The back door flew open, the sharp creak of the chair cutting through the silence as it shifted under her weight. Before the moment could settle, the door slammed shut again, quick, almost guilty.
"Have you turned me into your chauffeur?" Manson's voice came, calm composed but edged with something unreadable.
"Oh God—" Fiona breathed, startled. In a rush, she slipped out of the back seat and into the front, movements hurried yet deliberate, pulling the door closed with a touch of reluctant respect.
Manson pressed the accelerator, and the SUV surged forward smoothly, the engine roaring to life.
"So," he began, his tone laced with quiet scrutiny, "you were too busy to come out, yet somehow managed to tidy everything up in seconds."
Fiona turned slightly, one brow raised.
"Would you have preferred that I keep you waiting?"
"Not at all." His lips curved faintly, though his eyes remained cold. "I hate being kept waiting."
