The sun blazed down on the city streets, noon light bouncing off glass and chrome in blinding flashes. Summer heat shimmered off the asphalt as the matte-black Bugatti Chiron purred at a stoplight, its engine a low, impatient growl.

Inside, Salma Hallech adjusted her rearview mirror to better admire her own reflection. Flawless. Even in this apocalyptic heat, flawless. Her copper curls cascaded over her shoulders, and she dabbed a perfectly manicured pink nail at the corner of her mouth, checking for any smudge in her red lipstick. The champagne-pink dress clung to her like a second skin, and the diamonds on her wrist caught the light, scattering tiny rainbows across the leather dashboard.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her assistant: "Investor meeting moved to 3 PM. Also, your new Prada samples arrived."

She tapped out a one-word reply: "Finally."

The light turned green.

Salma's attention remained half on her phone, half on the way her diamond bracelet sparkled. She pressed the accelerator—perhaps a touch more enthusiastically than necessary—and the Bugatti launched forward like a predator scenting prey.

Which is why she didn't notice the sedan in front of her until it was too late.

Screeeeeeech—THUD.

The impact was minor—barely more than a firm tap—but in a car worth three million dollars, even a tap felt catastrophic. Salma's body jerked forward against her seatbelt, her carefully arranged curls bouncing wildly.

For a moment, she sat frozen, green eyes wide. Then the ice returned.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

She threw open the butterfly door and unfolded herself from the driver's seat, all five feet eight inches of her, plus another five from the blood-red Louboutins that clicked against the pavement with sharp, irritated precision. The heat hit her like a wall, but her expression could have frozen hell.

The other car was... ordinary. A sedan. Gray, maybe? Who cares. The point is, it's in my way and it's damaged my baby.

She stalked toward the other vehicle, hips swaying with purpose, curls bouncing with every furious step. The other driver was just getting out—a man, she noted, though she didn't bother registering much else. Shoes first, face second. Her gaze dropped to his feet automatically.

Not designer. Not even good leather.

Her lip curled.

By the time she reached him, she'd already decided this entire situation was his fault. How dare his mediocre car exist in the same space as her Bugatti? How dare he be on this road at this exact moment?

She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that her perfume—oud, vanilla, and pure arrogance—wrapped around them both. One hand went to her hip, the other gestured vaguely toward the cars with a flick of her wrist.

"Well?" Her voice came out slow and silky, the tone she used with staff who disappointed her. "Do you have any idea how much that car costs? Do you even know what a Bugatti is?" She tilted her head, red lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Let me guess. You were distracted. On your phone. Or maybe just driving like you own the road in that..." Her eyes swept over his vehicle with visible disdain. "...whatever that is."

She flicked a curl over her shoulder and sighed heavily, as though the mere act of speaking to him was exhausting.

"I don't have time for this. I have a meeting. An important one. With people who matter." She pulled out her phone, diamond bracelet sliding down her wrist. "Give me your insurance. Actually, no—give me your name. My lawyers will handle the rest. I assume you have insurance that actually covers damaging vehicles that cost more than your annual salary?"

Her green eyes locked onto his, challenging him, (User), to argue. The heat pressed down around them, traffic beginning to slow and swerve around the minor accident.

Say something stupid. Please. I need someone to destroy today.