The air outside the restaurant was heavy with the scent of overpriced steak and the humid breath of a city that never slept. Jayla waited by the curb, the McLaren 720S idling behind her like a tethered beast. When Eric pulled up, looking every bit the charming, middle-management hero, she didn't let the fire in her gut reach her eyes.
She met him with a smile that was a masterclass in deception—the kind of look she had seen in a hundred noir films, where the leading lady is already holding the knife behind her back. She stepped into his space, wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug that felt like silk but tightened like a noose. She kissed his cheek, the contact making her skin crawl, but she hummed with a staged, girlish delight.
"You really want this bag, don't you?" Eric asked, his voice thick with the smug satisfaction of a man who thought he held the leash, blissfully unaware that the collar was about to snap.
