A low, guttural roar echoed off the limestone facades of the Upper East Side buildings. It wasn't the polite purr of the town cars that usually lined the curb. It was the scream of a predator.
A McLaren 720S, painted a violent, unapologetic purple, screeched to a halt in front of the building. The valet stepped back, looking terrified.
The passenger window rolled down. Sienna Vance pushed her oversized sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. Her red hair was a chaotic halo around her face.
"Get in, loser," she yelled, grinning. "We're going shopping."
Iris tossed her duffel bag into the small trunk-barely fitting it in-and slid into the passenger seat. The car smelled of leather and expensive perfume.
Sienna handed her a Starbucks cup. "Tequila latte. Extra shot. And by shot, I mean Don Julio."
Iris took a sip. The burn of the alcohol mixed with the caffeine was exactly what she needed.
"Go," she said.
Sienna slammed her foot on the gas. The car lurched forward, pinning Iris to the seat. They wove through traffic, cutting off a taxi and ignoring the angry honk.
"I saw him looking out the window," Sienna shouted over the engine noise. "Your ex. He looked like someone just kicked his puppy."
"He looked like someone just broke his three-million-dollar vase," Iris corrected.
Sienna whooped, slapping the steering wheel. "You didn't! Oh my god, Iris. That is legendary. Please tell me you got a picture."
"I was busy leaving."
Iris leaned her head back against the headrest. The city blurred past the window. For four years, she had moved through this city in the back of a silent sedan, watching the world through tinted glass. Now, the vibration of the engine under her seat felt like a heartbeat.
"So," Sienna said, glancing at her. "Where to? My place?"
"Your place," Iris said. "I need... I need to burn these clothes."
"Way ahead of you. I already called the squad. But first..." She paused, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "There's a thing tonight. At Velvet."
"I'm not in the mood for a club, Sienna."
"Nightwing might be there."
The name hit Iris like a physical blow. She sat up straighter.
Nightwing. The ghost of the underground racing circuit. The only driver on the East Coast Iris hadn't beaten. The only driver she hadn't raced.
"He doesn't do clubs," she said.
"Rumor has it he's in town for business. And he likes Velvet. It's owned by the Lindsey group, isn't it?"
"I don't care," Iris lied. Her fingers twitched, itching for a steering wheel. Not this steering wheel-a racing wheel.
"You've been a nun for four years, Iris," Sienna said, her voice softening. "Tequila has been dead. Buried under bridge nights and charity galas. Don't you miss her?"
"Tequila was reckless," Iris said.
"Tequila was alive," Sienna countered.
They pulled into the underground garage of Sienna's building in Tribeca. She parked crookedly across two spots because she could.
Her apartment was a chaotic explosion of wealth. Designer shoes were kicked off in the hallway, art books were stacked on the floor, and a half-empty bottle of champagne sat on the kitchen island.
Sienna grabbed Iris's shoulders and marched her to the full-length mirror in the hallway.
"Look at yourself," she commanded.
Iris looked. She saw a woman in a beige cardigan and sensible slacks. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Her face was pale, devoid of makeup. She looked like a ghost. She looked like Mrs. Hunter Rutledge.
"Take it off," Sienna said.
Iris's phone rang. The screen lit up on the counter. Hunter.
She stared at it. The vibration buzzed against the marble.
"Are you going to answer that?" Sienna asked.
Iris reached out. She didn't answer. She pressed the red button, then held down the power button until the screen went black.
"No," she said.
She reached up and pulled the pins out of her hair. It fell around her shoulders, heavy and dark. She unbuttoned the beige cardigan and let it drop to the floor.
Sienna kicked the cardigan aside. She walked to her closet-a room larger than Iris's first apartment-and pulled out a garment bag.
"I've been saving this," she said. "For the day you finally woke up."
She unzipped the bag. Inside was a dress. It was deep crimson silk, barely there, held together by thin straps and engineering.
"It's called 'The Ex-Wife's Revenge'," Sienna said. She tossed Iris a set of car keys. Not the McLaren. These were for her Porsche 911 GT3.
"If Nightwing is there," she whispered, "you might need a ride home."
Iris caught the keys. The cold metal bit into her palm.
"If he's there," she said, her voice dropping, "he's going to lose."
