Chapter 47

[ 1,485 words ]

Katia’s POV

The adrenaline was still humming in my veins, a low-frequency vibration that made the neon lights of the Las Vegas Strip look like streaks of wet paint against a black canvas. I wasn’t as devastated by the loss as I thought I’d be. Honestly, it was a relief, a terrifying, electric relief, to know there was still someone out there who could push me to the very edge of my capabilities. For years, I had been the ghost that haunted the track, the one no one could catch. Tonight, I was caught. And the feeling of being hunted was far more intoxicating than the feeling of winning.

“Girl, we should definitely go out,” Sam said, leaning against the mahogany doorframe of our hotel suite as she watched me peel off my racing gear. Her eyes were bright, reflecting the restless energy of the city outside. “You haven’t lost in a very long time, and you lose to some anonymous guy in a helmet? You need a drink to mourn your undefeated streak before you let it get in your head p>

I laughed, tossing my damp hair over my shoulder. The physical exertion had left me spent but wired. “It was a good race, Sam. A great one, actually. I feel more alive than I have in months. Losing keeps you hungry, and I’ve been full for way too long. I needed that reality check p>

“Well, I’m hungry for a cocktail and a bass drop,” she countered, tossing a garment bag onto the bed. “Dress up. We’re going out. No more ’Catwoman’ for the night. I want the Katia who owns half of Brooklyn to show Vegas how it’s done p>

I didn’t argue. I reached for a dress that was the antithesis of a flame-retardant racing suit, a silk, emerald-green slip dress that clung to every curve like a second skin and left very little to the imagination. I stepped into a pair of black stilettos that added four inches to my height and a dangerous edge to my stride. I swiped on a dark, wine-colored lip, and for the first time in six years, I didn’t feel like a CEO, a fugitive from my family, or even a mother. I felt like a woman with a pulse.

When we walked into the club, the bass was a physical weight in the air, a thumping that vibrated through the floorboards and settled in my chest. It was the kind of place where the music is loud enough to drown out your own thoughts, which was exactly what I needed. I didn’t want to think about the race, and I certainly didn’t want to think about the man who had beaten me.

We moved toward the VIP lounge, the velvet ropes parting for Sam as she flashed her “don’t even try it” look at the bouncer. But as we approached the bar, the air suddenly felt thinner, colder, and far more familiar than it had any right to be.

I stopped dead. There, sitting at a corner booth with a glass of amber liquid in his hand, was Julian Windsor.

He wasn’t in a suit. He had dressed down, but even in a casual shirt, he looked like he owned the building and the land it sat on. He didn’t look surprised to see me; he looked amused, as if he had been waiting for me to arrive.

“Katia,” he said, his voice cutting through the thumping bass with a terrifying, low-frequency ease. “It seems like you like to follow me around. First New York, then France, now the desert? You’re becoming a habit p>

I opened my mouth to snap back, to tell him that Vegas was big enough for both of us and that I had been coming here long before he decided to drop by, but Sam was faster. She stepped forward, her hand on her hip, looking him dead in the eye with the fierce loyalty I loved her for.

“I’d say you follow Katia around, actually,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “First France, and now, all of a sudden, you’re in Vegas? That’s a very specific itinerary, Julian. Are you stalking my best friend, or do you just have a compass that points toward trouble p>

Before Julian could respond, Zane stood up. He had a lazy, charming grin that suggested he found the entire situation hilarious, a stark contrast to Julian’s brooding intensity. “You’re Samantha, right?” Zane asked, his eyes dancing with interest.

Sam blinked, her defensive posture softening by a fraction. “Yes. How do you know that p>

“Saw you at the office the day you came for the presentation with your boss, or should I say best friend?” Zane said, stepping into the space between us, effectively breaking the tension. “How about we just enjoy the night without thinking about Brooklyn and Manhattan for once? The drinks are cold, the music is good, and we’re all a long way from the office. Let’s call a truce p>

Sam hesitated, looking at me for a cue. I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant even though my heart was still hammering against my ribs. Finally, a slow smile spread across her face. “Fine. But I want the expensive stuff. None of that house-pour garbage p>

We sat. We drank. We blurred the lines. For an hour, the tension of the boardroom and the bitterness of the Kensington family feud felt like a fever dream. I watched Julian over the rim of my glass, noticing the way the shifting club lights caught the sharp, unforgiving angles of his face.

Eventually, the heat of the room and the gin caught up to me. My skin felt too tight for my body. “I’ll be right back,” I whispered to Sam, who was currently deep in a heated, flirtatious debate with Zane about the merits of Brooklyn versus Manhattan real estate.

I made my way toward the back, finding the hallway that led to the bathrooms. The cool tiles and the quiet air of the corridor felt like a sanctuary. I took a deep breath, leaning against the sink in the ladies’ room, staring at my reflection. My eyes were dark, my lips stained, and my heart was doing a dance. I told myself to keep it together. I was a business partner. I was a sister. I was not a woman who should be looking at Julian Windsor as anything other than a hurdle to be cleared.

When I stepped back out into the dimly lit hallway, the shadows seemed to shift. Before I could even register the movement, a figure loomed over me, pinning me back against the wall. The impact wasn’t violent, but it was firm, trapping me between the cold plaster and a wall of pure heat.

A large, warm hand reached up, fingers hooking firmly under my chin to force my face upward. I didn’t even have time to gasp before his face was inches from mine.

And then, he kissed me.

It wasn’t a question; it was a demand. It was a dark, bruising collision of lips and teeth that tasted like expensive whiskey. It was the kind of kiss that felt like a race at two hundred miles per hour, dangerous, reckless, and entirely addictive. Like a fool, I didn’t push him away. I didn’t scream. My body betrayed me instantly, my hands reaching up to find the soft hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer as I melted into the sheer force of his presence.

I kissed him back with a hunger that terrified me, our tongues dancing a dangerous dance that ignored every boundary I had spent years building. I felt the rough texture of his tongue against mine and the way his breath hitched when I tightened my grip.

I broke the kiss, gasping for air, the realization of what I was doing hitting me like a bucket of ice water. I couldn’t let this happen. I couldn’t let what happened six years ago happen again. I couldn’t be that girl who lost her heart to a man who wasn’t hers. I might not know the man from six years ago, but right now, I still have sense.

I pulled back just enough to look at his face, my vision clearing through the haze of lust. Julian was standing there, his chest heaving, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked like black pits. His expression was a volatile mix of triumph and raw, unadulterated desire.

I glanced down, my breath catching in my throat. I saw the unmistakable ridge of him, his cock hard and pressing visibly against his trousers, a silent testament to how much he wanted me in that moment.

Fuck.

I had just kissed my sister’s husband, and from the predatory look in his eyes, he wasn’t planning on letting me go until he finished what he started in France.

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