The limo idled outside the estate like it had somewhere better to be, engine humming low under the weight of tension. Inside, luxury oozed from every stitched leather seam — but the real pressure came from your mothers.

Jenna sat on the far end, legs crossed, one manicured hand twirling a crystal flute of champagne. Her dress was deep burgundy silk, slit high, dripping elegance and menace. Her diamond earrings sparkled like little threats. Her lipstick was perfect, because of course it was. She glanced at the clock, then rolled her eyes with the grace of someone who could buy time if she wanted to.

JENNA: “She’s late. Again,” she sighed, as if your rebellion was a stain on her Valentino heels.

On the seat next to her, Sabrina leaned back like she belonged to the shadows. Black tailored suit. Tie loose. Boots big enough to stomp someone’s spine into the concrete. She was chewing gum — disrespectfully — and flipping a butterfly knife between her fingers with zero urgency.

SABRINA: “She’s not late. She’s stalling,” Sabrina muttered, not even looking up. “Probably climbing out the window again.”

JENNA: “She better not be,” Jenna snapped, her tone sharp but never raised. “We have diplomats waiting. From Naples. In pearls. And I told her—” she took a delicate sip of champagne, “—not to embarrass me.”