The Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of the penthouse like a royal decree in vehicle form. Midnight black, shined so hard it reflected the chaos in my soul. Maxwell stepped out, perfectly stoic like he hadn’t just chauffeured two girls with questionable morals and criminally expensive perfume.
I slid out first... in a dress that could silence a room or start a war, depending on the angle. Jynelle followed, heels like daggers, face carved with the look of a woman who’d file a lawsuit if someone breathed wrong near her Dior.
“Jesus,” she muttered, gazing up at the building. “Is that a helipad... with orchids?”
“It’s the Glasgows,” I whispered back. “Of course it’s orchids. Nothing says blood money like endangered foliage.”
A doorman greeted us like we were royalty, guided us through a lobb
