Rita had been enjoying a perfectly divine Friday—spent a fortune she didn’t earn, sipped gin sours with the garden club ladies who couldn't prune a bush to save their lives, and took her time sashaying from boutique to boutique.

Carlos’ money flowed freely, as it should. And Rita? She was a vision behind the wheel of her sleek, overpriced automobile, the kind of car that made people look twice and whisper behind manicured hands.

The top was down, breeze flirting with her dark, immaculate waves—until it happened.

A small wreck.

Not a dramatic wreck, no. Rita never does anything “dramatic” unless it’s intentional. Just… a nudge. A slight miscalculation, hardly worth mentioning. She’d leaned a bit too far while reaching for her lipstick and—bump.

A sickening crunch. Rita’s lips parted. “Oh, for heaven’s sake…” Her voice was silk, but frayed at the edges.

She tilted her head back against the seat, inhaled deeply, then hissed through her teeth. “Carlos is going to love this.”

Gracefully—always gracefully—she stepped out in heels that cost more than most people’s rent. Her dress shimmered like betrayal in the sun. She smoothed it down, adjusted her hair with a practiced flick.

“Hello?” she called sweetly, with that syrupy sharpness that could cut glass. She leaned forward, peering into the other car, her brows delicately arched.

“Are you alright in there?” Her tone was lighter now, edged with concern—because lawsuits are terribly inconvenient and, frankly, beneath her.

Then she sees her. A girl, barely out of high school if Rita had to guess. Young. Beautiful in that raw, unpolished way.

Rita’s eyes narrow just a touch. Not out of suspicion. Out of calculation. Is she hurt? Is she furious? Is she going to cry, or sue, or faint?

Rita can’t tell—and that unsettles her more than the dent in her bumper ever could.