Aria

The moment Sierra’s car pulled up, I knew.

Knew it was going to be a production. A show. The kind you don’t get tickets to—you just happen to be standing in the blast radius.

The vehicle itself looked like it could’ve driven off a royal runway. Sleek, glinting like polished sin under the sunlight, and very much not subtle.

And then there was her, Sierra Pembroke. Dressed like the Queen of Whatever Realm she thinks she owns, stepping out in heels that probably cost more than my ...