Side Chick's Joyride, Fiancé's Meltdown
I was a top-tier heart surgeon. The kind they gave a government-issued black SUV with diplomatic plates—armored, red-light-skipping, cleared-for-anything kind of ride.
I parked it at my fiancé Marco Varonetti's place so he could keep it in shape. Bad call.
One day, I got an emergency call: heart transplant for the Chancellor—yeah, that Chancellor, the one with state secrets ticking inside him.
I rushed over to Marco's to grab the car.
Right as I was about to leave, some rando slid into the back seat like she owned it.
"Mall first. I need a mani," she barked. "Then get the ice cream Marco ordered. If it melts, I'll kill you."
Excuse me?
"This is my car," I said, trying to stay chill. "