The Pugatti Chiron's door swung open first, smooth as a villain's entrance in a blockbuster that had too much budget and zero shame.
Brian stepped out like he owned the tarmac, the airport, the entire city, and possibly a couple of parallel dimensions for good measure.
He wore an oversized grey-and-white checkered sweater that probably cost more than most people's mortgages, ironic as hell considering he'd just climbed out of a car worth more than most people's houses, careers, retirement plans, and their children's future therapy bills combined.
Black wide-leg trousers pooled lazily over crisp white sneakers and a black cap sat at the exact angle that screamed he paid a stylist to make this look accidental. Silver chain glinting like it had a personal vendetta against subtlety.
And finally, a designer bag dangling from one hand like an afterthought worth three months of average salary.
He adjusted the cap with theatrical slowness.
Looked around.
