CHAPTER 193: GIRLS’ DAY OUT: THE DELUXE EDITION

Aria tapped the card against her palm like a poker chip.

"Thomas, question."

"Yes, Miss Smith?"

"If we’re going into the city, can we pick which car we want?" She tilted her head, eyes full of faux innocence. "Something that matches our aesthetic and current mood."

Thomas’s gaze shifted between us, the faintest glimmer of resignation passing through his otherwise polished expression. "Very well. I will have the garage opened. However—" his eyes landed on me, "—I would recommend something practical, considering the volume of purchases you are likely to make soon."

"Oh, we’re going for drama, not practicality," Aria said before I could reply.

"Of course you are," Thomas murmured, so quietly I wasn’t sure if it was for us or himself.

We followed him through another wing of the house, until the corridor spilled into a private elevator that descended directly into the garage. Even before the doors opened, the faint scent of motor oil and new leather filled the air.

The space was massive — more like a showroom than a garage — polished concrete floors gleaming under soft overhead lights. A line of cars waited, each more absurdly perfect than the last: a sleek, midnight-blue Lamborghini Aventador, its sharp angles hinting at impossible speeds; a creamy white Rolls-Royce Phantom, exuding understated opulence; a fire-engine red Ferrari 488, practically vibrating with pent-up power, a custom-built, matte black Mercedes-AMG G-Wagon, looking like it could scale a mountain or survive an apocalypse in style, and a vintage cream convertible so pristine it felt like breathing near it might be a crime--and others i couldnt comprehend their names(I actually know the name of all of this because she was naming them as we looked at the cars one by one, a reverence in her voice usually reserved for designer handbags.)

She let out a low, appreciative whistle, her eyes scanning the collection with the intensity of a connoisseur. She walked slowly, reverently, down the line of gleaming metal and polished chrome, running a hand along the cool hood of the Ferrari, then tapping a manicured finger on the sturdy tire of the G-Wagon.

"Oh, this is delicious," she murmured, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Thomas, you’ve outdone yourself."

Thomas stood patiently by the elevator, hands clasped behind his back, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Master Walton maintains a varied fleet to suit all occasions, Miss Smith."

Aria finally stopped in front of the vintage cream convertible, a graceful machine with swooping lines and a pristine interior. Its elegance was undeniable, like something out of a classic Hollywood movie.

"Hello, gorgeous," she cooed, caressing the car’s fender. "This, Isabella, is us."

I looked at the car, then back at the sleek, practical G-Wagon, then to the Lamborghini that screamed ’billionaire boy racer’. "Are you sure?" I asked, a little nervous. "It’s... beautiful, but it looks like it’s destined for a scenic coastal drive, not a shopping spree in a busy city."

"Exactly!" Aria declared, her eyes sparkling. "Think of the wind in our hair, the paparazzi shots, the sheer glamour of it all! We’ll practically be a moving photo-shoot."

"And all those things we’re supposed to shop for?" I gestured vaguely at the small, elegant trunk. "Where will they go?" I knew Adrien had given us a generous shopping budget – the black card in Aria’s hand was proof.

Aria waved her hand dismissively. "Details, details. Thomas will have a separate vehicle follow us for the, shall we say, bulk of our purchases. Right, Thomas?"

Thomas’s sigh this time was almost audible, a faint whisper of air. "Of course, Miss Smith. I have already anticipated such a need. The trunk is indeed rather... petite."

"See, Isabella?" Aria winked at me, practically vibrating with excitement. "Teamwork makes the dream work!"

*****

Thomas, ever the patient shadow, guided us out through the mansion’s front doors and into the waiting car. Aria stretched out dramatically across the backseat, sunglasses already perched on her nose like she was a movie star."Driver," she declared, lifting her hand as though she had an invisible cigarette holder between her fingers, "to the salon. We require bubbles and scandal."

I bit back a laugh. "Scandal?"

"Oh, sweetheart." She twisted toward me with a grin. "You’ve been locked up in corporate life too long. Let me catch you up."

*****

The salon greeted us with cool air and the sharp, clean scent of eucalyptus. Reclining in the padded chair while a stylist worked shampoo into my hair, I felt Aria slide her champagne flute against mine with a clink.

"Cheers to gossip," she whispered.

"Cheers," I echoed, eyes closing in bliss.

She didn’t even wait. "So, remember Ethan and Sarah? The golden couple from our class four years ago? The ones everyone said would have the perfect house, perfect kids, and perfect dog?"

I hummed, trying not to laugh at the memory of them. "Mm. The ones who threw a party for every exam they passed?"

"Those clowns," she said, gleeful. "Well. They’ve crashed. Hard. Apparently, she dumped him last month. Left him with their toddler at his parents’ house—can you imagine? Just, here, take your son, bye."

My eyes shot open. "You’re kidding."

"Oh, darling, I wish. But it gets juicier. Turns out Ethan was cheating on her for, like, the entire time they were together. Six years, Isabella. SIX YEARS. And... With one of our former COURSEMATE."

I choked on a sip of champagne, sputtering as the stylist paused her work. I waved a hand to signal I was fine, my mind reeling.

Aria leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "Jessica Bell."

The name landed like a stone in a quiet pond. "Jessica Bell?" I repeated, my voice a squeak. "Mousy, bookworm, ’I-can’t-come-out-I-have-a-ten-thousand-word-essay-due’ Jessica Bell?" She was the last person on earth I would have suspected. She wore cardigans, for heaven’s sake.

"The very same," Aria confirmed, taking a triumphant sip of her champagne. "Apparently, the cardigans were a front for a heart of pure, unadulterated treachery. He was her ’tutor’ for their postgraduate degrees. I’ll give you three guesses what he was tutoring her in, and none of them are macroeconomics."

I just stared at her, my hair dripping onto the salon cape. The sheer, delicious absurdity of it all was overwhelming.

"How did Sarah find out?" I asked, completely engrossed.

"He left his laptop open," Aria said, shaking her head in mock pity. "The classic rookie mistake. It was a treasure trove. Emails, photos... the whole sordid affair laid out in Times New Roman. Sarah printed everything, put it in a binder with color-coded tabs, and presented it to his entire family at Sunday dinner."

I clapped a hand over my mouth, a laugh escaping. "No, she didn’t."

"Oh, she did," Aria said, her eyes gleaming. "Legend."