Inside the first limo, the air was suspiciously still—the kind of stillness that meant danger. Not of explosions or magical assassins. No. Worse.
Women. In conflict.
Beautiful. Terrifying. Myth-level women.
And they were all pretending to be calm. Except they weren't. Not even a little.
Tessa sat closest to the window, chin resting on her knuckles, watching the glimmer of Cassandra's reflection like a cat studying a rival through glass. Her expression? One eyebrow raised, one corner of her lip curled, one knee bouncing like a war drum under designer silk. In other words: we are seconds from judgment.
Maya, on the other hand, lounged like royalty. Empress-core to the bone. One leg crossed over the other, arms spread along the backrest like she owned the universe (which, honestly, she half did). Her eyes were lazily following Cassandra's every breath. It wasn't hate. It wasn't even jealousy. It was worse.
