The Maybach's door parted like the curtains on my personal stage, and we stepped onto Lincoln Road like gods descending to bless the mortals. Which, considering ARIA was currently finger-banging every security system and AI server in a hundred-mile radius on my command? We were the city.
Lincoln Road wasn't just a street; it was my fucking red carpet.
Charlotte bailed, obviously. Probably drowning in a sea of damage control calls she couldn't solve and grief croissants she definitely could. Margaret stayed back, muttering about "documents" like a bad actress in a lifetime movie.
Translation? She was still pissing herself after the whole kidnapping ordeal but she wouldn't admit.
Pride's a hell of a drug, sunshine. Mix it with trauma and whatever designer benzos she's popping, and you get a masterclass in denial. Adorable, like watching a toddler try to operate a bulldozer.
