Chapter 52

[ 1,057 words ]

Katia’s POV

As I sat atop my bike, the engine idling with a low, menacing growl that vibrated through my thighs, my gaze drifted toward the glass-enclosed VIP section overlooking the starting line. My heart skipped a beat, then hammered twice as hard against my ribs.

There he was, Julian fucking Windsor, sitting in the front row of the lounge, his presence commanding even from a distance. He was a dark silhouette against the plush interior, looking like a king observing a gladiator pit. Zane was beside him, leaning back with a drink in his hand and a relaxed smirk, but Julian was the opposite. He was focused, his body leaning slightly forward, his eyes scanning the starting line with a predatory intensity.

I felt a surge of cold sweat trickle down my spine. They were here. They had seen Catwoman in Vegas, and now, here I was again, a ghost on two wheels appearing in their own backyard. I gripped the handlebars, my knuckles turning white inside my gloves. I had to remind myself to breathe. They didn’t know my name. They didn’t know my face. To them, I was just a thrill to be watched.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, distorted and muffled by the padding of my helmet. “And starting at the pole position… the elusive, the shadow of the circuit… Catwoman p>

The crowd erupted into a roar that I felt in my teeth. I didn’t look at the VIP box again. I couldn’t afford to. I lowered my head, tucking into the bike, and focused entirely on the light tree.

Red. Yellow.

Green.

I kicked the bike into gear and twisted the throttle. The world dissolved into a blur of grey pavement and streaking lights. The g-force hit me like a physical blow, pinning me against the machine as I leaned into the first turn. This wasn’t just a race; it was an exorcism. Every confusing emotion, every word Gail had whispered about Delia, and every lie I had to tell to keep my life together, I left it all on the asphalt.

I was fast. Faster than I had ever been. The other riders felt like they were moving through molasses, their engines whining in a futile attempt to keep up with the sheer, reckless velocity of my bike. I took the corners aggressively, bordering on suicidal, my knee puck scraping the ground and sending a shower of orange sparks into the night air. I was pushing the limits of physics, daring the tires to lose their grip just so I could feel the terror of nearly falling.

The gap I was creating was out of this world. I wasn’t just winning; I was dominating. I was a streak of black lightning cutting through the heart of Manhattan. By the final lap, the roar of the crowd was nothing more than a distant hum, drowned out by the scream of my own engine and the rushing wind. I crossed the finish line a full twenty seconds ahead of the second-place rider, a lifetime in a sport where wins are usually measured in milliseconds.

I didn’t slow down to celebrate. I didn’t do a victory lap or wave to the fans who were screaming my name. I know they will send the trophy, so there was no need to wait. I didn’t want the attention. I drove straight through the finish line and toward the exit gate of the industrial lot, my chest heaving under my suit, the adrenaline still humming like a live wire in my veins.

As I banked the bike toward the exit, I allowed myself one final glance up at the VIP lounge.

Julian was standing now. He had moved right up to the glass, his hands pressed against the transparent barrier as if he wanted to break through it. He was staring down at me, his face a mask of intense, unreadable fascination. Even from the track, through the layers of glass and the distance, I could feel the weight of his gaze, the same obsessive, hunting focus he had used on me in the hallway in Vegas. He didn’t know it was me, but he was captivated by the shadow. He was looking for the woman behind the visor, unaware that she was the same woman he had pinned against a wall only a week ago.

I didn’t give him a second longer. I twisted the throttle, the front wheel lifting slightly off the ground as I accelerated away from the stadium lights and into the dark, winding streets of the city. I disappeared into the New York night, leaving the fame, the questions, and Julian Windsor behind in a cloud of exhaust.

I won, and I left. That was the only way I knew how to survive him: by staying a ghost he could never quite catch.

Julian’s POV

“Did you see that?” Zane asked, his voice breathless as he stood up beside me. “That wasn’t just racing. That was a slaughter. She made them look like amateurs p>

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My eyes were still fixed on the spot where the black bike had vanished into the shadows. My heart was racing, not from the excitement of the event, but from a haunting sense of familiarity.

The way she leaned into the turns, the sheer arrogance of her speed, the way she refused to stay for the accolades… it was the exact same energy I had felt in the hallway in Vegas. It was the same defiance I saw in Katia’s eyes every time she looked at me.

“She didn’t even stop for the check,” Zane muttered, shaking his head. “Who is she p>

“I don’t know,” I whispered, my fingers curled into my pockets. “But I’m going to find out p>

I felt a pull in my gut, a magnetic North pointing straight toward that disappearing taillight. First six years ago, then Vegas, and now Manhattan. Everywhere I turned, there was a woman I couldn’t have and a ghost I couldn’t catch. And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if they were two different people or if the universe was playing a very dangerous game with my soul.

“Let’s go,” I commanded, turning away from the window. “I want the footage from every security camera on this track. Now p>

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