The Bentley dove into the downtown canyons like it was hunting something worth bleeding for. Glass towers flashed past in shards of sapphire reflections, the city multiplying the car into a thousand versions of sin. Kayla drove like she'd stolen the night and was daring it to chase her, but beneath all that curated control, I could feel the nerves under her skin, vibrating like a phone she was trying not to look at.
She slid into a private underground garage beneath a building so sleek and anonymous it practically whispered NDA at passing pedestrians.
When the engine cut, the silence hit like a dropped guillotine.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"My apology," she said.
No smile. No flourish. Just those two words, quiet and lethal.
