The black town car Sloane had imagined in her head was replaced by a reality that smelled faintly of old fast-food and burnt oil.
"You're joking," Sloane said, standing on the curb two blocks from the office. She stared at the 2012 hatchback that looked like it had survived a demolition. The paint was already peeling off , and the muffler was held in place by what appeared to be a very optimistic bungee cord.
"Don't insult my car, It's a vintage classic," Arthur snapped, shoving his high-end hardshell suitcase into the trunk with a violent thud. "And more importantly, it's free. I'm not spending three hundred dollars on a flight when we still haven't figured out how to pay next month's rent on Unit 4B."
"Arthur, we are representing the most prestigious law and consulting firm in Manhattan. If someone sees us arriving in this... this "rust-bucket", the promotion is over before it begins."
"Then we'll park a mile away and walk," Arthur countered, holding the passenger door open. It creaked like a haunted house. "Get in, Sloane. The GPS says it's a three-hour drive, and we're already ten minutes behind schedule."
Sloane climbed in, clutching garment bag as if it were a shield. The interior was no better. The passenger seat was stuck at a permanent forty-five-degree tilt, forcing her to sit like she was preparing for a space launch.
The engine groaned to life with a sound that suggested it was actively dying. As they pulled onto the Long Island Expressway, the vibrating dashboard made it impossible for Sloane to read her briefing notes.
"We need to go over the talking points for the silent auction," Sloane said, trying to steady her tablet. "The Director said—"
"I know what the Director said," Arthur interrupted, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He was driving with a focused intensity, weaving through traffic with a aggression that matched his office persona. "But I've already done a deep dive into the donor list. I'm handling the tech-sector investors. You handle the 'old money' types who like your last name. We divide and conquer. That way, the partners can see exactly who brought in the most revenue by the end of the night."
Sloane bristled. "Divide and conquer? We were told to act as a 'unified front.' If we're seen working separately, it looks like we're disorganized."
"It looks like we're efficient," Arthur corrected. "Unless you're afraid you can't keep up without me standing next to you?"
"I've never needed you to stand next to me, Hayes. In fact, I'd prefer if you stayed at least fifty feet away at all times. It helps my brand."
The bickering was a comfort, a familiar rhythm that masked the growing anxiety in the car. But forty miles outside of the city, the rhythm was broken by a sudden, rhythmic "thud-thud-thud" coming from the rear.
"Is that the 'vintage' engine?" Sloane asked, her voice tight.
"No," Arthur muttered, his face paling. "That's a flat tire."
***
Ten minutes later, they were standing on the shoulder of a highway, the wind from passing semi-trucks whipping Sloane's hair into a frenzy. Arthur was on his knees, struggling with a rusted jack that seemed to be actively resisting his efforts.
"I thought you said you were a 'man of the people' who worked his way up," Sloane shouted over the roar of traffic. "Shouldn't you be able to change a tire in five minutes?"
"It's. Rusted. Shut up," Arthur grunted, his face turning a dangerous shade of red as he heaved against the iron. "And if you're so concerned with time, why are you just standing there holding a garment bag? Put some weight on the lug wrench!"
"I am wearing a silk blouse, Arthur! If I get grease on this, I have nothing else to wear to the VIP reception."
"Then don't complain about the schedule!"
They eventually managed it—a frantic, sweating effort where Sloane had to hold the flashlight of her phone while Arthur cursed at a bolt for ten straight minutes. By the time they were back on the road, they were an hour behind. Arthur's hands were covered in grime, and Sloane had a smudge of oil on her cheek that she scrubbed at until her skin was raw.
The silence in the car was no longer competitive; it was desperate.
"We need gas," Sloane noted, pointing at the needle that was hovering dangerously close to the 'E'.
"I can make it to the next exit," Arthur said.
"Arthur, the needle is literally touching the red line."
"I know my car, Sloane!"
Five minutes later, the car sputtered, gasped, and died. They coasted into a gas station on fumes, the engine cutting out just as they reached the pump.
Sloane leaned her head against the window. "I hate you. I genuinely hate you."
"The feeling is a cornerstone of my existence," Arthur replied, though he looked humbled as he stepped out to pump the gas.
They stopped at a dingy roadside diner for a "toilet break" and what Arthur called "sustenance." Sloane refused to eat anything that had been sitting under a heat lamp, opting for a bottle of lukewarm water and a pack of crackers. Arthur inhaled a greasy burger, his eyes never leaving his watch.
"We have two hours to get there, change, and be at the entrance," Arthur said, his voice dropping into that low, serious tone he used for closing deals. "If we're late, the Director will give the lead on the Sterling account to Miller. He's already looking for a reason to say we're 'too young' for the responsibility."
Sloane looked at him. For a second, the rivalry flickered. They were both terrified. This wasn't just a trip; it was a tightrope walk over an abyss. If they failed here, the last three years of eighty-hour weeks meant nothing.
"We aren't going to be late," Sloane said, her voice surprisingly steady. She reached out and adjusted the collar of his shirt, which had gone crooked during the tire change. It was a mechanical, cold gesture, but Arthur froze at the touch. "Fix your face, Hayes. You look like a man who's losing. The partners need to see a winner."
Arthur stared at her, the grease on his hands forgotten. He nodded once, a sharp, jerky movement. "Right. Let's go."
***
the final leg of the trip was a blur of high-speed turns and narrow backroads. The hatchback groaned under the pressure, the engine whining as they pushed it toward the coast. The lush, green landscape of the Hamptons began to replace the concrete, and the houses grew from "large" to "impossible."
Sloane felt a strange tension building in her chest. She had never been here, but the sight of the tall hedges and the private gates felt... oppressive.
"Almost there," Arthur said. He had used a wet wipe to clean his hands, though a faint rim of grease still remained under his fingernails. He looked like a man going into battle.
They turned a final corner, and there it was.
The Sterling Estate was a sprawling, neoclassical monstrosity of white stone. It sat on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic, the ocean spray visible in the distance. A line of Ferraris, Bentleys, and Teslas were already snaking up the driveway.
Arthur pulled the hatchback over to the far edge of the gravel, hidden behind a large oak tree. He cut the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening.
"We're here," he said.
Sloane looked at the house. The "Sterling" name was carved into the stone archway above the gate. To the world, it was a symbol of ultimate power. To her, it was just a coincidence that was currently making her stomach turn.
"Remember," Arthur said, turning to look at her. His expression was a wall of granite. "In there, we are rivals. We don't share an apartment. We don't change tires together. You are the 'Sterling' they want to meet, and I am the 'Maverick' they can't ignore. Don't let them see you're tired."
Sloane gripped the door handle. She looked at the old, worn-out car, then at the glittering palace in front of them.
"I'm never tired, Arthur," she lied.
She stepped out of the car, the gravel crunching under her heels. She stood in front of the Sterling Estate, a penniless girl with a famous name, ready to fight for a life she wasn't even sure she wanted.
Beside her, Arthur Hayes stood tall, his eyes fixed on the entrance. They weren't partners. They weren't friends. They were two predators entering a golden cage, and only one of them could come out on top.