The Celestial Grand's private drive curved like a marble river through manicured hedges and fountains that caught setting sun in silver arcs. One by one, the cars arrived—each a silent declaration of power.
A white Phantom glided in first. Valets in white gloves lifted the doors. Out stepped a Saudi prince in dove-gray thobe, his wife veiled in couture silk that probably cost more than my first car. A matte-black Cullinan followed, disgorging a hedge-fund titan and his third wife, diamonds flashing like weapons. Then a vintage Aston Martin—the driver opened for a man; a tech billionaire in midnight linen, no tie, cufflinks the size of coins.
The air smelled of orchids, leather interiors, and the faint ozone of serious fucking money.
I stepped from the Maybach.
The valet hesitated—just a fraction of a second. My face unfamiliar. My presence unannounced. I didn't wait. Circled the car, opened Madison's door first.
