It swings with the weight of a bank vault, heavy and deliberate. Reinforced, obviously. Because when you’re rich enough to buy a historical landmark as your weekend home, you’re rich enough to make it bulletproof.
The scene inside hits all five senses at once, like walking face-first into a nightclub at noon.
Two men are sprawled across mid-century modern couches wearing nothing but boxer shorts and self-satisfaction. Three women draped across them and the furniture like decorative throws, their bodies covered in what appears to be strategic glitter placement rather than actual clothing. The room carries the scent of expensive people doing cheap things.
Empty glasses litter every surface. Crushed velvet pillows have been tossed around like they’ve been in a pillow fight where nobody won but everyone got a participation trophy.
The music keeps blasting—some Euro house track with lyrics about champagne and private jets—but the human soundtrack stops abruptly. The women’s giggles cut off the second I step into the room, like someone hit mute on the laugh track.
Five pairs of eyes lock onto me: barefoot, clutching designer heels, hair frizzed from humidity and stress, smelling faintly of pine needles and desperation.
The larger man sits up, his massive frame unfolding from the couch like a bear waking from hibernation. His face contorts into a frown that would make small children cry.
“Who the fuck are you?” he growls, the words hitting me like physical objects.
I don’t flinch.
Don’t even blink.
My survival instinct kicks in with a strange calm that feels like dissociation’s cooler cousin.
“Delulu new girl,” I say, gesturing vaguely with the shoes. “Not my shoes. Not my car. Definitely not my scene. Point me to the suits, please.”
11
Tinted windows. Soundproof cabin. Encrypted Wi-Fi.
The limousine is excessive, but necessary. I need the space, the privacy, and most importantly, the mobile command center capabilities. My driver knows better than to make eye contact in the rearview. I pay him well for his selective blindness.
Four screens. Four different angles of Little Miss Take attempting to handle my Aventador. The leather briefcase sits open on the polished table between the seats, laptop angled precisely, tablet propped against it, phone in my hand cycling through the car’s internal cameras.
The beast is in Corsa mode. Race mode. I didn’t program that. She’s somehow activated it while fumbling with buttons, and now she’s using the paddle shifters like she’s qualifying for Monaco.
Amateur hour at 600 horsepower.
I snicker, watching Emmaleen frantically downshift at a stop sign, the engine roaring in protest. The car jerks forward like it’s being operated by a teenager learning stick shift. Didn’t that YouTube tutorial she watched explain automatic mode? Obviously not.
My fingers tighten slightly on the phone. The Aventador isn’t my child, but it’s a $500,000 investment currently beingmanhandled by someone whose driving experience likely peaks at a used Honda Civic.
“Slow down at the curve,” I mutter, knowing she can’t hear me. She doesn’t. The tires squeal slightly.
I switch camera angles to catch her expression—eyes wide, lips pressed together in concentration. Her knuckles are white on the steering wheel. The car growls like a caged predator, eager to run but restricted by her hesitant commands.
She’s not doing terribly, all things considered. But I’m wincing.
The limo follows at a discreet distance. Close enough to maintain strong signal reception, far enough that she won’t notice us. Not that she would—she’s too focused on not wrecking half a million dollars of Italian engineering.
When she reaches the gates, I switch to the exterior security feed. The wrought iron barriers swing open automatically, their silent welcome more ominous than inviting. Her face changes as they close behind her—a flash of unease quickly replaced by determination.
Then she spots the speed limit sign.
I lean forward slightly. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
Her expression shifts from confusion to understanding to anger in the span of three seconds. The realization dawns on her face like a sunrise—beautiful to watch, impossible to stop. She’s figured it out. The specific number. The arbitrary rule. The test within the test.
Six miles per hour exactly. Not five. Not ten.
She slows the car deliberately, eyes flicking to the digital speedometer. 6.0 mph precisely. Her jaw sets in defiance.