Most people try to mask their inadequacy. Little Miss Take wears hers openly, and there’s a strange power in that honesty—one that I’m not entirely immune to.
Emmaleen checks the console.
Two pedals. No gear shift. Paddle shifters behind the wheel like insect mandibles. I watch her confusion bloom across the cabin cam feed. Her fingers trace the edge of one paddle, then retreat as if burned, uncertain and hesitant. The overhead camera captures the slight tremble in her hand—a detail I hadn’t anticipated.
Again she looks down at the key fob in her hand like it’s written in a language she’s never seen. And it is, in a way—the language of wealth and power that’s always been foreign to her.
The custom fob is a masterpiece of minimalist design—matte Nero Nemesis to match the car’s exterior, with flush buttons that offer no guidance, no labels, no concessions to those uninitiated in luxury. The Lamborghini emblem is barely visible, subtly embossed rather than prominently displayed, a whispered secret rather than a shout. The edges are precisely beveled, giving it the feel of something dangerous rather than utilitarian. No keyring attachment, no concession to practicality. Just pure exclusivity designed to make outsiders feel precisely as she does now: lost.
“There’s minimalist, and then there’s... weaponized ambiguity,” she mutters to the cabin mic, her voice echoing through my speakers with surprising clarity.
I smirk. Not an inaccurate assessment. She has a way with words—finding the exact phrase to capture the deliberate inaccessibility built into everything I own.
Still clutching the fob like it might detonate, she presses the bottom button. Pure desperation. Her thumb whitens at the knuckle with the force she applies, as if willing the machine to bend to her determination.
A mechanical click-thunk echoes through the feed, amplified by the Aventador’s carbon fiber interior.
The frunk pops open with a hydraulic hiss, revealing its empty cavity to the front camera. The sound makes her jolt in the seat, shoulders tensing, eyes widening.
“What did I just do?” Her voice pitches higher, panic edging in. “Did I break it? Oh my god, did I break the front? This thing probably costs more than I’ll make in ten years.” The last part is whispered, almost to herself, and something about the raw honesty in it catches my attention.
I snicker, switching camera angles to catch her profile. Little Miss Take indeed. The camera captures the perfect curve ofher jawline, the constellation of freckles across her cheek that darkens when she flushes with embarrassment.
She searches for the button to open the door—twenty seconds. It takes her twenty seconds. Then, with a frustrated huff, she steps out barefoot onto the asphalt.
Each step produces a small hiss of pain as the rough surface meets her unprotected feet, tiny pebbles embedding temporarily in her soft skin. The parking lot cam tracks her awkward progress to the front of the car, capturing how she shifts her weight from foot to foot, trying to minimize contact with the rough surface.
She stares at the open frunk like it’s a mouth that might bite, her reflection distorted in the glossy interior. Tentatively pushes down on the lid, trying to force it closed with increasing pressure.
It doesn’t catch. She looks around, scanning for help that isn’t coming, turning in a full circle that shows the emptiness of the lot surrounding her. Finally, after a full minute of searching, her fingers find the small, unlabeled button on the underside of the frunk lid, hidden in a recess that only the knowing find easily.
The frunk hisses shut with mechanical precision, and she scrambles back into the driver’s seat, visibly flustered. Her hair has long-ago escaped its careful arrangement, strands falling across her flushed face like dark ribbons against pale silk. A thin sheen of perspiration makes her skin glow under the harsh overhead lights.
“All that, just to fail the pre-flight check. Fantastic.” Her voice carries a mixture of self-deprecation and genuine frustration that’s oddly compelling. Not the practiced helplessness most women would deploy, but authentic annoyance at her own limitations.
I watch as she pulls out her phone and starts typing with quick, decisive movements. Zooming in on her screen reveals the search query: “How to start a Lamborghini Aventador.”
Predictable. But at least she’s resourceful. There’s something refreshing about watching someone approach a problem methodically instead of giving up.
A video loads. One minute of instructions that she watches six times, concentrating with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb. Her cheeks are flushed pink now, her brow shiny with sweat, a single strand of hair stuck to her temple. She tucks it behind her ear with an unconscious gesture that somehow seems more intimate through the camera than it should.
She bites her lower lip—not the practiced, seductive gesture women sometimes employ to appear vulnerable.
This is pure, unfiltered frustration.
I rewatch that moment. Something about the authenticity of it catches my attention. There’s no performance in it, no calculation. Just a woman at the end of her patience, trying to complete an impossible task I’ve deliberately set before her.
The honesty in her frustration is strangely compelling—a genuine reaction in a world where I’m surrounded by people who only show me what they think I want to see.
Emmaleen presses her right foot firmly on the brake pedal. Eyes darting between the dashboard and her phone screen, she’s muttering something I can’t quite make out. Her lips move in a frantic pattern—prayer, profanity, or perhaps rehearsal. Like a student cramming final instructions before an exam she knows she’ll fail. The tension in her shoulders is visible even through the security feed, her entire body coiled tight with concentration.
Her free hand hovers over the center console, fingers trembling slightly. Not just trembling—vibrating with a nervous energy that betrays how far outside her comfort zone she’s wandered.
Little Miss Take, facing down the beast.
I lean forward, oddly invested in this moment. The leather of the couch creaks beneath me as I adjust my position, eyes fixed on my laptop monitor, unable to look away.
She finds the red flip cover—the one that protects the engine start button from accidental engagement. A safety feature that, at this moment, feels more like another barrier designed specifically to humiliate her. Her fingertips brush it tentatively, as though it might burn her.