Because I want to.
The honesty of it catches me off guard. No pretense. No elaborate justification. Just want, stated plainly, like that’s reason enough.
It should terrify me. It does terrify me.
I typeokayand hit send before I can change my mind.
***
The car that arrives at seven is sleek and black, the kind with tinted windows and a driver who doesn’t make small talk. I’ve changed three times, finally settling on a dress that doesn’t scream intern—deep green, fitted through the waist and hips, hem falling just above my knees. It’s the nicest thing I own, and it still feels inadequate.
The driver opens the door without a word. I slide into leather seats that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe and try to calm my breathing.
We don’t go to a restaurant.
The car winds through Manhattan, then Brooklyn, finally stopping in an area I don’t recognize. Industrial. Abandoned-looking. The kind of neighborhood guidebooks tell tourists to avoid after dark.
The driver opens my door. “He’s waiting inside.”
“Inside where?”
He gestures toward a warehouse with blacked-out windows and no visible signage. Music thrums faintly from within, bass so deep I feel it in my chest.
I walk toward the entrance.
A man built like a wall checks my name against a list, nods once, and pulls open a heavy metal door. Sound crashes over me—engines roaring, crowd noise, the sharp smell of gasoline and burnt rubber.
Inside is chaos.
The warehouse has been converted into some kind of track—concrete floor marked with paint, barriers set up to createa winding course. Cars line the perimeter, low and aggressive, engines rumbling. People crowd the edges, money changing hands, voices raised over the noise.
I scan the crowd, heart pounding, and then I see him.
Dimitri leans against a sleek black car near the far wall, arms crossed, watching me. He’s dressed down tonight—dark jeans, leather jacket over a black shirt—but he still carries himself like he owns the room. Maybe he does.
I make my way over, dodging spectators and trying not to look as out of place as I feel.
“This is dinner?” I ask when I reach him.
His mouth quirks. “This is before dinner.”
“What is this place?”
“Entertainment.” He pushes off the car, turning to face me fully. “You said I move through the world too easily. I thought I’d show you the parts that aren’t easy.”
“Illegal street racing is your idea of difficulty?”
“Legal racing is boring. This has stakes.”
As if to prove his point, two cars peel out from the starting line, engines screaming, tires smoking. The crowd roars. I watch them disappear around the first turn, then look back at Dimitri.
“You race?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
“Because I can. It’s the only place where money doesn’t matter, only skill does.” He studies me, gaze sharp. “You disapprove.”
