Karma wasn't just a bitch who came for Peter's enemies—sometimes she showed up for him too, dressed to kill and carrying receipts on everyone.
Because the universe has a fucked-up sense of humor and timing.
The click of heels hit the marble floor first.
One sharp sound. Then another. Then the rhythm of it—deliberate, unhurried, the cadence of a woman who had never once in her entire life entered a room unprepared or uncertain about her right to be there.
It shouldn't have cut through the ambient noise of a gallery packed with billionaires and expensive conversations about art nobody actually understood. There were hundreds of people here. Dozens of women in designer heels that probably cost more than my mom's monthly salary.
But these heels were different.
And the entire room knew it before anyone even turned around.
