By the time Riley Keller racked her wrench back onto the tool board, the ache in her wrists was so intense she could barely lift her hands.

She had pulled four consecutive nights of overtime, wrestling with the stubborn transmission of an SUV. At least she had beaten it into submission. Wiping the sweat from her forehead with an oil-streaked thumb, she looked at the gray Mustang resting quietly beneath the lift and felt a brief surge of quiet satisfaction.

Michael Foster emerged from the office, a grease-stained shop coat tucked beneath his arm. Catching sight of her still lingering in the bay, he waved her over.

"Riley, pack it in. Head out."

"Give me twenty minutes. Just wrapping up."

"I said now," Michael replied, his tone brooking no argument. "Four ten-hour shifts in a row. You think I don't check the time cards?"

Riley opened her mouth to protest, but her boss snatched the rag from her grip and tossed it straight into the dirty bin. "It's the twenty-second," Michael noted, casting a glance at the wall calendar before turning back to her. "Your birthday, right?"

She froze for a second. The date had completely slipped her mind. Or rather, she had deliberately chosen not to dwell on it, because remembering meant expecting something, and expectation was never her strong suit.

She hated the hollow feeling of disappointment, so over time, she had stopped anticipating anything at all.

"...Yeah," she murmured.

"Then what are you still doing here? Didn't Caleb say he was taking you out to dinner?"

At the mention of Caleb Parker's name, Riley's expression hardly shifted, though the corner of her mouth pulled tight.

Michael had a sharp eye for subtle details, but the older man did not pry. He simply set a heavy hand on her shoulder and gave it a paternal pat.

"Don't keep the boy waiting. A broken car will still be here tomorrow. Keep a boyfriend waiting too long and he's gone."

Riley almost laughed. "You're more impatient than I am."

"I'm impatient because you haven't eaten a decent square meal all month," Michael countered. "Get out of here. And don't let me catch sight of you before noon tomorrow."

She slipped out of her coveralls and hung them on the hook behind the door.

Before leaving, she looked back at the whiteboard in the garage. On the bottom right corner remained the wiring schematic she had sketched out in marker the night before.

Her grandfather used to tell her when teaching her how to draft diagrams: if the wiring runs wrong, the car won't get far before disaster strikes. She carried that lesson etched into every corner of her mind.

When she stepped through the garage doors, the streetlights were already humming to life.

In the early June dusk, the sky had not fully darkened. The evening air carried the scent of fried chicken from a nearby fast-food joint. She straddled her Honda CB400, and as the engine's rumble thrummed through the seat, she felt a sudden, rare wave of relaxation wash over her.

She had to admit, a small flutter of excitement stirred inside her.

She had never had a real date. Ever since turning eighteen, her life had revolved around fixing engines. The smell of gasoline clung to her skin like a second coat, and people—guys and girls alike—tended to keep their distance from her stained clothes and shop scent.

Maybe out of quiet anticipation, she had lingered in front of the mirror three extra minutes that morning, changing into a clean black T-shirt without a single grease smudge on the cuffs.

She looked like any other ordinary, clean girl.

Riley had tied her hair back neatly and dabbed on the lip tint Sophie had slipped into her bag last month. She applied it lightly, feeling slightly self-conscious, as if worried someone might notice.

Yet deep down, she hoped Caleb Parker would notice. She wanted him to see that she looked a little different today.

They had been together for nearly eight months.

He had made the first move back then, spotting her crouched by the pumps inspecting a vehicle's undercarriage at a gas station. He had struck up a conversation, praising her for being "unlike other girls."

She knew even then that the compliment carried a subtle condescension, but she had let it slide. Back then, she had wanted so badly to have someone in her corner.

If tonight went well, she thought, she might finally put on the set of lingerie she had bought over a month ago—still sitting untouched at the bottom of her drawer with the tags on—and tell Caleb she was ready.

At a red light, she idled behind a black sedan, her fingers tapping lightly against the gas cap.

She hadn't mentioned her plans to Caleb, but he had sent a text a few days ago promising a surprise, sounding nervous, as though anxious about whether she would like it. Riley had thought of scenes from cheesy romances and playfully texted back, "Don't tell me you bought a ring?" Caleb had gone silent for ages before replying with a string of ellipses.

She had found it endearing at the time, mistaking it for the flustered cover-up of someone caught off guard.

She had truly believed that someone was finally taking her seriously.

The light turned green.

She rode through three intersections, turning into the narrow residential lane where she had lived for twenty years.

The gray-walled house stood beneath the porch light that never seemed to turn off. The lawn was freshly trimmed, Grant Jenkins's handiwork. Riley parked along the outer edge of the driveway and killed the engine.

Then she saw two cars that should never have been parked together.

On the left sat her sister Brielle Jenkins's white BMW.

On the right was Caleb's black Chevy.

The two vehicles were parked flush side by side, without an inch of space between them. Riley pulled off her helmet, tucked it under her arm, and stood on the asphalt for several long seconds. She told herself that Brielle had probably just stopped by to grab something, and Caleb had arrived early. It was only a coincidence.

Yet her feet refused to carry her to the front door. Her gaze drifted past the parked cars, landing on the sliver between the living room curtains.

The drapes were not fully drawn, revealing a silhouette pacing casually near the sofa.

As if waiting for someone.

A knot of suspicion tightened in Riley's chest. Keeping silent, she quietly bypassed the side door, taking the narrow path beside the garage toward the rear wall of the house.

There was a window leading into the study.

Grant and Marlene usually spent their evenings in the living room watching television; the study remained unused. But tonight was different.

She heard voices.

It was Brielle's laughter—that exaggerated, innocent lilt Riley had heard all her life. The exact laugh Brielle gave every time she took something from Riley: a favorite jacket, a teacher's compliment, or the screwdriver from the very first toolkit Riley had saved up her allowance to buy.

Then came Caleb's voice, low and slightly breathless, sounding as though he had just exerted himself or barely restrained something.

"...Are you serious? You told me it was a safe day."

Riley's fingers gripped the windowsill. She knew she shouldn't eavesdrop, but her limbs felt anchored to the dirt, completely paralyzed.

Brielle spoke again, her tone turning soft and wheedling, the voice she reserved exclusively for their parents. "What else can we do? Aren't you happy about it?"

Caleb paused. "It's not that I'm unhappy. It's just... so sudden."

"Didn't you promise before that if we ever had a baby, you'd take responsibility?"

Another heavy silence fell. When Caleb finally spoke, his voice was hushed, stripped of defense. "...I remember. I said it."

That was when Riley heard a third voice. Her mother's.

Marlene's voice drifted from across the study, steady and matter-of-fact, as if discussing household chores. "In that case, we'll arrange an engagement. The sooner, the better. We can't have rumors spreading outside."

"Mom," Brielle protested with playful petulance, though Riley could hear the smirk in her voice, "aren't you even going to ask if I want to?"

"Don't you?"

Brielle paused a beat. "Of course I do."

Riley's fingers slipped from the stone ledge.

She stood pinned in the shadows against the rear wall, her spine pressed against the cold brick. Her mind went blank. Too many thoughts rushed in at once, colliding until nothing took shape. She thought of the three extra minutes she had spent before the mirror that morning, the boxed lingerie waiting in her drawer, and the six dots in Caleb's text when he promised a surprise.

She had thought it was a ring. She had thought it was a proposal. She had thought he was finally choosing her.

Instead, Caleb had been sleeping with her sister. Caleb had gotten Brielle pregnant. And her parents were standing in the next room, setting the date for the engagement party.

Riley realized, with chilling clarity, that she had never been factored into the equation.

From the very beginning, from the day she entered this house, she had been the disposable piece. When Brielle wanted piano lessons as a child, Grant moved Riley's desk into the attic. When Brielle went to college, Marlene took the money Riley had saved from two summers of work to pay Brielle's dorm deposit. Every time Riley asked, "What about me?" the answer remained identical: She's your sister. You shouldn't compete with your sister.

Now that they were grown, nothing had changed.

A deep, icy chill sank into Riley's bones.

The study door swung open. Caleb stepped into the hallway, his shirt buttoned unevenly and his hair rumpled. He turned the corner of the corridor and stopped dead in his tracks, his gaze colliding with Riley's.

His face transformed in an instant.

First shock, then panic, and finally a sickening, guilty pallor.

He parted his lips, but before he could speak, Brielle followed right behind him.

Brielle showed no surprise upon seeing Riley. She did not even flinch.

Leaning against the doorframe, one hand resting lightly over her lower abdomen, she offered a smile—the very same laugh Riley had heard through the glass.

"You're back earlier than I expected," Brielle said.

Riley stared straight at her. "Were you two in my room?"

Brielle shrugged nonchalantly, as if to say, where else?

A wave of utter absurdity washed over Riley. The storm of emotions inside her churned and collapsed, leaving behind a cold, hollow numbness—like white-hot steel plunged into ice water, hissing into nothing but smoke.

"Did you know I had plans with him tonight?" Riley asked.

Brielle remained silent. Caleb took a step forward, reaching out to touch Riley's shoulder. "Ri, I—"

"Don't touch me," Riley cut in. Her voice was flat, devoid of any tremor, startling even herself.

Grant Jenkins stepped out from the study, his suit jacket fastened neatly. His eyes swept over Riley, pausing for a fleeting second before moving on.

"Since you know everything," he said, "clear out your room. Brielle needs the space."

Riley looked at him. "My room?"

"You don't need a room that size for just yourself. Once the baby arrives, we'll need a nursery."

"...Where am I supposed to go?"

Grant frowned slightly, as though annoyed by an unnecessary question. "Don't you have friends? Crash with them for a while. Once your sister is settled in, we'll talk."

Settled in. We'll talk.

Riley felt a heavy lump lodge in her throat.

She searched for words, but none came.

She had always known this was how it would end. She just hadn't expected it to arrive with such brutal clarity.

Marlene walked out of the office holding a stack of papers, jotting notes down without looking up, treating the entire matter like routine paperwork.

"Brielle's engagement party is set for next Saturday," Marlene said, her pen moving steadily. "Make sure you show up, Riley. The relatives will all be there. Don't give them a reason to think there's bad blood in the family."

Riley looked at her mother. "You think I'm the one causing bad blood?"

Marlene paused, giving her a cold, disapproving look.

It was the same look she always gave—as if Riley's reaction only confirmed her worst expectations.

Riley dropped her gaze, suddenly exhausted beyond words. She turned, entered the house, walked upstairs, and pushed open the door to her bedroom.

The bed was neatly made. On the nightstand sat the half-empty glass of water she had left before leaving that morning.

A foreign perfume hung in the air.

Brielle's scent. Riley walked to the wardrobe, pulled out the unworn lingerie from the bottom shelf, held it tightly in her fist for a second, and threw it straight into the trash can.

She packed only a single duffel bag: a few changes of clothes, her phone charger, and the worn maintenance manual her grandfather had left her.

When she came downstairs, the living room was empty; everyone was still gathered in the study. She could hear Brielle laughing, Grant on the phone booking a venue, and Marlene discussing rush orders for a custom wedding dress.

Riley did not look back.

By the time she walked out the front door, the night had swallowed the street whole. She strapped the duffel securely onto the rear rack of her motorcycle, mounted the seat, and started the engine, the low hum echoing across the empty driveway. In the side mirror, she cast one last glance at the gray house.

In the reflection at the corner of the mirror, a black sedan sat parked at the mouth of the alley.

Riley narrowed her eyes, unable to see the person behind the tinted glass. She told herself it belonged to a neighbor, though she knew for a fact that no one ever parked at the end of that alley.

She twisted the throttle. The headlight sliced through the dark street ahead, and the night wind whipped her hair into a tangled mess. She didn't shed a single tear on the ride over to Sophie's.

It was only when she stopped at a red light that she looked down and saw her hands trembling violently against the handlebars.

Marked by the Biker Giant — Chapter 9 Atlas's Old Scars

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