(Vince POV)
The engine hummed like it enjoyed being admired.
Which, honestly, it should be.
My car was a masterpiece. A sinfully expensive, outrageously unnecessary masterpiece. And as it rolled into the glowing driveway of the restaurant I'd personally chosen — a winter-glass pavilion overlooking the river, all warm lights and arrogant elegance — I couldn't help the faint, satisfied curve of my lips.
I'd timed it perfectly too.
Convoy aesthetics mattered.
Behind us, Anthony's car pulled in smoothly. Steven's arrived next. Lara's followed, driver precise as always. The symmetry of it all felt almost cinematic.
I stepped out first, naturally.
Leather coat. Dark knit. Hair brushed back like I gave a damn (I did). Not overly styled — just enough to suggest that effort had been made, which technically… it had.
Jeff glanced at me as he got out, brow lifting. "You look like you're attending your own premiere."
