My phone buzzed at 9:47 AM. Then again. Then three more times in rapid succession.
I picked it up from the nightstand. Messages from Chloe Vance. We'd met twice at Ashton's events. She seemed nice. Quiet. The kind of person who stood at the edges of conversations.
*Averie are you okay?*
*Is that you on the screens at the track??*
*Oh my god I'm so sorry. Someone's playing a video. I don't know who did this.*
My hands went numb. The phone nearly slipped from my grip.
I opened the next message. A photo. Blurry but clear enough. The massive LED screen at the track. My face on it. My body. The video Ashton had promised was just for us.
Playing for everyone.
I was out of bed before I finished the thought. Grabbed my keys. Grabbed the helmet Ashton had left at my apartment weeks ago. My arm throbbed where the bandage covered the gash from his garage door, but I didn't stop to check it.
The scooter was parked in the building's garage. I'd ridden it twice since Ashton handed me the keys at his last convoy. It was small. Slow. Humiliating. But it was all I had.
I started the engine and pulled into traffic. The track was twenty minutes away. Maybe fifteen if I pushed it. My mind was a single white-hot point. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
I took the main road out of the city. Cars honked as I wove between lanes. The scooter's motor whined at maximum speed. My bandaged arm ached every time I gripped the throttle.
At the track entrance, I turned onto the service road. It was faster. A straight shot to the viewing platform where the screens were mounted. I'd walked it once before during a tour Ashton gave me. He'd pointed out the blind curve halfway down. Told me they never used this road during events because it was too narrow.
I pushed the scooter harder. The speedometer needle climbed. Forty. Forty-five. The engine screamed.
The blind curve came up fast. I leaned into it. The road dipped slightly. My stomach dropped.
Then I saw them.
Metal spikes scattered across the asphalt. Industrial. Sharp. Gleaming in the sunlight.
I yanked the handlebars left. Too late. The front wheel hit the spikes dead center. The tire shredded with a sound like a gunshot. The scooter bucked beneath me. I was airborne.
Time stretched. I saw the asphalt rushing up. Felt my palms hit first. Skin tearing. Then my knees. My shoulder. My body rolling, momentum carrying me forward, grinding me across the road.
I came to rest at the edge of the track. On my side. Bleeding. My palms were shredded raw. My knees burned. My vision blurred at the edges.
I tried to push myself up. My arms wouldn't hold. I collapsed back onto the asphalt.
Above me, the LED screens loomed. Massive. Impossible to miss. My face on them. My voice. The intimate sounds I'd made in private now broadcast to hundreds of strangers.
I heard the crowd. Laughter. Whistles. Someone shouting commentary I couldn't make out over the ringing in my ears.
I turned my head. Looked toward the track.
Kimora stood at the edge. Twenty feet from me. Perfectly positioned in the path of the oncoming cars. Her arms were at her sides. Her face frozen in an expression of wide-eyed terror. She didn't move. Didn't run. Just stood there like a statue.
It was too perfect. Too precise. The angle. The timing. The way she'd positioned herself exactly where Ashton would see her when he came around the curve.
I tried to call out. My voice came out as a rasp. No one heard.
The engine sound grew louder. A Lamborghini. Cobalt blue. Ashton's car. I knew the sound of it by heart.
He came around the curve fast. I saw him through the windshield. Saw his eyes lock onto Kimora. Saw his hands jerk the wheel.
Not away from her.
Toward me.
I understood then. All of it. The spikes. The service road. The video timed to pull me here. Kimora's theatrical freeze. Every piece of it engineered.
Not an accident.
A plan.
The Lamborghini's engine roared. The nose of the car swung in my direction. I tried to roll. Tried to move. My body wouldn't respond.
I looked up at the screens one last time. My own face staring back at me. And then I looked at Kimora.
She was watching me. Not Ashton. Not the car. Me.
Her mouth curved. Just slightly. Just enough.
The last thing I heard was the sound of the engine. The last thing I felt was the impact. The last thing I thought was a single word, cold and clear.
Finally.
