Danton's hand twitched toward the Bugatti's door like he might just peel out and leave everyone here to burn.
Brett's neck flushed crimson—rage, shame, the sick realisation that his own blood was sprinting toward the boy who'd just humiliated him in front of the entire city.
Neither of them said a word.
They just started walking toward the limo to face it off with their sisters and talk some sense into them; like two men marching to their own public execution—except the executioner was their fear of watching their sisters with Phei who was already inside probably getting his dick worshipped by half the city while they tried to salvage whatever scraps of dignity were left after the basketball equivalent of a war crime.
A McLaren P1 screamed around the corner—engine howling like it was personally offended by gravity—then drifted to a screeching, perfect stop wedged between the limo and the Bugatti, bumpers kissing so close you couldn't slide a credit card between them.
