The Maybach purred through Miami like a predator cutting through minnows, leather sighing, city lights blurring into a congratulations banner for chaos. I grinned because everything was folding exactly how I'd scripted it. ARIA had put the universities' arrival in reach of Helena's surveillance net — subtle enough to tempt, blunt enough to trigger. She thought she was the hunter. She was the fly, and we'd rolled out the red carpet.
"Master," ARIA reported with that smug AI tone that sounds suspiciously like pleasure, "Quantum Tech is down twenty percent. Algorithms are throwing tantrums trying to price in the scandal."
Madison tucked into me in the backseat, Versace silk immaculate, the kind of woman who makes disaster look couture. "Twenty percent? That's like—"
