The black 540i slipped through Friday evening traffic on Peachtree like it had been born in these streets. Neon from bars and restaurants bled across the tinted windows in streaks of red and gold, while bass from a passing club thumped low enough to vibrate the leather seats. David kept his grip relaxed on the wheel, eyes scanning the flow of cars and pedestrians with the calm of someone who no longer needed to prove he belonged. The city felt wider tonight — not confined to one condo or one rooftop, but spread out in all directions, full of people living their own small dramas while the empire quietly expanded underneath.
Rebecca sat in the passenger seat with her bare feet propped against the dash, the hem of her short black dress riding up just enough to show the edge of red lace. She scrolled through her phone, a half-smile tugging at her lips.
