There’s a fine line between focus and fixation. I used to know where that line was.
Now it’s blurred — somewhere between her voice and the sound of an engine at full throttle.
Three monitors glow in front of me inside my Cross Tech office, but none of them display the numbers they’re supposed to. They’re all tuned to her.
Telemetry. Dashcam feeds. Throttle pressure. Cornering speed. Brake heat signatures.
Every line of data from Luna Vega’s car runs through my systems — through me.
I should be analyzing market trends, signing contracts, pretending to care about quarterly profits.
Instead, I’m tracing the pulse of a girl who doesn’t even realize her heartbeat has become my favorite frequency.
“Sir?”
My assistant, Clara, stands at the glass wall, tablet in hand. She’s been there for
