The engine of the customized, bulletproof Maybach purred like a caged predator as Cleopatra maneuvered it smoothly through the chaotic evening traffic of the metropolis. To anyone looking through the tinted glass, she was just a quiet, professional driver in a sharp black suit, her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. But beneath the stoic exterior, Cleopatra’s military-trained instincts were on absolute high alert. Her gaze flicked constantly between the rearview mirror and the luxury sedan trailing three cars behind them—a tail she had spotted ten minutes ago.
In the backseat sat Christian Vance, the ice-cold, multi-billion-dollar king of digital showbiz. He didn’t look up from his tablet, his handsome face frozen in a scowl as he aggressively scrolled through the latest trending topics.
"Find her," Christian commanded, his voice dripping with aristocratic arrogance. "I don't care how many tech assets it takes. I want the real identity of 'Aria Vance' on my desk by tomorrow morning. No one mocks my company and gets away with it."
Cleopatra didn’t blink. She kept her hands steady on the steering wheel, responding with her usual calm, monotone professionalism. "Understood, Mr. Vance."
He had absolutely no idea that his invisible, silent shield of a bodyguard was the exact person he was hunting. Just three hours ago, during her lunch break, Cleopatra had uploaded Chapter 42 of her viral w*******l, using Christian’s exact corporate tantrum from this morning as the perfect comedic villain dialogue.
Suddenly, the trailing sedan accelerated, veering sharply to cut them off. The game was on.