The GPS, synced with ARIA's digital bloodhound instincts, routed me to Holmby Hills—LA's Platinum Fucking Triangle, where bank accounts have commas and soul-crushing envy is the local currency. Mansions glared at Mom's Mercedes like it was a Walmart shopping cart parked at a Lamborghini convention.
Every eyesore was bigger, shinier, and more fuck-you expensive than the last.
Made me rethink—not whether I should've bought Mom's mansion here—but whether I should just buy the entire goddamn neighborhood. Then I remembered: Oh, right. I own more cash than most of these trust fund Vikings combined.
I dismissed the thought. Mostly.
Soon, the gates groaned open—Rivera Family Manor. Like the rest of Holmby Hills' overcompensation parade, it had a gate that screamed "I cost more than your kid's college fund." But inside? Holy shit. Mom's GLE looked like a Matchbox car abandoned in a mechanic's wet dream.
