Terms of Collision

TIAGO

The engine doesn’t just scream. It fractures the air, tearing through the heavy afternoon heat with a visceral, throat-shredding howl. And I know—instantly—that it’s wrong.

It isn’t obvious. It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t something a single person sitting in the grandstands outside this room would ever catch. But I don’t build things that almost work. I build perfection, or I tear it down to the studs and start over.

“Fuck.” My voice cuts through the air-conditioned chill of the observation deck. It’s low and entirely controlled, but it lands hard enough that every hushed conversation behind me dies instantly. The frantic tapping of keyboards ceases. The engineers freeze.

I brace my hands against the thick glass of the railing, my eyes locked on the track below as the car tears through the straightaway. Matte black. Gold lines slicing through the air like a weapon. We call it Ascension. Sitting on the grid, it looks untouchable. A masterclass in automotive engineering and aerodynamic aggression.

But right now, taking that corner, it looks unstable. The massive telemetry screens flash on the wall behind me. The reflection glares in the glass, painting my face in a harsh, pulsing red. It catches the silver starting to thread through my dark hair and the thick, dark scruff shadowing my jaw—a reminder that forty years of demanding perfection leaves its mark.

SYSTEM FAILURE. DATA INTERRUPTION.

Same lap. Same corner. Same goddamn problem.

“Output dropped—three-point-two seconds,” one of the senior analysts stammers behind me, his voice thin with nerves.

“I can see that.” I don’t turn to look at him. I don’t need to. If my team is reduced to telling me what I already know, they are wasting my time, and I pay them far too much to waste my time.

Below us, the car takes the hairpin corner. The entry is too wide, the angle too aggressive, pushing the tires to the absolute brink of losing traction. But the recovery is brutal, beautiful, and completely controlled. That part isn’t the machine. It’s her.

Farah Jihir drives like she was forged in a combustion engine. She is seventeen years old, ruthless, and already better than half the veteran field. She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t second-guess the physics of a turn. More importantly, she doesn’t adjust her natural ability to accommodate the limitations of the car. Which means the car either adjusts to her, or it fails. Right now, it’s failing.

The onboard computer system stutters on the exit. It’s barely a fraction of a second. A ghost of a hesitation that is invisible to the untrained eye. But I see it.

“It’s crashing mid-corner.” One of the engineers edges closer to the glass, careful to stay outside my periphery.

“No.” The word leaves my mouth like the crack of a whip. Absolute silence follows. “It’s not crashing,” I continue, my eyes tracking the matte-black blur as it straightens out. “It’s lagging. It’s a processing delay.”

I let the heavy, suffocating silence stretch briefly before I deliver the verdict. “The machine is falling behind her.”

And that? That is completely unacceptable.

The car clears the final turn, the deafening roar dropping into a low, aggressive purr as it glides smoothly into the pit lane. The engine cuts. The sleek cockpit opens, the heat haze shimmering off the chassis as the pit crew swarms it.

She climbs out. Farah pulls off her custom helmet, her dark hair slicked back with sweat. Her expression isn’t laced with panic or relief at having survived the mechanical stutter at two hundred miles an hour. It’s tight with pure, unfiltered irritation.

Good. She shouldn’t panic. She is a champion in the making. She should expect better. She looks up, her dark eyes finding the tinted glass of the observation deck. Finding me. Even from this distance, through the glare of the afternoon sun, I understand exactly what she’s thinking.

Fix it. Minutes later, the heavy metal doors of the lower garage slide open, and she walks into the space like she holds the deed to the building. Maybe one day she will.

“The computer systems keep crashing on that lap.” Farah tosses her fireproof gloves onto the metal worktable, her voice echoing through the cavernous space. “I lose response mid-turn. It hesitates, then it overcorrects. If I wasn’t feathering the brake, I would have put a twenty-million-dollar prototype into the wall.”

I step down from the elevated platform, my hands casually tucked into the pockets of my custom-tailored slacks. My crisp white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of dark chest hair against deep, sun-tanned skin—a stark contrast to the pale, fluorescent-starved engineers scrambling out of my way. I move slowly, deliberately, letting my presence fill the room until every mechanic and engineer is holding their breath.

“I know.” I keep my tone smooth.

Her gaze sharpens, locking onto mine. “Then why the hell is it still happening, Tiago?”

There’s no fear in her voice. No hesitation. Just the absolute expectation that the man in charge will handle it. Anyone else in this building using that tone with me would be halfway to the parking lot. Farah has earned privileges no one else has.

“Because you’re pushing the system past its programmed limit,” I tell her, stopping on the opposite side of the worktable. I hold her furious gaze without blinking.

“And?” she challenges, lifting her chin.

“And,” I reply, my voice dropping an octave, “I don’t build machines that fall behind my drivers. The car is the problem. Not you.”

The tension bleeding out of her shoulders is almost imperceptible. Her lips press together into a thin line. Then, finally: “Good.”

She studies me for a second, her dark eyes calculating, assessing if I am still worth her time and talent. Then she nods once, a sharp jerk of her chin. “I’ll be in the simulator. Let me know when it’s fixed.”

Not if. When.

She turns and walks away. No permission asked. No permission needed. I respect that about her more than I’ll ever admit out loud.

Once the heavy door clicks shut behind her, I turn to face my engineering team. They are already bracing for the impact.

“We need a new processing chip. Right fucking now,” I command, my voice slicing through the thick air of the garage.

“Sir, the current system can’t process fast enough,” the lead software tech stammers, wiping his palms on his trousers. “We’re feeding it too much real-time data from the aerodynamics, the tire heat, the downforce—”

“We could optimize the current feed,” another suggests weakly. “Throttle back the data intake—”

“No.” I don’t raise my voice. The power of a true command doesn’t require volume; it requires absolute certainty.

“It’s not an optimization issue,” I state, pacing slowly toward the wall of monitors. “It’s a capacity issue. You are trying to force a river through a garden hose. And if you don’t understand the fundamental difference between the two, you shouldn’t be standing in my garage.”

I stop, turning slowly to survey the room. I can smell the fear mixed with the tang of motor oil and burnt rubber.

“Who can build a custom system that can handle this load?”

There is hesitation. Men glance at each other, waiting for someone else to step into the firing line.

Names get thrown out into the dead air. Tech giants. Safe choices. Predictable firms based out of Japan. Irrelevant companies that build toys, not weapons.

Then, a quiet voice from the back of the pack speaks up. “Cross Industries.”

My attention snaps to the young analyst who said it. “Explain.”

The kid swallows hard, stepping forward. “They develop highly advanced, proprietary AI systems. Strictly custom builds. High-load processing, usually reserved for medical advancements for surgery, military-level applications, and defense contracts. They don’t do commercial work, but if we need a system that can process infinite variables without a microsecond of lag... they’re the only ones.”

Now we’re talking.

“Contact him,” I order, turning back to the main console. “Tell him I want a prototype design on my desk by Monday.”

A heavy, awkward pause settles over the room.

“Sir…” The analyst’s voice wavers. “You mean her.”

I stop. Slowly, I turn my head to look at him. “Clarify.”

“Cassia Cross. She owns the company. She’s the founder and the lead developer.”

Cassia. The name lands in the center of my chest, unfamiliar but strangely sharp.

“Pull up her file,” I demand.

A sleek tablet is immediately thrust into my hand. I swipe through the glowing screen, my eyes scanning the data. There is no photograph attached to her corporate profile. It’s a deliberate omission. A woman in the highest echelons of defense-tech who wants her work to speak before her face does. But the data? The data is more than enough. Government contracts. Predictive combat systems. High-risk, zero-margin-for-error environments. And then I see the statistic that matters.

System failures: Zero. My thumb pauses on the screen, hovering over that impossible number. Zero. No one has a zero-fail rate. Not in this industry. Not in any industry. Unless she is as obsessive, as demanding, and as deeply unrelenting as I am.

“She builds systems that don’t break,” the lead tech murmurs, reading over my shoulder.

I exhale slowly, a spark of genuine anticipation curling low in my gut for the first time all day. “Hmm.”

I hand the tablet back without looking at him. “Call her.”

“I’ll ask if she’s accepting new clients—”

“Don’t ask,” I interrupt smoothly. “Book a meeting. Tell her Tiago Vale requires her services. Today.”

“Yes, sir.” I turn and walk toward the private elevator before anyone can waste another second of my time. The noise of the garage—the clanking tools, the frantic phone calls, the hissing pneumatic drills—fades into nothing as the heavy steel doors slide shut behind me.

Replaced with silence. With control. My private office sits on the top floor, cantilevered over the main track. It is a sanctuary of glass walls, clean architectural lines, and zero distractions. No clutter. No mess. Everything exactly where it belongs, perfectly tailored to my specifications.

I push the sleek black glass door open—and stop dead in my tracks. Cristiano is sprawled across the imported leather couch. He has noise-canceling headphones clamped over his ears, a phone grasped in his hands, and faint, aggressive bass leaking into the pristine quiet of my office. His sneakers—which look like they’ve been dragged through the mud—are resting a solid inch from the armrest.

I frown, the muscles in my jaw ticking. “Cris.”

No response. His thumbs fly rapidly across the screen of his phone.

“Cristiano.” The command cracks like a whip this time.

He jolts, looking up and dragging one of the headphone cups off his ear. “What?”

An hour earlier, my phone had buzzed with a message from Eva: Your son is staying the summer with you. That was all. No flight number. No explanation. No answer when I called her back. She had already put our fourteen-year-old on a flight from Phoenix to Medornia and let my security team collect him at the airport, where Cristiano’s permanent Vale clearance got him through the building and all the way into my private office before anyone thought to warn me.

I step inside, letting the heavy door click shut behind me. I cross the room, my presence instantly dwarfing the massive space. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Phoenix?”

He snorts, dropping his phone onto his chest and staring at the ceiling. “No.”

That single, defiant syllable tells me more than a ten-minute explanation ever could.

“With your mother,” I add, my voice dangerously even.

He rolls his eyes, a perfectly crafted mask of teenage apathy sliding over his face. “She and that—” he cuts himself off, his jaw flexing, then deliberately chooses not to censor himself. “—that fuckface Daniel went on some wellness retreat.”

“Language.”

“Sorry, Dad.” The apology lands flat; the acidic bite in his tone proves he doesn’t mean a word of it.

That’s when I notice the duffel bag shoved beside the couch. Stuffed full. Zipped closed. He didn’t come here to visit.

I stop at the edge of the glass coffee table and study him. I mean, really look at him. He’s grown too fast.

Cristiano is dressed like he usually is when no one has forced him into something respectable—a faded black T-shirt hanging loose over broadening shoulders, distressed jeans riding low on his hips, and an obscenely expensive pair of white sneakers that appear to have recently lost a fight with a mud puddle. A thin silver chain disappears beneath the collar of his shirt, and his dark hair is thick and carelessly pushed back from his forehead, like he ran a hand through it once this morning and decided that was enough effort for the day.

The soft edges of boyhood have burned away over the last year, leaving him taller, broader, and sharper. He has my strong jaw, the same olive skin, thick dark brows, and distinctly Spanish features that have defined the Vale men for generations. He’s a good-looking kid. Irritatingly so. I would never tell him that—his ego requires absolutely no additional assistance—but there is a private satisfaction in seeing so much of my family reflected back at me.

There is something harder in him now, though. A defensive energy he wears just beneath his skin. He is entirely too much like me.

“Why are you here, Cristiano?” I strip the annoyance from my voice, leaving only the demand for the truth.

He shrugs, avoiding my gaze by picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “Can I stay with you this summer?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and loaded with far more vulnerability than he wants to admit.

“I’ll be busy,” I tell him, heavily practical. “The racing team is in the middle of a major structural overhaul. I’m going to be working eighty-hour weeks—”

“I don’t care.” The interruption is too quick. Too sharp.

He sits up, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. The apathy vanishes, replaced by a fierce, bruised intensity. “I just want to be here.” He swallows, looking down at the floor. Then, quieter, “I don’t want to be there.”

That shifts something deep and violent inside my chest.

“Does your mother know you’re here?” I lower my voice around the question.

He hesitates. It’s barely a fraction of a second, but I catch it.

“She doesn’t care.” Those three words land harder than anything else today. Harder than the telemetry failure. Harder than the millions of dollars I’m about to hemorrhage fixing a car that shouldn’t be broken.

Because this? This isn’t an engineering problem. It isn’t a mechanical flaw I can solve with a blank check and a team of experts. Emotion, vulnerability, the messy, chaotic ruin of human failure—none of it belongs in my world. I understand machines. Numbers. Problems with solutions.

My son looking at me like I’m the only solid ground left beneath his feet is something else entirely.

“Are you sure?” My voice comes out rougher than usual.

He nods once, his throat working. “Yeah.”

I step around the coffee table, curl my hand around the back of his neck, and haul him into a hard, unyielding hug.

It’s not something I do often. I am not a gentle man, and I have never pretended to be. Maybe that’s why his shoulders instantly lock up with tension. But I don’t let him go. I hold him there, a physical anchor, until slowly, incrementally, he exhales and leans his weight into my chest.

“You are always welcome here,” I tell him quietly, my voice vibrating against his shoulder. “This is your home.”

And just like that, the multi-million dollar car sitting in the garage below us doesn’t matter. The failing system doesn’t matter. None of it does. Only this. Protecting what is mine.

Outside the thick glass of the office, an engine roars back to life, the vibrations rattling the floorboards. Another test. Another inevitable failure waiting to happen.

I pull back, keeping one heavy hand on his shoulder as I look down at him. “Cris.”

“Yeah?” he mutters, swiping a quick hand under his eye.

“Stay out of trouble.”

A slow, familiar smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “No promises.”

I almost smile. Almost. “Go,” I command, dropping my hand and pointing toward the door. “And stay out of the lower garage. The crew is on edge today.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He scoops up his phone and his headphones, already moving with the restless energy of youth. He is halfway out the door before I turn my back.

Silence settles over the office once more. The heavy, pressurized kind of quiet that lets me think.

I walk back to the floor-to-ceiling glass, clasping my hands behind my back as I look down at the sprawling track. I look at the problem.

And then my mind drifts right back to the name still burning a hole in the back of my head.

Cassia Cross. I don’t know her. I don’t need to. But I am going to find out exactly what kind of woman builds an empire on zero failures. Because I don’t lose. I don’t accept second best.

Whatever Cassia Cross built, I’m going to get my hands on it. As for the woman who built it? I have a feeling she’s going to be considerably more difficult.