As the gallery hummed with the sophisticated murmur of wealthy people pretending to understand abstract expressionism—nodding sagely at brushstrokes that probably meant nothing while calculating resale value in their heads—Amanda appeared at my elbow with that specific expression that meant "business that can't wait, but also I missed you, asshole."
She was wearing a sleek navy dress that hugged her like it had a personal vendetta against gravity—silk so thin and vicious it looked painted on, clinging to every lethal curve with the kind of spite that said try to look away, I dare you.
The halter neckline plunged deep enough to make breathing feel like a privilege she could revoke, framing full breasts that rose and fell with each controlled inhale like they were mocking the room for not being worthy.
