Chapter 1: The Collision

The Vegas strip shimmered like a fever dream, a kaleidoscope of neon reds, electric blues, and golds that bled into the rain-soaked asphalt. Tessa Kane sliced through it all, her Kawasaki Ninja growling beneath her as she leaned into a curve, the wind whipping her leather jacket against her ribs. At twenty-eight, she'd made a name for herself as a stunt rider—fearless, untamed, a blur of defiance against a world that had tried to cage her since she was a kid. Tonight wasn't a gig, though; it was just her and the road, the throttle her heartbeat, the city her playground.She didn't see the black Mustang until it was too late.It cut across her lane, a sleek shadow emerging from a casino valet line, and Tessa yanked the handlebars hard. Too hard. The bike fishtailed, tires screaming against wet pavement, and then the world tilted. Sparks erupted as metal met asphalt, her body sliding with it, skidding thirty feet before slamming into the curb. Pain flared—sharp in her elbow, dull in her hip—but adrenaline drowned it out. She was alive. That was enough."Jesus Christ!" A voice cut through the chaos, sharp and male, edged with something between fury and panic. Tessa shoved herself up, palms stinging with gravel burn, and ripped off her helmet. Her hazel eyes—flecked with gold, wild with anger—locked onto the man stepping out of the Mustang. He was tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders filling out a tailored suit that screamed money. Dark hair, just shy of black, fell across his forehead in a way that looked deliberate, and his jaw was clenched tight enough to crack stone. Green eyes met hers, and for a split second, she forgot the ache in her bones."You blind or just stupid?" she snapped, voice rough from the fall. She staggered to her feet, ignoring the crowd forming—phones out, vultures circling for their next viral clip. Her bike lay crumpled a few yards away, front wheel bent, frame scratched to hell. Five grand, minimum, to fix it. Money she didn't have.The man—Julian Voss, she'd learn later—crossed his arms, unfazed by her venom. "You were the one darting through traffic like it's a racetrack. You're lucky I didn't flatten you." His tone was cool, controlled, but there was a flicker in his gaze—concern, maybe, or irritation at her defiance. He glanced at his car, its fender dented where her bike had clipped it, and his lips pressed into a thin line."Lucky?" Tessa barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. She stepped closer, five-foot-four but carrying herself like she owned the strip. "Tell that to my bike, rich boy. You owe me a new one.""Julian Voss," he said, as if his name alone was an answer. "And you owe me a paint job. Let's call it even." His voice dipped, a challenge in it, and damn if it didn't make her skin prickle. Not fear—something hotter, more dangerous."Tessa Kane," she shot back, matching his tone. "And we're not even until I'm back on two wheels." She jabbed a finger toward his chest, stopping short of touching him. The air between them crackled, electric as the neon overhead, and neither blinked.A cop siren wailed in the distance, cutting through the tension. Julian's eyes flicked toward it, then back to her. "This isn't over," he said, low enough that only she heard. He turned to his car, sliding in with a grace that pissed her off even more.Tessa watched him peel away, taillights vanishing into the night, and clenched her fists. Her elbow throbbed, her bike was toast, and her pride stung worse than either. But something else lingered—a spark she couldn't name, born in the wreckage of that crash. She shook it off, limping toward her ruined Ninja. She'd fix this herself. She always did.Back at her apartment, a cramped one-bedroom above a dive bar, Tessa peeled off her jacket and assessed the damage. Bruises bloomed purple across her hip, and a gash on her elbow oozed blood onto the sink as she cleaned it. The mirror showed a woman who'd fought for everything—sharp cheekbones, a scar above her left brow from a bar fight at nineteen, hair the color of burnt caramel pulled into a messy braid. She wasn't beautiful in the soft, polished way magazines sold. She was striking, raw, a storm in human form.Her phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Milo, her mechanic buddy: Heard about the crash. You good? Bike's at the shop. She typed back a quick Yeah, thanks, then sank onto the couch, wincing as her body protested. The adrenaline was fading, leaving exhaustion and a gnawing question: Who the hell was Julian Voss?She didn't Google him. Not yet. Instead, she closed her eyes, replaying his voice—low, steady, infuriating. The way he'd looked at her, like he saw more than the leather and attitude. It unsettled her, and Tessa Kane didn't do unsettled.Across town, Julian Voss stood in his penthouse, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering strip below. At thirty-two, he'd built an empire—Voss Enterprises owned half the casinos on this stretch, turning red ink to black with a ruthless precision his father, a washed-up gambler, never had. He poured a scotch, neat, and stared at the glass, but his mind was on her. Tessa Kane. A spitfire in ripped leather, all sharp edges and no fear. She'd gotten under his skin in five minutes flat, and he didn't like it.He pulled up the dashcam footage on his laptop, rewatching the crash. Her bike had darted into view, a green streak too fast for him to swerve fully. His fault? Maybe. Hers? Definitely. But the way she'd stood up, bloodied and unbroken, stuck with him. Most people cowered or groveled when they saw his name on a business card. Not her.Julian sipped his drink, the burn grounding him. He didn't have time for distractions—not with a board meeting tomorrow and a charity race next month that could cement his legacy. Yet here he was, wondering where she'd learned to ride like that. Wondering why her defiance felt like a match to his carefully controlled world.The next morning, Tessa woke to a pounding headache and a tow bill she couldn't pay. Milo's shop smelled of oil and metal, a second home since she'd started tinkering with engines at sixteen. Her Ninja sat in the corner, a mangled mess. "Frame's bent," Milo said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Parts alone are three grand. Labor's on me, but you're still screwed."She cursed under her breath, kicking a tire. "I'll figure it out." She always did—hustling gigs, skipping meals, anything to keep riding. It was her lifeline, the one thing her mom, dead five years now from cancer, had cheered her on for. "Don't let 'em tame you, Tess," she'd said, voice raspy from chemo. Tessa hadn't. Not then, not now.Her phone pinged. An email, subject: Incident Resolution. She opened it, frowning. Ms. Kane, I propose a meeting to discuss compensation for damages sustained on April 1, 2025. Voss Enterprises, 10 AM tomorrow. Regards, Julian Voss. No apology, no warmth—just cold, corporate efficiency."Arrogant prick," she muttered, but her pulse ticked up. Compensation could mean cash. Cash could mean her bike back. She'd go, hear him out, and walk away with what she needed. Nothing more.She didn't know it yet, but that meeting would be the second collision—one that wouldn't leave her bruised, but might just break her open.