Three Maybachs rolled up to La Cherie's VIP entrance like they owned the place. Military precision. The kind of arrival that made tourists whip out their phones and security guards reach for their radios.
The vehicles pulled up with choreographed efficiency. Doors opened in perfect synchronization, disgorging men in dark suits who moved like they'd rehearsed this dance a thousand times before.
Then she stepped out of the white Maybach.
Charlotte Thompson didn't walk—she emerged. Like her very presence had been waiting in the air, and the door just gave it permission to unfold.
