Chapter 14
The Maybach looked like it had been forged in silence. Midnight black, curved like a secret. Not glossy. Not proud. Just quiet and terrifying in a way that made my chest tighten. The kind of beauty that didn't need noise to command a room. The kind of machine that understood restraint was more powerful than roar.
The license plate read: IBTI.
Of course it did.
Saal never did things halfway. He didn't just buy me a car. He etched my name into its identity, like a promise made in steel. I circled it once, slowly. Reverently. The paint swallowed light. Even the sun didn't dare touch it. The engine had only just cooled—tick, tick, tick—like the slowing heartbeat of something wild.
A folded note waited under the wiper, pressed neatly, with my name on it. My full name. Ibtisam. Not the clipped version others used when they were in a hurry to misunderstand me.
I unfolded it. Just one sentence, written in his sharp, slanted script:
You don't need wings, Ibtisam. You need thunder.
I didn't smile. Not really. But something shifted beneath my ribs. A pulse of heat. A flicker of something close to hunger.
---
The racetrack reeked of burned rubber and too much testosterone.
Engines coughed and roared like beasts waiting for blood. Pit crews moved like ants on sugar, yelling, adjusting, betting under their breath. The kind of energy you could taste—metallic and wild.
Clara had tried to talk me out of this. Her voice still rang in my head.
> "You're the CEO. You don't need to prove anything."
But Clara didn't understand. This wasn't about proving. It never was.
It was about becoming. About shedding the polished version of myself that sat in boardrooms and wore high heels that pinched. This was the real me—the one who understood velocity better than conversation. Who trusted tires over people. Who found control by surrendering to chaos.
Olumide was already there. Leaning on his GT-R like he'd personally raised it from birth. The car was brutal, chrome-edged, and loud even when silent. Like its driver.
He lifted his helmet, grinning. "You sure about this, boss?"
I caught the helmet Saal had sent—matte black with subtle silver streaks—and slid into the Maybach.
The cockpit wrapped around me like memory. Like it had been waiting for me.
"Let's dance," I said.
---
First lap, I learned the rhythm.
Second lap, he pushed.
Third lap, I bled.
I didn't brake. Not when I should have. Not when fear tried to whisper sense into my head. I let the back end slide. Let the tires shriek. Felt the bite of speed like teeth on my skin.
The Maybach didn't complain. It grinned.
Olumide tried to cut me off on the northern curve—his signature move. But I knew him. I knew the way his car breathed. I spun out wide, kissed the outer lane, and re-entered in a double drift so smooth half the spectators screamed.
When we crossed the line, it was a blur of metal and momentum.
Neck to neck.
Olumide climbed out first, chest heaving, eyes wide. "How the hell did you—"
"I don't brake when I'm scared," I said, pulling off my gloves.
He barked out a laugh, wiping sweat from his forehead. "You're not human."
"Didn't claim to be."
---
Later, the pit tent buzzed with post-race adrenaline. People laughed. Slapped backs. Replayed footage. Olumide kept shaking his head like he'd seen a ghost.
I leaned against the Maybach, sipping cold water. My veins still buzzed. My ears rang with the silence that follows a storm.
And yet…
My fingers itched for my phone.
Nothing.
No text. No call. No stupid voice note from Saal saying, You scared the hell out of me.
Clara walked past, paused beside me. Her brow furrowed.
"You okay?"
"Define okay."
"You looked freer out there."
"I was."
"But now you look… far."
I shrugged. "Maybe I am."
---
That night, I parked the Exelero in my private garage.
Not like a car. Like a relic. A monument. A throne.
The lights dimmed automatically. The engine let out one final exhale.
But I didn't move.
I sat there, hands resting on the steering wheel, forehead against the leather.
His words replayed again, louder this time.
You don't need wings. You need thunder.
And still, I missed him.
Still, I wanted him beside me.
Still, I wanted to show him what I'd done, how the car flew, how I flew.
Even thunder, I realized, gets lonely sometimes.
---
Saal
I didn't go.
I told myself it was discipline. Told myself she needed the space. But every second she was on that track, I watched the live feed like my lungs depended on it.
Clara had sent the link. No commentary. Just raw footage.
The Exelero handled exactly how I designed it. No, how I dreamed it would. I watched her take corners like she was sculpting the air. Watched the Maybach respond like it was tethered to her pulse.
When she crossed the finish line, I paused the video.
Zoomed in.
Her face. Lit. Smirking. Unreachable.
I didn't breathe for a full minute.
---
The doctor had called earlier.
> "Your blood counts are stable. No signs of regression. You're responding incredibly well."
It should have been good news. But it only meant more time to pretend.
More time to lie.
I stared at our chat window. Blank. Unsent drafts lined up like soldiers I refused to deploy.
> You burned the track, didn't you?
Still fits, right? The thunder?
Delete. Delete. Delete.
Instead, I sent nothing.
Sometimes loving her meant giving her silence.
Even when it cut into me like broken glass.
Even when I
wanted to scream across the sky just to remind her I existed.
But this was her moment. Her race.
And even thunder, I knew, had to echo alone before the rain came.