The Celestial Grand rose from downtown LA like a monument to old money and older ambitions. Fifty-two stories of glass and steel that caught the sunset and threw it back at the city in shades of gold and amber.
The architecture was that perfect blend of classic elegance and modern excess—art deco bones wrapped in contemporary skin, the kind of building that cost more to maintain than most hotels made in profit.
Which explained why it was dying.
But you wouldn't know it from the outside. The circular driveway was pristine marble, the landscaping looked like it had its own full-time staff of twenty, and the valet stand gleamed under strategically placed lighting that made everything look like a movie set.
I pulled the AMG One into the entrance, and the engine note—that beautiful, violent purr—echoed off the building's facade like a battle cry.
Every head turned.
