My Rolls-Royce Phantom waited in the garage like a patient, brooding deity—paint so deep it looked like a captured piece of liquid midnight, the chrome Spirit of Ecstasy on its hood catching light like a trapped star. This wasn't a car. It was a statement written in five thousand pounds of British engineering and a colossal, screaming "fuck you" to anyone who'd ever owned a Toyota Camry.
I approached, and the locks clicked open with a mechanical precision that probably cost more than most people's sedans. I settled into the driver's seat, sinking into leather that had to cost more per square inch than gold, and the cabin just enveloped me like a glove custom-tailored for the hands of a god.
The steering wheel alone was a work of art; wood and leather meeting in a holy union, with controls for everything a thumb-twiddle away.
