"I'm giving you one last chance. Get over here and apologize. For the sake of all those years you slaved away for the Pruitts, I might forgive you this once. Otherwise—"
"Hildegarde!"
Before she could finish, Wilfred cut her off coldly. "Don't threaten me with the Dickersons. I've done more than enough for that family over the years. I don't owe them anything."
"If you want to drag them into the abyss, then do it."
He hung up.
"Wilfred, you bastard!"
Her hysterical scream echoed through her office.
...
Wilfred got back in the car.
He released the parking brake, shifted into drive, and floored it.
The SUV shot forward like a wild horse, an arrow loosed from its bowstring, merging into the flow of traffic.
Behind him, a red Maserati quietly followed.
Wilfred's speed was staggering.
In the blink of an eye, the speedometer hit ninety and kept climbing.
The scenery on both sides blurred into streaks. The black Range Rover cut through the road like a dark hurricane.
Inside, Wilfred's face was expressionless, his eyes bright and fixed ahead. Adrenaline surged through him, peaking with every mile per hour.
It had been so long since he'd driven like this.
In that moment, a trace of who he used to be flickered back to life.
"Holy shit, who the hell is that? That car's practically flying!"
"Damn! Did you see that drift? Absolutely insane!"
In a sports car Wilfred had just blown past, a group of trust-fund kids gawked at the Range Rover's taillights, whooping in disbelief.
One of them—a girl with yellow hair and a nose ring—was trembling with excitement. "Find out who that is! I haven't seen anyone that cool in years!"
"I want to race him!"
A voice crackled through her wireless earpiece: "No need to look it up. That plate's easy to spot—it's Lawrence Dickerson's car."
"Lawrence?"
"What the hell? Since when did Lawrence drive like that? When we raced him on Mount Akina, he was nowhere near this fast!"
"That little bastard was holding back on us."
...
The black Range Rover tore along the mountain road, winding through curve after curve. Only the red Maserati managed to keep the taillights in sight.
Inside the Maserati, Margery Finch sat behind the wheel—red coat, black sunglasses, devastatingly beautiful. A slow smile curved her lips.
Her golden waves of hair danced in the wind, a strand caught playfully between her lips.
Effortlessly sensual.
Her eyes sparkled with excitement.