I didn't warn them.
Of course I didn't. Where's the fun in spoiling my own masterpiece?
The van kept accelerating like it had somewhere better to be than the pathetic little world we were leaving behind. Thirty faces—my glorious, chaotic harem of goddess perfection—froze in real time.
Conversations strangled themselves mid-sentence.
Laughter got executed on the spot. Heads snapped toward that glorious 180-degree windshield where the cliff yawned open like the universe itself was bored of their mortal nonsense and ready to swallow them whole.
Genevieve clutched Maya's arm like it owed her money. Margaret's eyes shot open from her massage chair faster than she'd ever reacted to anything that wasn't a direct order from me. Charlotte's hand locked on her tablet like the damn thing could save her.
Amanda—Amanda, the woman who'd rather die than close her laptop—slammed it shut and braced like a good little soldier.
Then Mom hit me with the nuclear "Peter—"
