Page 39 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

Fuck the wind warnings. Fuck the conservativeapproach. Winning means taking the risks others won’t.

Luca doesn’t hesitate. He banks, dropping into the Coil’s mouth, disappearing between the sheer granite walls.

I bank hard to follow his line into the Serpent’s Coil.

The world narrows. The canyon walls rush past, a gray blur just beyond my wingtips.

Speed increases exponentially in the compressed space.

Precision is everything. Millimeter adjustments, reading the air, trusting the suit, trusting the hours of practice.

The exhilaration is absolute, a pure, undiluted hit of adrenaline that makes even the best coke feel like cheap aspirin.

This is control.

This is mastery.

This isme.

I navigate the first tight turn, then the second, feeling the suit respond perfectly. I’m gaining on Luca, reeling him in. Just the final S-bend before the exit chute…

Then the world tilts.

A vicious, unexpected gust of wind slams into me from the right, a physical blow against the side of my suit. It throws me off line, pushing me towards the canyon wall faster than expected.

No!

I fight it, trying to correct, but it’s too late.

Impact.

Not head-on, thank fuck, but a brutal, glancing blow against an angled slab of granite.

The sound is sickening... a crunch ofcarbon fiber, Kevlar, and bone.

Pain explodes through my right side... shoulder, ribs, arm... a white-hot agony that steals my breath.

The force of the ricochet sends me spinning away from the cliff face, and I’m tumbling, out of control.

The world becomes a chaotic blur of rock and sky. I try to stabilize, try to regain flight, but something’s wrong. Terribly wrong.

My right wing. It’s… gone. Not literally gone, but collapsed, shredded, useless. The impact must have torn the fabric or snapped a strut. It flaps limply, offering zero lift, zero control.

And then the spin really begins...

I was only tumbling before, but now I’ve fallen into a flat, high-G horizontal spin. It’s fucking pulling me apart.

The ground whirls below, the sky above, faster and faster. Disorientation slams into me. Along with nausea.

There’s a voice coming over the comms, but I barely hear it, courtesy of the wind, which has become a deafening shriek.

I can’t breathe... the G-force is crushing my chest, stealing the oxygen from my lungs.

Chute! The chute!

My hand claws instinctively for the deployment handle on my chest rig. But the spin is too violent. My arms feel like lead weights.

Pain radiates from my shattered right side. Black spots dance at the edge of my vision, becoming an ever-shrinking tunnel.

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