The Collision that started it all.

Amelia Rodriguez had just stepped out of a Hermès luxury store. She was wearing her favorite new Rei Kawakubo suit, which she'd just had tailored to perfection. She stood aside with a bottle of champagne chilled to a perfect 37 °F as store attendants dropped onto the back seat of her vehicle, bags upon bags of limited edition items. She then eased herself into her BMW M convertible--an impulse buy of three days ago--and opted to leave the top down as she brought the powerful engine to life. Sliding on her sunglasses, she maneuvered her way down a meandering lane first, then out through the highway. After two successful interviews with LA fashion magazine and VOGUE for an insight into her life, she felt wonderful about today. And it was a beautiful day indeed. 

She selected G-Eazy and Kehlani's Good Life from her playlist and turned up the volume. Head bopping and hands tapping up and down on the steering wheel, as she sang along with the gusto of a fangirl. She gave the machine a little more gas, going over seventy miles an hour and interchanging between lanes adeptly. 

Suddenly, a gray Porsche Cayenne outmaneuvered her BMW and edged forward effortlessly. She was aghast. It was the suddenness and the audacity of the outdistancing that irked her the most. She couldn't let it slide. 

Yes, she was likely to get a ticket for speeding, but who cares? She was Amelia fucking Rodriguez, and she handed people--including cops--their asses for a living. 

She changed gears and went after the vehicle. The restlessness that nearly drove her off a cliff two years ago had been flaring up for weeks. Blood pumping hard through her veins, and a sly smile forming on her lips, she flattened out the gas, almost catching up on the left when the gray Porsche began to slow down towards a turn. It was a hard turn, which she'd missed until now. She broke, but not fast enough. The tail end of the Porsche slammed into her BMW as it turned. Her car skidded and bucked onto the shoulder of the road. The rear end shimmied around while it jolted side to side. Thankfully, she handled the situation with the efficiency of old hands and brought the car safely to a stop by the roadside. 

"Bitch!" She yelled, her raspy voice seductive even in anger. Her hands were glued to the wheel, knees shaking, and her heart a drumbeat in her ears.

"Okay," she breathed. "I'm okay. Not hurt. That fucker didn't get me. I'm not hurt."

Had she not been a good driver--much to her mom's dismay, even better when the speedometer swings towards a hundred miles per hour--she would've been barreled over at the turn of events. 

The Porsche stopped in front, engine still running, as the irritated driver watched to see if everything was okay. He could tell by the dent on the BMW that it wasn't, but at least nobody died. On a different day, he'll alight to inspect the level of damage to his vehicle, check if the other driver was driving under the influence, and probably call the cops on whoever the crazy person was, but not today. Like every other responsible CEO, he had somewhere urgent to be. He waited till he noticed movement in the other vehicle and when the door came open, he drove off.

Amelia was infuriated. He almost killed her yet lacked the morality to check up on what he'd done. She inspected the dent on the vehicle with chagrin, then glanced at the number plate on the Porsche, it was customized. No numbers, just four words that read 'ZAKI'. That was all she needed to hunt him down. He had to answer for what he'd done to her vehicle. The poor thing wasn't even a week old, and it was already disfigured.

"Crazy bastard! Foolish idiot! Worthless scum of the earth!" She cursed, and marched back to the car, legs trembling with anger, as she grabbed her things and ordered an Uber. While waiting for the driver to arrive, she placed a call to her assistant. The phone rang twice before the chirpy 19-year-old girl picked up. 

"Hey, sweetness! Your interview was fire girl--" She squealed. 

"Right, I--"

"Madame Denver has been blowing up the phone."

"Cam--"

"I smell, a great fashion week!" She rambled on. "Oh, and guess who set up a meeting with some of the biggest contenders in--"

"If you would just shut the fuck up, Camella Thompson! For one fucking minute, then maybe, just maybe I wouldn't have to dump you like a used tissue!"

The line went deathly quiet. "Thank you!" She continued. "My car is parked by the roadside. I'll send you the location, so someone could come to pick it up. Also, I'll send a license plate for a vehicle. Have our people figure out who owns it. It's a stupid Porsche."

"Sure," Camelle squeaked. "May I ask what's wrong with your car?"

Amelia sighed, the look on her turning even worse as she glanced back at the dent. "Yes." She said coldly.

"Okay." Camella cleared her throat. "What happened, Sweetness?"

"I almost got killed!" She stomped her foot just as Camella gasped on the other end of the line. "There's a massive dent on the car, I can't get caught in it. I swear it's an eye-sore, and now I can't decide if I want it repaired or if I want something entirely new."

"Where is he? Or she? The other driver?"

"He or she left!" she yelled in the direction the vehicle had gone. "Just like that. Who does that? How can anyone do that?"

"That's horrible! You must be so stressed."

"Exactly. I'm just by the car waiting for my Uber."

"I'll send someone down quickly. What's the license plate?"

"It's err--" Famous for her inability to concentrate in stressful situations, her brows wrinkled as she suddenly glanced at her nails. "Camella, What god-awful color is on my nails?!"

"Huh?"

"Black?! What am I, a witch?!"

Camella's eye rolled on the other end. "Recall, my sweetness, that you--"

"Enough! Get me a nail appointment for five o'clock and a SPA treatment for seven. My day is already ruined as it is, I don't need your lame excuses to further raise my hackles." She huffed. "The number plate is ZAKI."

"Huh?"

"Z-A-K-I!" she spelled it out. "Help me out here, Camella, I'm trying. I don't need to be the reason you're rendered jobless and eventually, penniless!"

"Of course, sweetness. I'll run the info and get back to you soonest."

She ended the call and remained in a foul mood, cursing and spitting profanities till her Uber arrived. The rest of the journey back home was made in silence. She replayed the incident over and over again. If she'd been late on her reflexes by only a fraction of a second, she would've been on her merry way to heaven by now--or maybe hell? No, heaven. That's where good people went.

She wished he'd stopped, or she'd gotten back into her car in time to tail him down to wherever he was headed, as long as she could give the little wretch a piece of her mind.

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