The Collision

Victor's POV My future wife's hand is on my thigh, and all I can think about is Amelia. "Victor, baby, you're so tense." Miley Chen's voice grates like nails on glass—breathy, affected, designed to sound sultry but landing somewhere between annoying and ridiculous. Her fingers walk up my leg with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "Let me help you relax." The nightclub pulses around us—bass thumping, lights stroking, bodies pressed together in the VIP booth my father insisted I reserve. This is supposed to be our engagement celebration. Unofficial, of course. Can't make it public until the contracts are signed, the merger finalized, the families united in holy corporate matrimony. Miley leans closer, her perfume—something expensive and cloying—making my stomach turn. She's beautiful in the way magazine covers are beautiful: perfectly styled, surgically enhanced, utterly artificial. My father chose well, from a business perspective. Her family's tech empire complements our real estate