The Maybach slid through Miami's morning traffic like a shark through warm water—silent, powerful, returning to the depths after a successful hunt. I sat in the plush silence, the phantom warmth of the dawn still on my skin, watching the city stir, oblivious to the seismic shift that had already occurred.
Madison was curled against me, her hair a wild testament to the night's conquest. Her occasional glance held the satisfied, proprietary gleam of someone who had witnessed a genesis. Across from us, Amanda looked utterly reconfigured, her posture that of a woman who had not just survived but been reborn in the crucible of the previous night.
"ARIA," I said, the name a quiet command in the hushed interior, "status report on the press conference preparations."
