Chapter 2: The Offer

Tessa Kane didn't do suits. She didn't do glass towers or polished marble lobbies or receptionists with fake smiles and manicured nails tapping on keyboards. Yet here she was, striding into the Voss Enterprises building at 9:55 AM, her boots scuffing the pristine floor like a deliberate middle finger to the whole operation. Her leather jacket hung over one shoulder, ripped elbow and all, and her jeans were streaked with yesterday's grease. She'd tied her caramel hair into a loose ponytail, but strands escaped, framing her face in a way that made her look more feral than she intended.The receptionist—a blonde named Claire, according to her nameplate—glanced up, her smile faltering for a split second before snapping back into place. "Ms. Kane, I presume? Mr. Voss is expecting you. Elevator to the 42nd floor, please."Tessa grunted a thanks, avoiding the mirrored walls of the elevator as it shot upward. She didn't need to see herself to know she didn't belong here. This was Julian Voss's world—money, power, control—and she was a grease-stained intruder. But she wasn't here to fit in. She was here for her bike, her freedom, and she'd be damned if she let him play her.The doors slid open to a hallway lined with abstract art—swirls of color that probably cost more than her rent for a year. A glass-walled office loomed at the end, and through it, she saw him. Julian Voss stood behind a desk, phone to his ear, his silhouette sharp against the Vegas skyline. He wore a charcoal suit today, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone like he'd just finished a long night. His dark hair caught the morning light, and when he turned, those green eyes pinned her through the glass.He ended the call with a curt "Handle it," and waved her in. Tessa pushed the door open, letting it swing a little harder than necessary. The office smelled of leather and something expensive—cedar, maybe. She didn't sit, just crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, sizing him up."Ms. Kane," he said, voice smooth but edged with that same authority she'd heard on the strip. "You clean up… uniquely.""Cut the crap," she replied, her tone flat. "You said compensation. I'm here for it. What's the deal?"Julian's lips twitched—not quite a smile, more like he was testing her. He gestured to a chair across from his desk, but she didn't budge. With a slight shrug, he leaned back in his own seat, steepling his fingers. "Straight to it, then. Your bike's damaged. My car's scratched. We could trade insurance claims and lawyers, but I'd rather not waste the time. I have a proposition instead."Tessa's eyes narrowed. "I'm not your charity case.""Nor do I want you to be." He slid a folder across the desk, nodding for her to take it. She hesitated, then stepped forward, flipping it open. Inside was a glossy brochure for the Voss Charity Grand Prix—a motorcycle race set for May 15th, six weeks away. Photos showed riders tearing around a custom track, crowds roaring, and a prize pool that made her blink: $50,000 for first place, plus sponsorships. Her fingers tightened on the paper."I need a rider," Julian continued, watching her reaction. "Someone with skill, guts, and a point to prove. I saw the crash footage—your reflexes, the way you handled that bike before it went down. You're good. Better than good. Join my team, and I'll cover your repairs. New bike, top of the line, no strings."Tessa's pulse kicked up, but she kept her face neutral. A new bike—hers had been a secondhand beast she'd nursed for years—plus a shot at fifty grand? It was a lifeline, a way out of the hole she'd been scraping by in since her mom's medical bills wiped her out. But this was Julian Voss. Rich, smug, and too damn sure of himself. There had to be a catch."What's in it for you?" she asked, tossing the folder back onto the desk. "You don't strike me as the altruistic type."He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and for the first time, she saw a crack in his polish—a flicker of something real. "This race isn't just charity. It's PR. My company's expanding, and the board's breathing down my neck to prove we're more than slot machines and blackjack tables. A win—or even a strong showing—puts us on the map. You ride for me, you get your bike. I get my headline. Win-win."She studied him, searching for the lie. His jaw was tight, his gaze steady, but there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there on the strip. This mattered to him—more than he was letting on. "And if I say no?""Then we're back to insurance claims, and you're out a bike for months." He shrugged, but his eyes didn't leave hers. "Your call."Tessa chewed the inside of her cheek, weighing it. She didn't trust him—not his suit, not his office, not the way he looked at her like he could see through her armor. But she needed this. Her bike was her soul, her escape, and without it, she was grounded. Trapped. She'd spent her life running from that feeling—first from her dad's fists, then from the pitying stares after her mom died. She wouldn't go back."Fine," she said at last, voice clipped. "I'll ride. But I'm not your puppet. I race my way, not yours."Julian's mouth curved, a real smile this time, and it hit her like a punch—too charming, too dangerous. "Wouldn't dream of it. Training starts Monday, 7 AM sharp. Track's on the outskirts—address is in the folder. Don't be late."She snatched the folder, turning for the door. "I'm never late," she lied, and left before he could reply.The rest of the day was a blur. Tessa hit Milo's shop, filling him in over a lukewarm coffee from the vending machine. "Voss Enterprises?" Milo whistled, scratching his bald head. "Big leagues, Tess. You sure about this?""Nope," she admitted, staring at her wrecked Ninja. "But it's a new bike or nothing. I can handle him."Milo snorted. "Famous last words."Back home, she spread the folder's contents across her rickety kitchen table—race rules, track maps, a contract she skimmed but didn't sign yet. Her mom's voice echoed in her head: Don't let 'em tame you. Julian Voss wasn't taming her—he was arming her, whether he knew it or not. A new bike, a shot at cash, a chance to prove she was more than a small-town nobody. She'd take it and run.But sleep didn't come easy. She tossed on her lumpy mattress, the neon glow from the bar downstairs seeping through her blinds. Julian's face kept surfacing—those eyes, that voice. She hated how he'd gotten under her skin in two encounters. Hated more that she'd agreed to this, tying herself to him for six weeks. It felt like a deal with the devil, and Tessa had never been good at playing nice with devils.Meanwhile, Julian stood on his penthouse balcony, the city sprawling beneath him like a chessboard he'd mastered. The board meeting had gone well—expansion plans approved, profits up—but the race loomed larger in his mind. It wasn't just PR. His father's ghost clung to every decision, a reminder of the man who'd gambled away their name until Julian, at twenty-two, clawed it back. This race was a middle finger to that legacy, proof he'd built something lasting.Tessa Kane was a wildcard, though. He'd watched the crash footage again after she left, frame by frame. Her control, even in chaos, was unreal—raw talent honed by something deeper than practice. Desperation, maybe. Or defiance. She wasn't like the polished riders his team usually hired. She was a live wire, and he'd just plugged her into his world.He sipped his scotch, the burn steadying him. She'd agreed—step one—but he'd seen the wariness in her eyes. She didn't trust him, and he didn't blame her. Trust wasn't his currency; results were. Still, something about her tugged at him—a thread he couldn't cut. He'd keep her at arm's length, use her skill, and move on. That was the plan.But plans, like bikes on wet pavement, had a way of skidding off course.