CHAPTER 407: THE CAR SHOPPING SPREE

La Cherry looked less like a mall and more like capitalism’s final boss fight. Whole city blocks of shiny metal and glass, all humming with engines worth more than some small countries. They even had their own damn shuttle system—because apparently walking between a Bugatti and a Rolls-Royce is for peasants.

It stretched forever, a monument to wealth with its own internal transit system because apparently walking between Lamborghinis and Bugattis is beneath the one-percent.

Dealerships close to the Mercedez dealership lined entire boulevards under its roof: Mercedes, Rolls-Royce, McLaren, Bugatti, Porsche — the pantheon of horsepower. Each logo gleamed like religion for the bored rich.

I stood there, AMG One still cooling behind me, and ARIA—my AI, my girl, my voice of reason-slash-chaos—whispered in my head like temptation in surround sound.

"Master," she purrs. "The pale blue Ghost Series II fits your psychological profile. The Spectre’s the future. The Cullinan—"

"Yeah, yeah," I cut in. "Fuck it. All three. And a G-Wagon. Actually, make it six. Whatever she says."

The manager blinked like I’d just committed tax fraud in front of him. Dude had the body language of someone trying not to faint on marble.

But I wasn’t here to buy toys. I was here to study. Each car was a language — aerodynamics, algorithmic balance, the physics of desire. I didn’t plan to keep driving other people’s ideas. Knowledge without creation is masturbation. These were my textbooks, written in carbon fiber and arrogance.

Amanda got it. She was watching from the corner, that quiet half-smile that says ’you’re insane, but I love watching it.’

"Girls," I said, turning to the rest. "Two cars each. Minimum. ARIA will assist if you get lost. But follow instinct. Consider it—" I smiled, slow, deliberate. "—motivation."

Yeah, that got their eyes shining.

And just like that—they scattered.

The place exploded into designer perfume and echoing laughter. Heels on glass, names of brands flying like confetti. The salespeople didn’t even sell—they obeyed. It was like watching a group of goddesses raid Olympus’ parking lot.

Sofia moved first.

She walked through the Rolls-Royce showfloor like she’d been born with a deed to it. No hesitation. No performance. Her fingers brushed the hood of a Cullinan Black Badge — midnight paint swallowing light, power disguised as silence.

"This one," she said. Her tone made it sound less like a request and more like a coronation.

Then the Aston Martin DBX707 — elegance with a hint of violence. A predator in a tuxedo.

And finally, the Maybach GLS600 — because sometimes she likes her power delivered in silence and champagne.

Three cars. Eight hundred seventy-five thousand dollars in automotive therapy.

Sofia didn’t grin or pose for effect. She simply nodded once — that quiet, queenly approval that said: Yes. Reality bends for me too.

Janet the ever Wildfire didn’t just arrive at the Porsche dealership — she happened to it. Her laugh sliced through the air like a fire alarm wrapped in perfume. "OH MY GOD!" she screamed across three dealerships, pointing at a Miami Blue 911 Turbo S Cabriolet like she’d just spotted Jesus in carbon fiber. Top down, unapologetic, begging for sin.

Then came the Audi R8 V10 Performance — a sound that could wake the dead and probably get her banned from most suburbs. And finally, the Ferrari Portofino M. Red. Convertible. Trouble in designer sunglasses.

Total: $660,000.

Janet didn’t walk back to the group. She danced — hair wild, grin dangerous, the human embodiment of chaos with good credit. Somewhere, a sales rep probably fell in love and had an existential crisis in the same minute.

Luna Valentina my cute nurse didn’t pick cars. She summoned them. She stood before the Lamborghini Aventador SVJ Roadster like she was facing an equal — a dark god sculpted in carbon and ego. Black on black, edges like blades, the kind of beauty that made lesser machines question their purpose.

Then came the Ferrari SF90 Stradale — hybrid power, future fury, elegance rewritten by electricity. And hidden in a private viewing room, she found her crown: the Pagani Huayra Roadster BC. $3.5 million of handcrafted violence.

Total: $4,700,000.

Luna didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. She just nodded once — the kind of gesture that made reality adjust itself to accommodate her decision.

Isabella was like the Italian temptress as I wanted her andIsabella didn’t choose — she seduced. She circled the Maserati MC20, fingers tracing its white curves like they were skin.

"Bellissima," she breathed, and the car almost purred back. Red leather interior — a heart beating under marble.

Next came the Ferrari Roma — grace carved in motion, Italian charm engineered into existence.

Then, with a smirk that could start wars, she picked the Alfa Romeo Giulia Quadrifoglio. "Sometimes," she said, "a woman needs a sedan with teeth."

Total: $543,000.

If temptation had a price tag, Isabella just made it look like pocket change.

Anya moved like she was allergic to noise. Controlled, elegant, lethal.

The Bentley Continental GT Speed — old money and quiet violence. The Mercedes-AMG GT Black Series — surgical brutality in silver. And finally, the Rolls-Royce Dawn — open-air elegance for the rare moments she allowed herself to feel sunlight.

Total: $975,000.

Every selection whispered restraint, but the kind that came with frostbite. Even her reflections looked expensive.

Ortega didn’t browse. She declared war. "That one. That one. And that one."

Each word landed like an order. Lamborghini Urus Performante — dominance disguised as transport. McLaren 765LT Spider — track-bred savagery. Brabus G-Wagon 900 — purple armor for the woman who didn’t take prisoners.

Total: $1,210,000.

She didn’t ask for details or discounts. She demanded keys. Somewhere behind her, three salesmen were trying not to visibly salute.

Victoria walked like every decision was already made — she just allowed time to catch up.First: Ferrari 812 GTS. V12 symphony, elegance at 211 mph. Then, the Rolls-Royce Ghost Black Badge — understated dominance wrapped in silence. Finally, the Mercedes-AMG S63 E-Performance — quiet power for quieter days.

Total: $985,000.

Victoria didn’t need to prove anything. The world rearranged itself to fit her definition of grace.

Amanda my Goddess and seductress, didn’t test-drive cars. She interviewed them.The McLaren Artura — sleek, hybrid, dangerous. The Aston Martin Vantage Roadster — flirtation turned into metal and motion. And the Ferrari F8 Spider, red enough to make priests faint.

Total: $750,000.

She glanced across the floor, caught my eye, and smirked.

"To keep up with you, mi amor."

That smile said she wasn’t joking.

Vivienne Carter approached the showroom like it was a thought experiment. Calm, precise, unhurried — the kind of beauty that calculated before it killed.

Her hand rested on a Porsche Taycan Turbo S — sleek intelligence in motion. Then came the BMW M8 Competition Convertible — power disguised as academia. And finally, the Aston Martin DB12 Volante, a masterpiece pretending to be modest.

Total: $695,000.

She didn’t choose for status. She chose for balance. Because power without calculation is just noise — and Vivienne never tolerated noise.

Science met style. Perfect.

Celeste Dubois was like a French aristocrat.

"Non, I will not be sensible today," Celeste said — not a declaration, but a decree. She stood before the Bugatti Chiron Pur Sport ($3,600,000), a masterpiece of French obsession and impossible engineering. Every curve whispered arrogance, every bolt demanded worship.

Then came the Alpine A110S ($75,000) — elegance distilled, the kind of car that spoke quietly but was never ignored. Finally, the DS E-Tense Concept ($85,000), futuristic and unapologetically French — part sculpture, part rebellion.

Total: $3,760,000.

She didn’t pick cars; she curated legacy.

Anastasia Romanov approached each car like it was awaiting coronation, the grace of the princess she was. The Rolls-Royce Phantom VIII ($500,000) — pure sovereignty carved in steel. The Bentley Bentayga Mulliner ($250,000) — power wrapped in etiquette.

Then, she chose her weapon: the Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut ($3,000,000).

Then she paused. Looked the salesman dead in the eyes.

"The Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut." $3 million. Carbon, chaos, and speed enough to bend time."If I am to rule," she said, "I must also terrify."

Total: $3,750,000.

Cold elegance, ancient blood, modern fire. An empire dressed in chrome.

Gabrielle didn’t browse; she claimed.

The Ferrari 296 GTB ($330,000) — agile, unrestrained. The Lamborghini Huracán STO ($330,000) — pure chaos sculpted by Italian hands. And the Pagani Zonda Cinque Roadster ($2,200,000) — a machine that made mortals forget to breathe.

"Perfecto," she breathed, and even the engines blushed.

Total: $2,860,000.

She moved like heat distortion — dangerous, radiant, untouchable.

Ashby Rousseau was like the sharp blade. Her choices were clean, lethal, deliberate.Porsche 911 GT3 Touring ($210,000) — focus incarnate. Jaguar F-Type R ($110,000) — dark purr beneath refined armor. Mercedes-AMG SL63 ($185,000) — control disguised as grace.

Total: $505,000.

Her taste mirrored her nature — surgical, quiet, and without mercy.

Sophia ran her hand over the BMW i8 Roadster ($165,000) like she was tracing an idea instead of a car.The Audi RS7 Sportback ($125,000) followed, its elegance balanced by brutality. The Mercedes-Benz CLS 53 AMG ($80,000) — the kind of beauty that didn’t need to shout.

Total: $370,000.

She wasn’t chaos. She was the stillness that warned it was coming.

Emma my little sunshine bounced — literally bounced — into the showroom, grinning like she owned oxygen."Can I? Really?" she asked.

Range Rover Sport SVR ($125,000) — bold, bright, alive. BMW M8 Competition Coupe ($145,000) — youthful hunger wrapped in performance. Porsche Cayman GT4 ($115,000) — precision with personality.

Total: $385,000.

She was the spark before ignition — a flash of color in a monochrome world.