’d wait until the Windsors reached out. And... they have.” I stared at him. “You mean this is happening now?” “They’ve arranged to meet in a few weeks,” my mother said. “There will be dinner. Formalities. You’ll get to know each other before the engagement becomes public.” Public? Right. Because this wasn’t a relationship. It was a press release waiting to happen. “I can’t believe this,” I said, my voice flat. “You didn’t even ask me.” “You don’t ask about opportunities like this,” she said firmly. “You accept them.” That was her tone now. The mask was slipping. She wasn’t the smiling mother with a cupcake anymore. She was the CEO of this family, and I was a failed acquisition being forced into a merger. I got out of bed, shoving the tray off my lap. The cupcake toppled sideways, the candle smearing frosting across the blanket like a smear of white lies. “I need air,” I said. Mom stood up. “Katia, don’t be ridiculous—” “No. I need to think. I’m going to Vegas.” That caught her off guard. “Vegas?” “Just a weekend,” I lied. “To clear my head. You want me to marry a stranger? Fine. But let me have one moment of freedom first.” She looked like she wanted to argue, but Dad touched her hand. “Let her go. She’ll come around.” I watched the silent war play out in her expression. In the end, control won. Because she thought she already had it. “Fine,” she said, that awful smile returning. “Go. Take some time. But don’t forget what’s waiting when you come back.” I didn’t answer. I was already packing the second the door closed. They thought they were giving me space. What they didn’t know was that I wasn’t going to Vegas for air. I was going for speed. Chapter 2 The Racer And The Popped Cherry 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, and 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 hand. 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 didn’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. 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 has to do with "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." He was hard, and I turned and laughed at him. "Trouble," he said and grabbed my hand and led me outside. We went on 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 him while we kissed. "I think my friend spiked our drinks; I just want to take you now." "Then take me." I couldn't believe my voice, but then I wanted him to be with me. He rubbed his finger on my body. His warm breath formed a trail along my neck. "I want to be gentle, but I can't. The medicine was too much." He whispers. "Just do it," I begged. "I'm going to inside you, princess." He says, and all I want is him inside me. He pushed against my tight nervous muscles to penetrate me. I screamed, and his free hand flew to my mouth. He looked at me but didn't continue. 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 men. "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. Chapter 3 I Will Inside You Katia "Do you know how hard I've been holding myself?" I didn't answer because all I wanted was to get to the bed. He carried my bridal style and led me to his hotel room. "Now, I can take 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." His words shocked me like a live wire. "You are so soft," he gritted. Before I could answer, he took my breath away. "Beg for it, wifey," he says, and I opened my mouth, but the only thing that came out was a moan, and he kept rubbing, his palm pressing against my body. His fingers meet my lips again; I can smell myself on his fingers. "Lick it with the tip of your tongue." He wanted me to taste myself, so I sheepishly darted my tongue to taste a hint of saltiness. He removes my dress and then removes his clothes too. He then captured my lips and started to move. "So perfect." He says. I moaned through tears as his free hand roved along my body, squeezing and rubbing. He then wrapped his hand around me and pulled me up. I was enjoying everything he was doing with me and to me. My moans got louder; I didn't care if there was anyone listening to us. "I'm going to fill you up, Princess." He says, and I mewl, and he goes on. He lowers himself along my body and starts grazing his teeth against my skin. He claimed me the whole night, and I don't remember what time we slept. 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, and the scent and something expensive—cologne, maybe. My head throbbed. My body... ached. I had no clothes 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 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. I smelled like sweat, like someone else’s body had touched 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?” 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. I remembered nothing.

---Chapter 1 The Arrangement Katia I woke up to the sound of people singing badly. “Happy birthday to you...” I blinked hard against the sunlight filtering through the curtains, my brain slow to reboot. The voices were getting louder, and for a second, I thought I was dreaming. A really weird, off-key dream. “Happy birthday, dear Katia...” My bedroom door flung open. I sat up so fast the blanket tangled around my legs like a trap. My vision adjusted just in time to see a small parade entering my room, Delia leading the way with a cupcake on a tray, Dad trailing behind her holding a phone like he was filming a hostage video, and then, my mother, smiling. I nearly choked because my mom has never smiled at me. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she said; her voice was smooth and artificial, like she’d sprayed it with perfume before letting it out of her mouth. I stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Because here’s the thing: Martha didn’t do birthdays. Not mine, anyway. Delia got birthdays. Princess themes, balloons, new dresses, and a chorus of relatives pretending they liked each other. I got awkward silences and last-minute gas station cards. I once got a vacuum cleaner. I was twelve. So this? This felt like a setup. “Um... thanks?” I said, my voice rough from sleep and suspicion. Delia plopped the tray down in my lap like she was presenting a peace offering. “I made the cupcake myself,” she said sweetly, which meant the maid probably did it while Delia supervised with a glass of wine. I looked down at it. Vanilla with white frosting and one lonely candle jammed in the center like a warning flare. “Blow it out,” my dad said cheerfully, but his eyes were doing that thing they always did when he was nervous, darting around like they were looking for an exit. I narrowed my eyes. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on?” My mom gave a soft laugh, as if I was being silly for having the correct instincts. She sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing the comforter like she’d ever touched it before. “You’re twenty now,” she said gently. “That’s a very important age.” “Cool,” I said, unimpressed. “Should I be bracing for a tax seminar or something?” Delia giggled. Dad coughed. Mom kept going, undeterred. “You’re a woman now, Katia. And your father and I have something very exciting and important to tell you.” There it was. The sting in the frosting. The trap under the ribbon. I sat up straighter. “Okay…” She looked at me like she was about to hand me a tiara. “You’ve been chosen to marry Julian Windsor.” The room didn’t go quiet; it went hollow. For a second, I couldn’t even process the words. I stared at her, waiting for a punchline, a camera crew, or something. “Who?” I asked, even though I’d heard her perfectly. “Julian Windsor,” she repeated. “The Windsor heir. Their family has been interested in an alliance for years. You were betrothed when you were sixteen.” I blinked. “What?!” Dad gave me a sheepish look. “We didn’t want to overwhelm you at the time.” “At the time? You mean when I was sixteen?!” Mom’s smile never wavered. “It was a strategic match. His family is very private. Very powerful. This is a good thing, Katia. You’re incredibly lucky.” Lucky? Like this was some kind of prize. Like I should’ve been jumping up and down because I was the golden ticket in a billionaire breeding lottery. “I’ve never even met him,” I said, still struggling to wrap my head around the casual horror of what she’d just dropped on me like it was a brunch topic. “Neither has Delia,” she replied smoothly. “But if things had gone differently, she would’ve married him instead. You should be grateful it’s you.” “Wow,” I muttered. “How generous of you, Mother.” Delia leaned against the bedpost, swirling her hair around her finger. “He’s supposed to be really handsome. And rich. Like... rich rich. The Windsors own, like, everything. Casinos. Oil. Maybe a spaceship? I don’t know. They’re super secretive.” “Oh great,” I snapped. “So I’m marrying a ghost with a trust fund, and you know this how?” My mom’s eyes hardened, just for a second. “Don’t be dramatic. He’s real. And they chose you. That should mean something.” “No,” I said. “What means something is that you waited four years to tell me I was promised to a complete stranger like this is a medieval auction.” My dad cleared his throat. “We thought we’d wait until the Windsors reached out. And... they have.” I stared at him. “You mean this is happening now?” “They’ve arranged to meet in a few weeks,” my mother said. “There will be dinner. Formalities. You’ll get to know each other before the engagement becomes public.” Public? Right. Because this wasn’t a relationship. It was a press release waiting to happen. “I can’t believe this,” I said, my voice flat. “You didn’t even ask me.” “You don’t ask about opportunities like this,” she said firmly. “You accept them.” That was her tone now. The mask was slipping. She wasn’t the smiling mother with a cupcake anymore. She was the CEO of this family, and I was a failed acquisition being forced into a merger. I got out of bed, shoving the tray off my lap. The cupcake toppled sideways, the candle smearing frosting across the blanket like a smear of white lies. “I need air,” I said. Mom stood up. “Katia, don’t be ridiculous—” “No. I need to think. I’m going to Vegas.” That caught her off guard. “Vegas?” “Just a weekend,” I lied. “To clear my head. You want me to marry a stranger? Fine. But let me have one moment of freedom first.” She looked like she wanted to argue, but Dad touched her hand. “Let her go. She’ll come around.” I watched the silent war play out in her expression. In the end, control won. Because she thought she already had it. “Fine,” she said, that awful smile returning. “Go. Take some time. But don’t forget what’s waiting when you come back.” I didn’t answer. I was already packing the second the door closed. They thought they were giving me space. What they didn’t know was that I wasn’t going to Vegas for air. I was going for speed. Chapter 2 The Racer And The Popped Cherry 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, and 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 hand. 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 didn’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. 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 has to do with "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas." He was hard, and I turned and laughed at him. "Trouble," he said and grabbed my hand and led me outside. We went on 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 him while we kissed. "I think my friend spiked our drinks; I just want to take you now." "Then take me." I couldn't believe my voice, but then I wanted him to be with me. He rubbed his finger on my body. His warm breath formed a trail along my neck. "I want to be gentle, but I can't. The medicine was too much." He whispers. "Just do it," I begged. "I'm going to inside you, princess." He says, and all I want is him inside me. He pushed against my tight nervous muscles to penetrate me. I screamed, and his free hand flew to my mouth. He looked at me but didn't continue. 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 men. "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. Chapter 3 I Will Inside You Katia "Do you know how hard I've been holding myself?" I didn't answer because all I wanted was to get to the bed. He carried my bridal style and led me to his hotel room. "Now, I can take 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." His words shocked me like a live wire. "You are so soft," he gritted. Before I could answer, he took my breath away. "Beg for it, wifey," he says, and I opened my mouth, but the only thing that came out was a moan, and he kept rubbing, his palm pressing against my body. His fingers meet my lips again; I can smell myself on his fingers. "Lick it with the tip of your tongue." He wanted me to taste myself, so I sheepishly darted my tongue to taste a hint of saltiness. He removes my dress and then removes his clothes too. He then captured my lips and started to move. "So perfect." He says. I moaned through tears as his free hand roved along my body, squeezing and rubbing. He then wrapped his hand around me and pulled me up. I was enjoying everything he was doing with me and to me. My moans got louder; I didn't care if there was anyone listening to us. "I'm going to fill you up, Princess." He says, and I mewl, and he goes on. He lowers himself along my body and starts grazing his teeth against my skin. He claimed me the whole night, and I don't remember what time we slept. 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, and the scent and something expensive—cologne, maybe. My head throbbed. My body... ached. I had no clothes 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 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. I smelled like sweat, like someone else’s body had touched 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?” 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. I remembered nothing.