The mansion's driveway looked like a luxury car dealership having a full-blown identity crisis. Range Rovers lined up like obedient soldiers, the Rolls limo sat there catching the morning sun like it knew it was royalty, and Tommy's Mansory Aventador idled at the edge, purring low and violent, the kind of sound that didn't just say I'm expensive—it said I cost more than your house and I absolutely know it, damn well too.
The air smelled like fresh concrete, cold metal, and money that hadn't existed in their lives half a year ago.
Six months. That's all it took for the world to flip on its head.
Six months ago, Peter and Tommy were broke kids scrolling through car photos on cracked phones, dreaming out loud, pretending they weren't serious.
Back then, "luxury" meant the AC worked most of the time.
Now?
Now the driveway alone looked like a very expensive problem waiting to implode.
