I don’t see the brake lights until it’s almost too late.
A black SUV ahead of me slams to a sudden stop—traffic snarling for no goddamn reason—and instinct kicks in half a second before logic.
I swerve. Hard.
The bike leans dangerously low, tires screaming in protest as rubber skims asphalt, and the world tilts.
My vision explodes into a kaleidoscope of colors, the river, guardrail, and headlights exploding into streaks of white and red.
For one suspended, terrifying second, I’m certain I’m going down.
Certain I won’t get back up.
Certain I’ll no longer be in this world by the time my child makes it’s way into it.
My heart punches against my ribs, and I correct—barely.
The bike straightens, wobbling as I force it back into control, adrenaline detonating in my bloodstream.I pull onto the shoulder, hands shaking as I cut the engine.
Silence crashes in.
My breath leaves my lungs in fast, sharp blusters, the city continuing to roar past me—unaware.
I rest my forehead against the helmet in my hands, eyes closed.
After a moment, I start the bike again. I ride the rest of the way slower and focused.
By the time I reach the lounge where Thane is likely waiting, my nerves are thrumming under my skin.
The Meridian Room rises above the city like a private secret—discreet entrance, understated security, glass and steel polished to quiet perfection.
I park in the private underground bay, remove my helmet, and run a hand through my hair, pulse finally slowing as the residual tremor fades from my hands.
The elevator ride up is silent, and by the time the doors open, I’m scarcely back in my skin.
Thane is already inside—jacket draped over the back of a leather chair, watching the skyline like a man who knows exactly where he stands in the world.
I cross the room, the echo of the bike still humming in my bones.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say.
Thane turns, brown eyes sweeping over me—analyzing.
“The bike?”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
And for the first time all day I try to relax, taking in the low light, the leather chairs, the pianist in the corner.
My best friend—and usual voice of reason—orders without looking at a menu. I don’t ask what. Not even when the bartender sets down two crystal tumblers of something dark and expensive.
Thane lifts his glass. “To the success of the IPO.”
I clink mine against his. “To Titan.”
We drink, and silence stretches over us, weighted.
