She Came on Fifty Motorcycles A Billionaire's Daughter Unleashed

My best friend since childhood, the girl I'd grown up glued to, told me she'd landed a job at a major corporation. Said once she was in, she'd pull me along for the ride and we'd finally live the good life.

I laughed and wished her luck. Cold as ice.

Because I knew the truth. By day she was a disposable intern worked to the bone for pennies. By night she was a "personal assistant" in a maid outfit, keeping her supervisor company in his hotel room.

A corporate punching bag. A sacrificial lamb.

But she'd just grin that stupid grin and brag about how the manager praised her again today, how she'd be getting a full-time offer any day now.

I kicked a bottle into the wall so hard it shattered, screaming at her to quit. I'd take care of her myself.

She just stared at me with red-rimmed eyes, begging.

"Big companies have big-company rules. I just have to tough it out a little longer."

"Once I get that offer, we can pool our money and buy a little place together. Just us. Forever."

I hated that the corporate machine had brainwashed her so completely. But I gritted my teeth and let her go, let her learn the hard way.

Then one night, while I was at the roller rink with a hundred of my crew, sparklers flashing, music pounding, her suicide note hit my phone.

"Suse, I really can't learn the rules of big corporations anymore. Tonight the manager... he's sending two of his biggest clients to my room too..."

...

I stared at the last line on the screen until my vision blurred.

The iced tea in my hand crumpled inward, plastic buckling under my grip.

The entire rink went silent.

The DJ was still blasting, bass thumping off the walls, but every single one of those hundred-plus people turned to look at me.

I shoved the phone into my pocket. Stood up. Jammed two fingers between my teeth.

"FWEET!"

One sharp whistle.

In under ten seconds, every last one of them closed in around me.

"Suse! What's going on!"

I kicked over the plastic table in front of me and snatched up the half-length steel pipe stashed under one of its legs.

"Get on your bikes. You're with me."

"Where?"

"The Grand Hyatt."

I jammed the pipe into the back of my waistband and swung a leg over my custom street bike with the aftermarket exhaust.

One twist of the throttle and the engine screamed.

Behind me, fifty street bikes fired up at once.

A cab driver on the boulevard saw us coming and panicked so hard he jumped the curb.

Wind roared in my ears, but it couldn't drown out the words looping through my skull.

"Big companies have big-company rules. I just have to tough it out a little longer."

"Once I get that offer, we can pool our money and buy a little place together. Just us. Forever."

Mila Pruitt, you idiot.

I told you a hundred times. That manager, Lambert, isn't human.

During the day he had you fetching tea and running errands until three in the morning. At night he had you put on a maid outfit and report to his room for "work discussions."

You looked me in the eye and said that's how big companies train their interns. That everyone goes through it.

I smashed a bottle and screamed at you to quit, and you cried and begged me not to make a scene.

Fine. I backed off.

But now you're sending me a suicide note? Two clients?

Mila Pruitt! You wait right there. I will tear the Grand Hyatt apart with my bare hands tonight if that's what it takes to drag you out of those animals' reach.

The Grand Hyatt Hotel.

By the time we got there, a row of black Mercedes S-Classes lined the entrance.

A few doormen were bent at the waist, holding car doors open for guests. When fifty street bikes came roaring up the drive, every drop of color drained from their faces.

"You... what do you think you're doing! You can't park motorcycles here!"

Before the words left his mouth, my crew rode their bikes straight onto the hotel's red carpet, a dozen of them skidding sideways to barricade the revolving doors.

Four lobby security guards rushed out and barely got their radios up before my people pinned them facedown on the marble floor.

"Suse, penthouse suite, 2801."

Spyder came sprinting over, phone in hand. He'd hacked the hotel's reservation system ten minutes ago.

I took a dozen of my inner circle and crammed into the VIP elevator.

Every second that elevator climbed, Mila's suicide note replayed behind my eyes.