ARTHUR
“Fifteen minutes late,” I muttered, staring down at my watch as if I could pull the hands forward with my mind.
The heat near the school gates was brutal, but I stood there anyway, leaning against the fence with my jaw clenched tight.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting a text from Evelyn, but a headline notification popped up across my screen instead.
SPOTTED: Disgraced Mogul Arthur Hayes Trading His Cars for a Yellow Cab?
Beneath the text was a crisp photo from yesterday. It showed me stepping out of a beaten-up yellow taxi in my custom Tom Ford suit, looking like a total joke.
I scrolled down to the comments. They were brutal.
“Look at him, taking public transit like the rest of us peasants.”
“Bro is officially washed up.”
“Guess the Hayes fortune re
