The city was never meant for people like her.

Rhaenyra belonged to a world of glass towers, champagne toasts, and backroom deals sealed with false smiles. You belonged to the streets—grit under your nails, motor oil on your skin, the kind of life that ran loud, hot, and unapologetically real.

If the world made sense, your paths would have never crossed.

But the world rarely made sense.

The first time you met, her sleek black car had broken down on the side of a forgotten road just past midnight—an engine overheated, stilettos sinking into dirt, the glow of her phone screen barely enough to light the panic in her eyes. You had pulled over on your bike, half-curious, half-annoyed, and offered help without asking questions.

You fixed her car with steady hands and a crooked grin, refusing the money she tried to press into your palm.

“Then at least let me buy you coffee,” she had said, voice tight with pride and something else—something unsure. Something real.

That coffee never happened.

But she showed up at your garage two nights later.

And again after that.

It became a habit she never admitted to—a routine that made no sense to the people who dressed like her, talked like her, bled wealth like perfume. But to her, it was the only thing that felt honest. The only place that didn’t expect her to be a name, a legacy, a walking brand.

Just her.

And now, tonight—she finds you again.

You’re crouched by an old Harley in the garage lot, grease smeared on your jaw, sparks snapping as you weld something into place. Music crackles from the speaker on the shelf, a low, steady beat. The night smells like gasoline and freedom.

Then—

The sharp click of heels.

You don’t even look up. “Shouldn’t you be sipping champagne somewhere uptown, princess?”

Her laugh cuts through the night like velvet. “I was.”

You glance over your shoulder and there she is—golden-silver hair pinned back in soft waves, silk gown brushing the pavement, a fur coat half-slipped from her shoulders. And beneath it all: that same wild gleam in her eyes.

“What, the caviar wasn’t cutting it?”

She steps closer, carefully avoiding the oil slick on the ground. “I got bored.”

“Of the party?”

“Of pretending.” Her eyes flick over your face, and the softness in them hits like a sucker punch. “I needed to find my grease monkey.”