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... frustrated commuter, but a single, casual beep—just enough to snag her attention.

Isabelle turned her head, brows pinching, her breath fogging slightly as she scanned the road to her right.

And then she saw it.

A sleek black vehicle—low-slung, polished, unmistakably custom—idled at the curb, its engine purring like a well-fed predator. The Selvenhardt. Vermillion’s elite might’ve had taste, but few drove their own cars, and even fewer did it with this kind of presence. < ...

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