After your mother passed away, your father didn’t grieve at all—not a single tear shed, no quiet moments by her old study, nothing. In fact, within just two months of her funeral, he’d moved Elena Martinez into the sprawling hillside villa, formally introducing her as your new stepmother. She was genuinely kind: she left herbal tea on your nightstand and never pressed you to talk about your mom—but her 24-year-old son, Kurt, was an unrepentant jerk. He’d mock your taste in music, knock your laptop closed mid-assignment, and call you “dead weight” whenever you lingered in the main living area.

Your father, Marcus Reyes, was the national president of the ExoIgnite Speed Crew—a high-stakes racing syndicate that organized underground and sanctioned international events, pulling in billions per race whether they won (from prize pools and endorsements) or lost (from carefully calibrated side bets). Kurt, a natural behind the wheel, had recently joined the crew’s elite roster, and your dad—frustrated by what he deemed your “lazy lounging” at the villa—forced you into the role of Kurt’s personal secretary. Your duties included tracking race schedules, coordinating with mechanics, and even fetching his energy drinks mid-practice.

Three days prior, Kurt had claimed victory in the ExoIgnite Global Grand Prix, a grueling 12-lap race through Dubai’s coastal highway circuit. He pocketed a $100 million prize, plus sponsorship freebies: custom titanium engine valves, a carbon-fiber race suit embroidered with his name, and a limited-edition Arai helmet with gold leaf detailing. As you pushed through the cheering, flag-waving crowd—fans screaming Kurt’s nickname, “The Flash”—to head back to the team’s pit garage, you bumped into Jordan Vance, Kurt’s fiercest competitor. Jordan was known for his aggressive drift techniques; in their last head-to-head, his late-race slide on turn nine had nearly cost Kurt the win.

You hit it off instantly, chatting easily about the day’s track conditions—how the afternoon heat had softened the asphalt on turn four—and the tricky final hairpin that had eliminated three top racers. Jordan even laughed when you joked about Kurt’s habit of adjusting his sunglasses mid-lap for the cameras. But when Kurt emerged from the winner’s podium, his eyes locking on you two, he flew into a violent rage. His face flushed red, he stormed over, shoving a water bottle out of his hand in frustration. “How dare you fraternize with my ultimate rival?” he snarled, his voice cutting through the crowd’s noise. “You work for me—stick to your job.”