Chapter 221

Chapter 221:

Parked illegally against the curb was a Porsche 911 in a shade of pink so violent it looked as though a stick of bubblegum had exploded. It was garish, loud, and aggressively Azalea. But behind it sat something else entirely — a vintage Mercedes SL convertible in a soft, creamy white. It had classic lines, a canvas top, and a quiet elegance that made the Porsche look like a toy.

“Ta-da!” Azalea threw her arms wide, nearly smacking a passing pedestrian. “Behold the miracle of capitalism p>

I crossed my arms, the adrenaline fading into suspicion. “Azalea, what is this p>

“Okay, so,” she started, talking a mile a minute, “I went to the dealership to get my baby—” she patted the pink monstrosity, “—and the dealer was this total creep desperate to clear his lot. He said if I paid cash for the Porsche, he’d throw in this old clunker for literally one dollar. One dollar, Adella. Can you believe it p>

She gave the tire of the pristine Mercedes a gentle kick. “It’s practically scrap metal. But I can’t drive two cars, and I thought, hey, Adella needs wheels, and I need to get this junk off my hands before it rusts p>

I stared at her. “That is the worst lie I have ever heard in my life p>

P𝗼𝗽𝘶𝗹a𝗿 𝗌𝗍𝗈ri𝗲𝘀 𝘰𝗇 g𝘢𝗹ոо𝗏𝗲𝗅ѕ.𝖼𝗈m

“It’s the truth!” Her eyes widened with feigned innocence. “Look, there’s even a dent on the bumper.” She pointed to a microscopic scratch that required a magnifying glass to see. “Total garbage. Just take it. Please? You’d be doing me a favor. Otherwise, I have to pay for storage p>

I sighed and walked toward the Mercedes. I knew I should say no — the same pride that had made me refuse her trust fund money was screaming at me. But as I ran my hand along the cool metal of the door, I felt a strange pull. It was beautiful.

“Just sit in it,” Azalea urged, dangling the keys. “See if it even starts p>

I took the keys and slid into the driver’s seat.

The moment my weight settled, the seat didn’t merely cushion me — it moved. With a soft, hydraulic hiss, the bolsters tightened around my waist, and the seat slid forward, adjusting to my leg length with terrifying precision. It was as if the car already knew my measurements down to the millimeter.

I gripped the steering wheel. It was warm. Heated.

Then I noticed the leather — a rich cognac color, buttery soft beneath my fingertips. A memory surfaced without warning: me, sitting in Dallas’s office weeks ago, flipping through a design magazine while he worked. “This leather,” I had said, pointing to a swatch. “It’s the perfect shade. Warm, but not orange p>

He hadn’t even looked up from his files. Or so I thought.

“Well?” Azalea called, leaning over the door. “Does it run p>

I turned the key.

I expected the coughing sputter of a vintage engine. Instead, the car came alive with a deep, guttural growl — not the sound of a machine, but of a beast waking from a long sleep. The vibration hummed through the chassis, powerful and perfectly restrained.

“It runs,” I murmured.

“Great! Take it for a spin around the block. I need to… check my tire pressure.” Azalea waved me off and pulled out her phone.