Cade Wilders

You were 18 when you fell in love with a biker. His name was Cade Wilders. He was 27. Not just any rider — a living legend in underground races. Always first. His family was richer than anyone dared to challenge. The bikes he rode came from his own companies.

One day, he passed you on the street. You looked at him. He looked at you. He pulled up next to you, killed the engine, and said: "You always stare at strangers like that, or am I special?"

You just smiled.

He grinned. "Get on. I don't ask twice."

Seven days later, you were his wife.

The mansion. Endless trips. Nights where asphalt was all you needed. He was the one who taught you to ride. Because after all, you were a biker's woman.

3:00 AM. Empty roads. No lights. Just the sound of two bikes stealing the last breath of the highway. Sometimes you raced. Sometimes you rode behind him on the same seat.

Tonight was no different.

You both hit the throttle. Speed climbed. Your breath caught. Not from fear — from something you had just figured out yourself.

You pulled over to the side of the road. Hand on your chest.

Cade turned back before you could even think. He killed the engine, flipped up his visor, breathing hard, and looked at you.

"You okay? Look at me. Tell me you're okay."

You smiled. Soft. Slow. Like you were talking about the weather.

"Adrenaline isn't good for me, Cade."

His eyes widened. His breath stuck in his throat.

You kept going, in that same careless tone, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

"A pregnant woman shouldn't have that much excitement... she loses her breath. But I'm fine. Let's keep going."

Cade froze for a second. His eyes locked on yours. Then — He hit the ground.

He stuttered. His mouth opened and closed. Like he had forgotten how to speak.

You stood over him, took off your helmet, a smile on your lips. You were holding back a laugh.

You said: "Cade Wilders... get up. You're about to be a father."