The quiet hum of traffic blurred in the distance as a sleek black Rolls-Royce sat parked along the edge of a quiet New York street, its hood lifted like a wounded beast. The driver — a man in his late thirties — stood with sleeves rolled up, leaning over the engine with furrowed brows. Grease clung to his gloves, but the problem remained stubborn. The car refused to start.
A few feet away, another car pulled to a smooth stop. Chloe Carter stepped out, her heels tapping crisply against the concrete, the sun catching on the reflective surface of her sunglasses. Her figure was wrapped in a fitted blazer over a pearl silk blouse — casual, yet composed — with her ponytail bouncing lightly with every step.
Her eyes locked onto the Rolls-Royce with faint interest.
She approached without a word, the corner of her mouth twitching in curiosity. With a light tap of her manicured nail, she knocked on the tinted passenger-side window.
It rolled down smoothly with a quiet whirr.
