It was ten minutes to ten on a bright Thursday morning, the kind of polished spring day my mother loved because sunlight made everything look richer than it was. The grass had been cut the day before. The white stone around the flowerbeds had been hosed clean. My father stood near the front walk in a navy blazer and expensive loafers, holding court for two prospective clients from Intrepid Tech and one local developer my brother had been chasing for months. My mother floated between them in cream silk and diamonds she couldn’t actually afford. My brother Jace leaned against his rented BMW with a cup of coffee in one hand and the smirk of a man who had spent his whole life mistaking arrogance for charm.
They were all laughing about something.
Probably about me.
Probably about how the embarrassment had finally taken itself out the night before.
Then the black Bugatti Chiron rounded the corner, low and gleaming, silent in that predatory way expensive machines are sometimes quieter than cheap ones because they don’t need to prove themselves with noise. It moved down the street like it owned the air in front of it.
At first my father didn’t react.