Chapter 11
The smell of engine oil never left me.
It clung to the folds of my memory like burned rubber on a hot racetrack—sharp, black, and unforgiving. No matter how many times I changed clothes, no matter how sterile or pristine my new world looked, I still carried it in me. It was under my nails, tucked behind my earlobes, hidden in the creases of my palms.
Even now, standing inside a glass kingdom of touchscreen consoles, leather-backed chairs, and brushed steel, the ghost of grease and gasoline still walked beside me like an old friend I didn't know how to bury.
My office smelled cleaner now—like money. Like polished ambition. Air fresheners disguised it with jasmine and citrus, but I'd made sure someone spilled engine oil in the testing bay every morning before operations began. My company. My rules. If they wanted sterile, they could go start their own empire.
I didn't want to forget what we built this from—heat, pressure, and precision.
Today was my first day back.
I hadn't expected a parade. But I hadn't expected the quiet, either. The entire team tried not to stare when I stepped into the glass corridor. I could feel their eyes behind lenses and screens. Some curious. Some anxious. Some... worried.
I was still Ibtisam. Still the girl who outraced ten men in a storm. Still the woman who built an empire from ash and axle grease. But thinner. Quieter. Not fragile. Just... altered. Hardened like metal left too long in fire.
Sunglasses on. Leather jacket. Headscarf tied like armor.
Clara walked up like she always did—efficient, composed, unshaken.
"Good morning, CEO," she said. Her voice was steady. That's why I kept her. She didn't flinch when the world changed.
"Morning," I replied, walking beside her down the corridor that overlooked the main production bay.
Below, the first row of prototype builds stood like beasts in slumber. Machines of muscle and math. One caught my eye—charcoal-black, curved like wind.
I reached out and ran a hand over the hood. It was cold but thrumming with possibility.
"New?" I asked.
"Project Vanta," Clara answered. "Body frame finalized while you were out. Olumide headed design."
Olumide. New hire. Former race engineer from Munich. Word around the floor was he liked to argue. Confident. Maybe cocky. I made a note to find him.
Clara handed me the tablet. "Schedules stacked. Press call at three. Review with R&D. The team wants a word too."
"I'll give them five minutes."
"They're asking for thirty."
"They'll get seven."
She grinned. "Welcome back."
—
The boardroom felt like a cage of glass and ego.
Twelve chairs. Eleven eyes watching me. I took the head seat, my fingers curling around the armrest. No one challenged me. They never did. But I saw it—just a flicker of doubt behind a few polite smiles. Mostly from the older engineers. The ones who thought I wouldn't return. The ones who had started whispering about contingency plans.
I gave them five full minutes of silence. Not as a power play. As a reminder.
"This company was born in a garage," I said finally, voice low but heavy. "If any of you forget that, you're welcome to leave before I remind you."
No one moved.
I scanned their faces like I was scanning a track—looking for the soft spots, the blind corners. I saw loyalty. I saw fear. I saw calculations in progress.
Then I saw him.
"Olumide?"
He raised an eyebrow. Tall. Unbothered. Confident without tipping into arrogance. "Yes, ma'am."
"Come with me."
Clara didn't follow. No one did.
We stopped in front of the test car again. It looked meaner up close. Sleek. Hungry.
"You built this?"
"I led the redesign."
"Why did you move the balance five degrees forward?"
"More control in tight curves. Less speed loss. You like to drift heavy, don't you?"
I tilted my head slightly. "You studied my style."
"Wouldn't work here if I hadn't."
He wasn't nervous. He looked like a man who wanted to prove something. I respected that. I recognized it. I used to be that
"You drive?"
"Used to."
"Then test it with me. This Friday."
His lips twitched. "That an invitation?"
"That's a challenge."
He nodded. No fear. Good.
I walked away before he could get too comfortable.
The rest of the day dragged.
Every minute I wasn't thinking about camber angles and torque curves, I was thinking about Saal.
He hadn't texted again since last night. Just one message: I will be.
Three words. Flat. Final. And not him.
Saal spoke like rain. Like light catching on water. Like he meant every syllable. But now—he was silent. Still. Like something buried.
I read his text again. Over and over, like it might bloom into meaning. I even typed a response. "Where are you?" Then deleted it.
My stomach twisted. The cramps again. Sharper this time.
I pressed my palm against my lower abdomen and leaned against the edge of my desk, trying not to wince. I inhaled through my nose. Counted backwards from ten.
It passed. Not completely. But enough.
Clara came in quietly. She always knocked, even when I didn't answer.
"Do you want lunch in your office?" she asked, eyes darting to my still-full glass of water.
"No. Call the kitchen. Cancel."
"Should I reschedule your review meeting?"
I nodded. Slowly.
"Move everything to tomorrow."
She paused. Just enough to let me know she'd noticed.
"You alright?"
"Fine."
"You look pale."
"Just tired."
She didn't believe me. Smart girl. Still walked out.
I stared at the wall clock until the numbers blurred. Until they no longer made sense.
Then I stood up. Grabbed my car keys.
And left.
Not because I was done.
Because something inside me had started to hurt in a way I couldn't engineer around.