The Rolls-Royce Phantom's door shut with that perfect thunk—the kind of sound that said, I have money and you don't. Engineers probably spent years making sure it sounded exactly like the gates of heaven closing on the poor.
That weight. That hush. That beautiful seal-off-from-the-peasants kind of silence. Four hundred grand bought a lot of things, but that door closing? That was British poetry written in pure, polished arrogance.
The seat adjusted automatically, cradling me like I was some minor deity. Which, according to my bank account, I kind of was.
Five hours at Meridian Elite. Five hours of liberation. Dominique—out cold in the demonstration room. Catherine Reynolds—rebuilt, reborn, bent against her office window in ways she'd remember in therapy. Both of them transformed. Both of them mine.
My phone buzzed against my thigh.
Tommy:Yo bro where you at? Got something important. Meet me at Lincoln Club ASAP.
Lincoln Club.
Holy shit.
