Sissy Room

Thanks for sharing! I've read at least parts of most of those except the first one... have to go check that one out at some point! 🙂

Davoli said it well, but I want to clarify a bit.  If you wear a diaper to bed because you may have an accident, and most of the time you wet when you wake but before you get up, are you still a bedwetter?  I have had accidents in the past, and my medical file says I am a bedwetter but many days I am awake when I wet in the morning, but I am still what I am, a bedwetter!

Chapter 6: Court Tales of the Sanctuary: Book 3 - Bargaining – LittleFallenPrincess     And what a week it was. It was so… So… So…  …boring. I knew being a baby was boring, but this… this was hell. I was losing my mind and we were only a week in! I had nothing to do. All I did was stay in my nursery all week. Wake up, be changed and fed three times a day, play with toys, sleep lots… that’s it! No stimulation, no wonder, nothing! I didn’t even get to see more of this ‘realm’. That was one thing that gave me a little bit of hope for excitement… was getting to see a brand new realm, outside of this palace. But I didn’t even get to see the rest of the palace, it was purely just the nursery. What made it worse was the silent treatment I had been receiving all week. Hell, I couldn’t even try to initiate conversation with Belladonna, she made sure that my dummy was in my mouth at all times, preventing me from speaking. She went the whole week without saying a word to me, just focusing on looking after me and giving me the cold shoulder. I wanted to apologise… but I couldn’t even do that. That was until just over a week after I arrived, a face I hadn’t seen since day one appeared above my crib. “Hello my sweet little sprout!” Titania coo’d at me, as she tapped my dummy with her finger. “Did you miss your Mummy?” Honestly… yes. Sure, she still terrified me after the state she left me in the last time I saw her… but it was just nice to have someone talking to me, even if it was baby talk. I gurgled and mumbled back at her, hoping that would maybe encourage her to take my dummy out. “Silly baby. Now, Bella… Can you be a dear and dress my little baby in something appropriate for the Court?” “You’re showing him off to the others?” “I think it’s finally time. He’s had time to settle. I want him to see what his Mummy does whilst she’s away.” “Right away, Ma’am,” Belladonna replied. My Nanny walked right over, bent over, picked me up effortlessly, and carried me over to the changing table. As she lay me down, she waved her hand over me and I found I couldn’t move at all. But hey, if I get to wear something other than this fucking sleeper… I don’t care what I get dressed into. If this was a different realm, without magic, this sleeper would’ve been gross and smelled bad after wearing it for a week… but no, here it was just as pristine and clean as if it was brand new. But when I saw my Nanny pull out a dress… my whole body shivered. “MMMPH?” “Oh, is this because it's a dress?” Titania asked, as she walked over. “I think you’ll look cute in a dress. It… suits you. Plus all human infants used to wear dresses.” Maybe like a hundred years ago… but not anymore! “I think he’ll look precious, Your Majesty,” Belladonna replied. “I’m glad you think so. Now get him changed, and I’ll take him. Then I need you to change into your… other job’s clothes.” “Right away, Ma’am.” ‘Other job’? What other job does Belladonna have? Other than to fuck the Queen, apparently. I guess I’ll find out soon once I’ve been dressed.   I felt ridiculous. It was a beautiful white satin dress… more akin to a robe or something, with little bits of lace and ornate stitching. It looked like something royalty would wear back in my world… so I guess it makes sense here. But thankfully, despite feeling ridiculous, my attention to my current attire was drawn away by my Nanny, who was holding onto the bar of the pram, as I lay back in it, looking up at her and my ‘Mummy’. ‘Mummy’ looked… regal. More Queen-like than usual. Even wore a little gold flowery crown atop her perfect golden hair. And my Nanny… wow… I’d have to ask her why she was dressed like a noble or something, why she had a freakin’ sword on her hip, and why she wore what looked like metal vambraces. No chest armour or anything… but she looked ready for battle. …Which kept making me wonder WHY I FOUND THAT SO HOT? We had been standing in what I assumed was a meeting room. Obviously, I couldn’t confirm this, as my limited view from laying on my back, in this stupid black and gold pram, made it impossible to see over and see anything but the high backs of old wooden chairs and a huge domed roof made of perfectly clear glass… allowing the dazzling sun to shower the whole room in its warmth. Why is everything in this realm, from the people to the architecture… So beautiful? If I wasn’t being held as a captive here, I’d almost appreciate being somewhere so visually stunning. And at some point, I heard multiple footsteps as people shuffled in, all mumbling quietly to each other, too quiet for me to be able to make anything out. No, all I could do was lay back and watch my Mummy and Nanny do whatever they’re doing. And as soon as my Mummy raised her hand, the room went deathly silent. “Thank you all for coming. Especially you, Oberon. It’s always a pleasure seeing you.” “And what a pleasure it is to return home, my love,” someone replied, who I assumed was Oberon, the King. “Yes?” the Queen asked, looking in a different direction suddenly. “You have a child, Ma’am?” someone new asked. “I… have a little one, yes. But he is not what I summoned you all here today for. He is here purely to learn how his Mother goes about her day.” “Can he even understand that, your Majesty? Surely a human infant can’t understand speech, let alone the intricate nature of our meetings?” “He is not a human infant.” Gasps and mumbles erupted from around the room. “Then, Your Majesty, may I ask what ‘he’ is?” “He is a human adult. We all know full too well that if I was to take a human infant, they would become fae within months within our realm. This… removes that possibility.” “So he’s treated like an infant, but he himself is an adult human?” “Exactly.” “May I see him? I must say, I’m intrigued by this ‘adult human baby’.” “Once business has concluded, I will allow those who wish to view him to come up, one by one. Until then, shall we return to business?” “Sorry, Your Majesty. Please continue.” “Thank you. Now…” Right. So. Maybe I was a little too busy worrying about people coming over to ‘view’ me and probably fuss over me at the end of this meeting… so much so I couldn’t pay full attention to it. It sounded very serious from the little I did hear. Something about a missing ring. The Queen seemed very upset by its disappearance. There was some plan made or something… But again, I was too distracted by what people may say when they see me to listen properly. And before I knew it… the meeting was adjourned. Belladonna pulled the pram away, pushing me down a corridor, with the Queen by her side… until we reached what was clearly the throne room. You could tell because the ceiling was even more elaborate, the paintings on the wall looked expensive… plant life thrived all over the walls and through the beams of the ceiling. And the biggest giveaway was the huge throne I was parked next to and turned around so I could see it. It looked old. But perfectly maintained. Made of wood, gold, silver and what looked like some rare plant I had never seen before… It looked very expensive. “Right. Who wants to view my baby first?” And so began the many… many interactions I had to endure, unable to speak for myself or defend myself when fae noble after fae noble walked up to the throne, looking down at me in the pram, either laughing or cooing at me. It was humiliating. They all asked embarrassing questions about my nappies, my bathroom habits… whether I was nursing or not! It was humiliating. Then the last guest walked up, and the Queen reached out her hand. “My love. Did you wish to see the little one too?” “No.” Okay… rude… But why was I hurt by that? As if I wanted to be shown off by my Mummy? Surely I should be glad that this one person doesn’t give a fuck about me. “Why not?” “Remember the last time you tried to raise a child?” The Queen’s face froze, but her eyes narrowed. It was subtle… but you could tell she was furious. “How could I forget? That’s why Bella is his Nanny. If you try anything with him… I will make sure you regret it.” Belladonna slowly moved her arm over her waist, resting her hand on the hilt of her blade. …So that’s what her ‘other job’ is. “Very defensive of a human boy, my love. Don’t worry, I have no need to do anything to him. He is yet another of your passing fancies. You will be done with him within the year.” God. Oberon is such a dick. And I could tell Titania thought so too, by the stoic look on her face. She’s the Queen after all… she doesn’t need to hide her emotions. But Oberon appears to be the only one she does it with. Also remind me to ask either Titania or Belladonna about this ‘last time’ Oberon mentioned. …That’s if anyone ever talks to me like an adult again. Oberon grinned at the Queen, bent down and kissed the back of her hand, before releasing his grip, and walking off… but not before giving me a dirty look as he turned his head to me.   “Belladonna, please go get my coat.” “Yes, Ma’am,” my Nanny replied, bowing to her and leaving, leaving just the Queen and I alone in the throne room. “How was that, little Charlie?” I mumbled, the dummy still prevented me from talking. “Ah yes. One second…” As she released it from my mouth, I felt a great relief. “Oh thank god…” I burst out. “Your god has no power here, mortal,” she growled, defensively. “Sorry… Mummy… that is just a human phrase. I don’t actually believe in God.” “Well you should. He’s one of many.” “He’s real too?” “As real as every other god. Now… your thoughts.” “Can I speak freely? You won’t turn me into a houseplant or something if I say something about someone?” “You may.” “...The King is a dick.” She froze for a second, and I worried I had said something a bit too far… and that I’d be photosynthesising by lunchtime. But instead… she just burst out laughing. “Yes he is. I’ll give you that. I like you, Charlie. You have a… unique perspective. I don’t always like that, but in you… it’s refreshing. I’m glad Belladonna convinced me to let you keep your adult mind.” “Wait… is that what you originally had planned for me?” “Oh yes. Regress your mind and bodily functions, but not your body. But Belladonna convinced me that you were better off with only the bodily functions regressing, albeit with a desire to act more babyish. And she’s one of the few whose opinions I care about. So I let you keep your adult mind.” Well that changes everything. Belladonna basically saved me… kinda. And I… I had been a fucking jerk to her. Fuck. I need to fix this. “You know how last week I upset Belladonna?” The Queen raised her eyebrow at me, “Yes?” “Can you not silence me with the dummy this time? I’d like to… apologise to her. I didn’t know she basically saved me. And I’d like the opportunity to apologise to her.” “What do you think?” the Queen asked… but not to me. To Belladonna, who appeared out of nowhere, like a damn ninja. “Apology accepted. Your Majesty, I have your coat.” “Can… Can I ask some questions?” My Nanny rolled her eyes, but thankfully Titania laughed, and nodded her head, “Go ahead…” “Umm… What was the ‘last time’ the King mentioned.” “You don’t need to know that,” the Queen snapped at me. “Okay then… umm… so what exactly is my Nanny’s other job?” “She’s one of my two protectors. One of two people I trust the most. That’s why I assigned her to you.” “Why? Is it because of Oberon?” “Partially. Also because other fae may think you’re just a ‘passing fancy’, as my husband put it, if you aren’t guarded, and may… ruin you.” “I’m not even going to ask what you mean by that. So… thank you?” “You have one more question?” It's like she could read my mind. “Yeah, only one… why do you need a coat? It’s…” I looked up to point out the brilliant sunshine shining through the glass windows on the ceiling… and the sunshine was still there, illuminating and warming the throne room… but the source of the sunlight was gone. Instead it was snowing outside. “The Queen’s mood dictates the weather…” my Nanny explained. “And as you can tell… her meetings with Oberon are…” “Difficult?” “Yes, little one. Difficult,” the Queen replied. “Anyway, Bella, I trust you and my baby will be able to get along again now?” “Yes, Ma’am,” Belladonna replied. “Then I will leave you both for now. I will see you soon, precious angel. Oh and the dress looks great on you, by the way.” And with that… My Nanny and I returned to the nursery, just the two of us, and things quickly returned to ‘normal’.           ===================================================== If you want to read a month in advance (that's 8 chapters), or just want to support me and my writing, you can do so through Subscribestar! Subscribers get 4 weeks (8 chapters) early access to chapters, and exclusive short stories (Nessa's Tale is currently the only available one). ======================================================== I hope everyone enjoys this chapter! Please leave likes and comments and all that fun stuff, I love reading them! If you want four weeks early access to my main story and also soon-to-be exclusive access to short stories, why don't you check out my SubscribeStar?  Thank you to all my subscribers for their support over the past few years! Seriously, your support means the world to me. New chapters of my latest story every Wednesday/Sunday!  Also just a quick note: I don't mind people saving this story for personal reading. But I'd appreciate it if people didn't post it elsewhere, even if you're just suggesting it to other people. If you want to show others, please send them a link to the first page of this post. And it goes without saying, my story is not  to be used in any way to create AI work. Thanks!  I wanted to write this like a lot of the traditional stories of the fae. They aren't kind, they aren't compassionate. They're selfish and vain and mischievous. I wanted to show their cruelty, so I'm glad it was recognised.

I do really like reading your story . I want more ......please

Book 2 – Chapter 13: A Holiday from Myself   The Lamborghini was still orange. Sally wiggled her toes in her thong sandals as she stood beside it, admiring the thin layer of road grime it had already collected from yesterday’s drive. The tires looked used now, their immaculate showroom shine dulled by actual pavement. There were faint traces of dust along the lower bodywork as well, but the car was still clean enough for Sally to admire the intricate weave of exposed carbon fiber and the glossy black wheels against the almost outrageous orange paint. She resisted the temptation to open it. Opening it would make her want to sit in it. Sitting in it would make her want to start it. Starting it would only lead to the enormous anticlimax of remembering that she couldn’t actually drive it anywhere by herself. Soon. Just not yet. November still stood between Sally and full driving privileges, and no amount of horsepower in the garage could change the date on her license. She wandered slowly around the Aventador and became conscious again of another problem. Space. The garage wasn’t small. Five cars fit inside if they were parked carefully enough, but fit was doing considerable work in that sentence. Her Fiesta had already been displaced outside, and eventually there would be another car to accommodate. Her 718 GTS was due in a few months. Sally frowned thoughtfully. They were going to need another solution. Something like the warehouse near Zurich made sense—a large, practical place where cars that weren’t being used regularly could be stored properly and brought out when needed. Not somewhere to hoard cars merely because they could. Sally didn’t want that. But there was little point owning something worth preserving and then leaving it exposed because there wasn’t enough room at the house. She filed the thought away for later. Then she looked up. Her studio. Sally had become so distracted by the orange Lamborghini that she had almost forgotten why she had come out here in the first place. She stepped from the garage and climbed the stairs. The art studio was almost exactly as she remembered it. Months had passed since she had properly used the space, but everything remained where it belonged. Only two paintings were conspicuously absent. One now hung in her father’s office; another belonged to her mother—the gray city scene punctuated by brightly colored shoes. Sally wandered around for a moment before choosing a blank canvas and placing it on the easel. Then she sat on the corner sofa and stared at it. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She rested her chin against one hand. Maybe she should paint something for Oskar. Something bright. Colorful. Something a baby could look at now and perhaps, as he grew older, gradually understand that his sister had made specifically for him. She liked that idea. Unfortunately, liking an idea and knowing what to paint were two entirely different things. Sally continued staring at the empty canvas. Her thoughts wandered instead through the notebooks she had filled over the previous year. She realized how much of her creativity had come during difficult moments. Nightmares. Sleepless nights. Memories she needed somewhere to put. Sometimes the sketches had been attempts to escape into calmer places—good memories reconstructed carefully on paper because she needed them more than she needed whatever was inside her head at the time. She looked at the blank canvas again. She didn’t want art to belong only to that Sally. She wanted to create when she was happy too. Not because she needed somewhere to put fear or pain. Not because sleep wouldn’t come. Not because something inside her demanded release. Just because. Sally smiled faintly. Maybe that was something she could learn as well. She didn’t need inspiration to strike dramatically before she picked up a pencil. She could come up here with a blank sketchbook, sit in the quiet and doodle. Experiment. Make terrible drawings nobody would ever see. Let ideas develop because she had given them somewhere to develop. Create moments instead of waiting for difficult moments to create for her. Sally reached toward the sketchbook. A deep mechanical rumble rose from below. She stopped. That definitely wasn’t her father returning in electric mode. Sally stood and crossed to the small window overlooking the driveway. A McLaren 720S had just pulled in. She immediately smiled. Dr. Silvia Costa. Apparently her quiet morning had acquired a visitor. -- Sally’s phone vibrated as she stepped out of the studio and onto the stairs.   Mom: You’ve got a visitor. I love you.   Sally stopped halfway down. Her eyebrows rose. Apparently her mother was keeping a closer eye on her than Sally had realized. The question was whether Bridget was concerned about her health or simply wondering what was going on inside her daughter’s head after their conversation that morning. Then Sally looked toward the driveway. Dr. Silvia Costa lived only a few hundred meters away. The fact that she had bothered to drive over in her McLaren rather than walk made Sally suspect this wasn’t an emergency intervention. More of a discreet maternal thumbs-up. “Hi, Dr. Costa.” Sally unconsciously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she approached. “Nice ride.” “Hi, Sally!” Dr. Costa smiled as she climbed out. “Your mom told me you were in the neighborhood.” Sally’s suspicion was confirmed. She turned her attention to the car instead. Up close, the Belize Blue McLaren 720S was stunning. The color shifted subtly in the sunlight, and through the open door Sally could see rich brown leather inside. Beside it, her orange Aventador suddenly seemed almost adolescent—loud, angular and determined to make sure nobody within half a mile failed to notice it. Sally walked slowly around the front. “I’ve never seen this one up close. It looks impressive.” Dr. Costa chuckled. “I spotted a big orange truck delivering a big orange Lamborghini the other day. Very color coordinated.” Sally blinked. Then she laughed. “I never thought of that! I’ve seen those orange trucks before. It never dawned on me that one would actually be delivering the orange car.” Dr. Costa glanced toward the garage. “Is it here?” Sally nodded and slipped a hand into her pocket for the remote. The garage door began rising. The Aventador appeared gradually beneath it, impossibly orange even in the shadow of the garage. Dr. Costa stepped closer. “Wow.” Sally smiled. “It is impressive.” “It is.” “Even more to drive. Kinda tricky, but fun.” Dr. Costa studied it with the appreciation of somebody who clearly knew what she was looking at. “Naturally aspirated V12. That must be a lot of fun.” “I haven’t tracked it yet. Someday soon, I hope.” “Take your time.” Dr. Costa turned toward her. “Cars like these are never really mastered. You learn them. Curve by curve.” Sally pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “I’m almost terrified of it.” “Almost?” “Healthy terrified.” Sally smiled. “Yesterday helped a lot. I’m comfortable driving it on the road now. Not that it’s easy.” “No?” “You get a lot of rubberneckers.” Sally made a face. “People drive beside you with their phones out. Or rev their engines at you like you’ve challenged them to mortal combat just by existing.” Dr. Costa laughed softly. “That happens.” “You get that too?” Silvia glanced toward her McLaren. “What do you think?” Sally nodded solemnly. “Fair.” “You learn to deal with it. Don’t perform for them. Drive your car, let them drive theirs. Take it easy and be yourself.” They stood together for another moment admiring the Aventador before Sally’s attention inevitably wandered back toward the McLaren. There was something very different about it. The Lamborghini seemed designed around drama. The McLaren was still exotic, still unmistakably a supercar, but the blue paint and brown leather gave it a sophistication Sally found unexpectedly appealing. Dr. Costa noticed where she was looking. “Want to sit in it?” Sally’s face brightened. “Can I?” Silvia opened the driver’s door for her. Sally lowered herself carefully into the seat and immediately began looking around. Her hands settled on the steering wheel. “This is…” She searched for the description, looking from the instruments to the leather surrounding her. “Like sport and luxury got married.” Dr. Costa laughed. “Sweet,” Sally concluded. Silvia rested one hand against the raised door. “Want a ride?” Sally looked up immediately. “Where?” “Nowhere far. Just around a little. Let you get a feel for it.” Sally needed approximately half a second. “Sure.” -- They ended up at a Starbucks in Coconut Grove. The drive itself had been worth accepting the invitation for. Silvia had put the roof down, and the McLaren had revealed itself in little pieces rather than one dramatic demonstration—short bursts of acceleration when the road opened, a surprisingly sharp change of direction through a roundabout, a few corners taken with enough enthusiasm for Sally to understand that the 720S had an entirely different personality from her Aventador. It seemed lighter somehow, less theatrical in the way it moved. Still absurdly fast, obviously, but almost casual about it. By the time they settled at a free table, Sally was already reconsidering several opinions she had never realized she possessed about McLarens. She checked her phone while taking a long pull from her iced latte. “My father told me to go ahead and have lunch on my own. He’ll be back around three.” She glanced up. “He says—and I quote—‘You need special authorization to want a McLaren.’” Dr. Costa laughed. “He doesn’t like them?” “He’s hesitant to enjoy British cars. He allows the Range Rover because the only other option would be a Bentley, and even he admits Mercedes doesn’t do a good enough job when it comes to family SUVs.” “At least he’s honest.” Sally nodded gravely and took another drink. Dr. Costa sipped her cappuccino, then set it down. “So, Sally. Quick question. Your mom called.” Sally gave her a knowing look. There it was. “Dr. Huber gave you a clean bill of health.” “She did.” “I checked your exams and her reports. Everything makes sense.” “It does.” Silvia watched her for another second. “No, it doesn’t.” Sally’s gaze faltered. “Not to you.” Sally shrugged. She knew exactly what this was about. In a way, she had known from the moment her mother’s message appeared. “I mean, I get what’s happening. My body recovered, but it has its marks. I had a dry spell and suddenly…” She shrugged again. “Not.” “Is it happening every night?” The directness made the question easier rather than harder. Sally shook her head. “Not every night. I’ve had a dry night. Or nights when it’s only a little. But still…” “Anything different otherwise? Pain? Anything unusual? Anything that worries you?” Sally thought about it seriously before shaking her head. “No. It mostly just sucks.” She stirred the ice around her cup with the straw. “Especially because I thought it was definitely over.” Silvia waited. Sally knew there was more. “I guess that’s the part dragging on me. I did all that work before. Routine, charts, everything. Then it stopped and I thought—great. Done.” She looked down at her drink. “And now I almost feel like I’m getting comfortable with it again. Like maybe I’m too lazy to try that hard all over again.” “And that’s difficult to say out loud.” A small grin appeared. “It’s easier with an iced latte and a gorgeous McLaren parked out front.” Silvia smiled, but her expression soon became serious again. “Have you told your mom that?” “Not really. It all started again basically the day I left home.” “Then make sure she knows what’s going on in your head, not only what’s happening at night.” Sally looked up. “She’s worried about you.” “Mom?” Her eyes widened. “But she sounds so…” “Calm?” Sally blinked and nodded. Silvia leaned back slightly. “Your mother can sound calm while worrying herself sick. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” That made Sally quiet. “She also knows you’re away from her, carrying on with your life, working at the foundation, learning the family businesses, driving ridiculous orange automobiles…” Sally chuckled. “You make my life sound dramatic.” Dr. Costa raised an eyebrow. “It is dramatic, Sally. Particularly from your mother’s perspective.” She let that settle before continuing. “And from mine, sometimes. I wonder at your ability to bounce back. You’re strong. Resilient. Stubborn—in a mostly useful way.” “Mostly?” “Mostly.” Silvia smiled. “But you have soft spots too. Sometimes they’re cute and cuddly. Sometimes they involve extra padding and a little emotional stress.” Sally covered her face briefly with one hand. “That was terrible.” “It was excellent.” “It was terrible.” Silvia took another sip of cappuccino, completely unrepentant. Sally eventually laughed and shook her head. “I know all this theoretically. I really do. It’s just…” She exhaled. “Like I said. It sucks.” “Then you’re allowed to say it sucks. You don’t have to turn everything into a success story.” That caught Sally’s attention. “Talk about it. With your mother. With Dr. Huber. With me. You’re not going to get disappointed looks from us because you’re frustrated. And nobody is going to treat you like a little girl who misbehaved because something your body does while you’re unconscious isn’t cooperating with your plans.” Sally nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll talk about it more.” Then she made a face. “Back to star charts, huh?” “No.” Sally looked surprised. “No?” “No star charts. No campaigns. No turning your summer into a project.” Silvia rested her forearms on the table. “You’ve been medically evaluated. Nothing concerning has shown up. So for now, give yourself a break. Have your vacation. Swim. Run. Drive your ridiculous car. Spend time with your mother and your baby brother. Enjoy yourself.” Sally listened. “And at night, use the protection that lets you sleep without worrying about the bed. Keep yourself comfortable and secure. Don’t turn that into defeat, and don’t turn getting dry again into your summer assignment. When you’re home, settled and ready, then you, your mother and your doctors can decide whether you want to get systematic again.” Sally sat back. A slightly goofy smile began creeping across her face. “So basically… relax. A holiday from myself” “Basically.” “Wear my diaper and go on vacation.” Silvia smiled. “In somewhat more sophisticated medical terminology, yes.” “That’s doctor’s orders?” “It is.” Sally nodded thoughtfully, as though committing an important prescription to memory. “I can probably comply.” “I had confidence in you.” Silvia finished her cappuccino and glanced through the window toward the Belize Blue McLaren sitting outside. “Now. Feel like driving back?” Sally blinked. “Me?” “Yes.” “The McLaren?” Silvia shrugged. “Why not? You already drive an Aventador. The 720S should be a piece of cake.” Sally stared at her. Then slowly, inevitably, she grinned. -- She’d cooked something quick and practical for lunch and, with nothing demanding her attention afterward, allowed herself the luxury of a short nap. As a precaution—but mostly because Dr. Costa had very specifically encouraged her to stop making such things complicated—Sally had worn one of the pink NorthShores she had brought down from New York. She woke dry. That pleased her, although she deliberately refused to turn it into more than that. No mental gold star. No analysis of what she had drunk, when she had last used the bathroom, or whether this meant anything about tomorrow night. She stretched beneath the sheets, checked the time, and decided to leave the diaper on for now. Her father wouldn’t be home for another hour. Sally dragged her open suitcase onto the bedroom floor and sat beside it. They weren’t leaving until tomorrow evening, but she wanted to get most of the packing out of the way while she had nothing else to do. Flying commercial meant she couldn’t treat luggage quite as casually as she did aboard the G700, although Swiss First was hardly going to leave her suffering with a tiny carry-on and a strict weight allowance. She opened the drawer where she had accumulated her nighttime supplies and frowned. That wasn’t going to work. There were only a few diapers left, most of them the colorful LNGUs Katrina had sent her months ago. Sally picked one up and smiled despite herself. Katrina had thought they were hilarious. Sally had maintained at the time that they were ridiculous, which had been difficult to defend after admitting approximately five minutes later that they were also adorable. Still, a few weren’t going to carry her through the summer. There was a fresh package upstairs in the studio bathroom, but Sally wanted those to stay there. The pastel-colored diaper bag she normally used for travel was practically empty too. Zurich had plenty, technically, but those were the sensible ones: white, medical-looking, perfectly decent and thoroughly uninspiring. Sally made a face. Apparently she had developed opinions about diapers. Wonderful. For now, she took several of the plain NorthShores from their package and stacked them neatly along one side of the suitcase. They packed better individually anyway, filling awkward spaces rather than consuming half the case as one enormous plastic brick. As she worked, she became conscious of needing the bathroom. Sally stopped for a moment. Then smiled. Well. Dr. Costa had said to relax. She continued folding. That still felt faintly naughty, which made it considerably more amusing than it had any right to be. She tucked another shirt into the suitcase, rearranged the stack of diapers beside it and let herself go without interrupting what she was doing. The warmth registered, the NorthShore did precisely what it had been designed to do, and Sally simply carried on packing. Maybe Silvia had a point. She added several of her favorite shirts, two skirts, comfortable shorts and a couple of dresses. Most of her summer wardrobe was here rather than Zurich, and Croatia changed the equation considerably. She needed swimming things. A swimsuit. Sally paused. No. A bikini. She wasn’t going to spend the summer doing purposeful laps in somebody’s enclosed pool. They were heading to the Dalmatian coast. There would be boats, beaches, terraces, swimming off the yacht and presumably plenty of lounging around pretending that doing absolutely nothing was an important activity. That required appropriate clothing. She had bikinis, but suddenly Sally couldn’t remember liking any of them enough for Croatia. Coral Gables meant shopping. Maybe Miami. She sat back on her heels, already considering what she could find that afternoon, then caught sight of the open suitcase in front of her. Pink diaper on. Plain NorthShores neatly stacked along one side of the luggage. Cute LNGUs beside them. And Sally Weiss was seriously contemplating the fashion requirements of bikinis on a yacht in Croatia. She shook her head. There were moments when being herself made absolutely no sense. What would Katrina have to say about this? Sally immediately decided that Katrina was never, ever being given enough information to answer that question. -- Sally took off her wet diaper and had a quick shower to freshen up, wondering what she should wear. More importantly, she wondered how difficult it would be to convince her father to take her shopping. Today was really her only proper chance. Tomorrow would disappear between packing, whatever plans Adrian managed to invent, and getting themselves to the airport. She was still considering her approach when she heard an engine outside. A few minutes and one pair of raised paternal eyebrows later, Sally had achieved considerably more than expected. “I recommend Bal Harbour,” Adrian said. “I’ve heard of it,” Sally admitted. Apparently Katrina had researched Miami more thoroughly than Sally had. “Let’s go.” Sally brightened. “Thanks, Dad.” “Get something nice on. We’re going to dinner afterward.” Adrian started toward his office, then looked back. “And pull out the Aventador. I want to see you in it.” Sally’s eyes widened. “All the way to Miami Beach?” Adrian grinned. “Yes.” She blinked. That was considerably more Lamborghini than she had anticipated today. “Okay.” She headed back upstairs and went directly into her closet. Something nice, Adrian had said. That eliminated the cutoff jeans she had been wearing. A dress seemed obvious, but Sally remembered yesterday’s discovery concerning short skirts and Lamborghini sports seats and immediately reconsidered. Besides, she was going shopping. She didn’t want to spend the afternoon fighting complicated clothes every time she entered a fitting room. She settled on a pair of high-waisted white linen shorts, tailored enough to look polished but loose and comfortable through the legs. They were short without being particularly revealing and, most importantly, she could sit properly in the Aventador without spending every five minutes tugging at a hem. For the top, she chose a soft sleeveless navy blouse, lightweight and slightly fitted, with a simple button closure at the back of the neck. No complicated sleeves, no bodysuit, nothing that would make trying on clothes an engineering exercise. She tucked it loosely into the shorts and regarded herself in the mirror. Better. Young, definitely. Summery. But nice enough that she wouldn’t feel underdressed wherever her father intended to take her for dinner. She chose flat leather sandals at first, then stopped. Aventador. Pedals. “No.” The sandals went back. She pulled out a pair of clean white leather sneakers instead. She could always buy something more appropriate for dinner—which, Sally realized, was exactly the sort of thought that could become financially dangerous at Bal Harbour. Her H. Moser went around her wrist. The bright strap added just enough color to keep the navy and white from becoming too serious. Small gold hoops went into her ears, followed by nothing else. Her Freitag bag crossed her chest because she wasn’t surrendering every aspect of herself merely because her father had said something nice. Sally turned once in front of the mirror. She approved. Then she looked toward the small handbag section of her closet. Perhaps Katrina had a point about her needing something slightly more sophisticated occasionally. Not today. She grabbed her sunglasses instead. Downstairs, Adrian looked up when she appeared. He gave her a brief once-over and nodded. “That works.” “Your approval means everything.” “I can tell.” Sally smiled and headed toward the garage. Then she stopped and looked back at him. “You realize I’m going shopping dressed like this because you told me to take the Lamborghini.” “I’ll accept responsibility.” “And if I come home with another pair of shoes because I couldn’t wear sandals—” “I withdraw responsibility.” Sally laughed and continued toward the garage. A moment later, the quiet house was interrupted by the unmistakable bark of twelve cylinders coming to life. -- Sally drove a little stiffer than she did with Morgan. Not badly. Not nervously, exactly. She was comfortable enough through Coral Gables and onto the highway because she knew the roads and knew what to expect. But Morgan sat beside her as an instructor. Her father sat beside her as someone who had been driving cars like this since before Sally was born. That somehow made a difference. She pulled a paddle as traffic slowed, and the Aventador answered with a deep bark behind them, followed by a few subdued pops and burbles as the revs dropped. Sally glanced sideways, trying to gauge Adrian’s reaction. The sounds weren’t exaggerated, but they still made her feel vaguely as though a police officer should appear and hand her a citation for disturbing the peace. Adrian was grinning like a schoolboy. Sally relaxed slightly. “You get to drive it back.” Adrian raised an eyebrow. “It’ll be dark.” “The roads will be empty,” she countered with a chuckle. “We’ll see.” Traffic thickened as they pushed farther toward Miami. It never quite stopped, but speeds dropped enough that Sally found herself spending more time managing gaps and watching mirrors than enjoying the car. And people were watching. Some were obviously interested in the Lamborghini. Others were equally interested in who was driving it. Sally was suddenly thankful for her sunglasses. They didn’t exactly disguise the fact that a young woman was behind the wheel of an orange Aventador SVJ, but they made her feel fractionally less exposed. “Quite the spectacle,” Adrian murmured over the engine noise. Sally huffed. “I should get part of the toll proceeds for providing entertainment.” An old blue Mustang with an exhaust that appeared to have abandoned any concept of subtlety pulled alongside. Its driver looked over, revved enthusiastically, then edged forward as though issuing a formal challenge. Sally stared ahead. The Mustang revved again. “Oh, please.” She changed lanes. Adrian laughed. “What?” “Nothing.” “I’m not racing somebody’s Mustang through afternoon traffic.” “I didn’t say you should.” “You were enjoying it.” “Immensely.” Sally settled behind a line of trucks in the right lane, where traffic was moving at a surprisingly consistent pace. “Trucks slow down less,” she explained. “They try to keep rolling so they don’t have to keep stopping and starting. Morgan told me traffic is actually smoother—and faster—in the right lane than everybody fighting for the left.” “Clever.” “It goes against common knowledge.” “Common knowledge is frequently wrong.” They rolled steadily between two eighteen-wheelers while several lanes to their left compressed into another wave of brake lights. Sally smiled with quiet satisfaction. When traffic opened again, she moved back toward the center, brought the Aventador smoothly up to the speed limit and settled there. “Relax, Liebling.” Sally glanced at him. “Your shoulders are stiffer than a plow.” She hadn’t noticed. Sally deliberately let them drop, loosened her grip on the steering wheel and settled deeper into the seat. “Better?” “Much.” The longer they drove, the easier it became. Sally even developed a name for the cars that kept appearing around her. Satellites. They would materialize in the mirror, accelerate until they reached the Lamborghini, orbit for a while, then disappear. Some merely looked. Some passengers held phones toward her. Others hung beside the car long enough to become irritating. A few drivers apparently believed that owning something with a modified exhaust obligated them to challenge every Lamborghini they encountered. Sally ignored them all. By the time they left the highway, she was barely noticing anymore. Miami Beach presented a different challenge. The streets were less familiar, traffic was denser, pedestrians appeared from everywhere, and Sally had no intention of dividing her attention between the road and navigation. Adrian already had his phone out. “Just listen and drive. Better than staring at your screen.” “Deal.” “Stay left here.” Sally followed his instructions. “Next light, right.” “Got it.” He kept them simple, giving her enough warning that she never had to make a sudden move. Gradually the streets changed again, and they continued north until the entrance to Bal Harbour Shops came into view. Adrian pointed ahead. “Valet.” Sally followed the signs, slowing the Aventador to a dignified crawl. “Never park this car yourself in public,” Adrian said. Sally turned toward him, visibly offended. “What?” “It doesn’t look elegant.” Sally stared at him. “And it isn’t practical,” he added. “I can park.” “I know you can park.” “I can even parallel park.” “I’m tremendously proud.” “Dad.” Adrian was already reaching for his wallet. “There are cars you park yourself because nobody else is touching them. There are cars you hand to the valet because that’s what the valet is there for. This is the second kind.” He folded a hundred-dollar bill and slipped it neatly into the pocket of Sally’s white shorts. Her eyebrows shot upward. “A hundred dollars?” “Give it to the attendant.” “For parking?” “For making sure your million-dollar orange birthday present remains somewhere you can see it when you come back.” Sally looked ahead. A valet was already walking toward them. Another attendant had turned to look. And, farther along, two young men standing near the entrance had noticed the Aventador as well. Sally sighed. “The satellites have landed.” Adrian grinned. “Welcome to Bal Harbour.” -- The valet had taken the Aventador with far more composure than Sally had managed to surrender it. She had stood beneath the covered entrance at Bal Harbour Shops for perhaps three seconds longer than necessary, watching the orange Lamborghini disappear toward the premium parking area before finally turning away. Adrian had promised to meet her later. He had been deliberately vague about where he was going, which Sally understood perfectly well. He had no interest in following his sixteen-year-old daughter through swimwear boutiques while she tried on bikinis for Croatia, and Sally was equally grateful not to have him standing outside a fitting room asking whether she had found anything yet. So, for the moment, she was alone. Her Freitag bag hung comfortably across her chest, sunglasses rested on top of her head, and inside the bag was the black American Express Centurion card her father had handed her before disappearing. “Try not to destroy civilization,” he had said. Sally had given him a look. Now, walking beneath the tropical greenery and shaded walkways of Bal Harbour Shops, she wondered whether civilization was really the one in danger. Zimmermann caught her first. That had probably been inevitable. The displays seemed designed specifically to make a girl preparing for a week on the Dalmatian coast forget every sensible principle she had ever possessed. Lightweight dresses floated from hangers in pale yellows, Mediterranean blues and soft floral patterns. Swimwear occupied one wall in combinations Sally immediately imagined against turquoise water, white decks and the impossibly bright Croatian sun. She told herself she was only browsing. Ten minutes later she was carrying six pieces into a fitting room. The first bikini was easy. It had a bright Mediterranean floral pattern, turquoise and coral with little touches of yellow against white. Sally tied the top, adjusted the straps and looked at herself in the mirror. Croatia. That was the entire argument. She turned once, examining the fit from the side, then smiled. “Yes.” The second was considerably more dangerous. Ivory. Delicate edging. Simple enough that the details only became obvious when she looked closely. Sally loved it immediately, which was precisely why she checked the price before allowing herself to become attached. Her eyebrows rose. She stared at the tag. Then at herself. Then at the tag again. “This is practically underwear designed to get wet.” The fitting-room mirror offered no moral guidance. Sally took it off, placed it carefully in the maybe pile and tried the next one. The pale-yellow summer dress was worse. It fell easily around her without looking shapeless, ending above the knee and moving beautifully when she turned. It was the sort of dress that required almost nothing else: sandals, perhaps the little black bag her father wanted her to look at later, and the H. Moser already glowing cheerfully against her wrist. Sally lifted her arm and noticed the effect. The purple dial and bright yellow strap looked unexpectedly perfect against the dress. “Oh, come on.” The dress joined the yes pile. By the time she emerged, she had acquired the floral bikini, the yellow dress, a white cotton sundress she could throw over swimwear, and—after a final internal argument—the ridiculous ivory bikini. Sally handed over the Centurion card and tried not to look too closely at the total. The sales associate did not react. That almost made it worse. Outside again, Sally carried the bags for perhaps fifty feet before deciding she was absolutely not spending the afternoon hauling purchases around like a pack mule. A quick conversation solved that. The bags could be held and collected later, or delivered to the house. Luxury, Sally reflected, was often less about possessing things than about making inconvenient things disappear. Vilebrequin became the dangerous discovery. She had intended to look only at swimwear. Instead she found the shorts. At first Sally examined a pair of navy women’s swim shorts because they reminded her immediately of Erika. Tailored but loose enough to move in, drawstring waist, pockets, nothing delicate about them. Sally had seen photographs of Erika wearing similar trunks with a bikini top, hair tied messily back, looking as though she had wandered away from a sailboat and accidentally become fashionable. Sally held them against herself. She liked the idea. A sales associate brought her the right size, and Sally tried them over the floral bikini. That was it. She stood in front of the mirror with both hands tucked into the pockets and grinned. They felt almost mischievous. Not elegant. Not feminine in the way her dresses were. Just practical and cool. Something she could wear while paddleboarding, climbing in and out of a tender, sitting cross-legged on deck or jumping into the sea without worrying whether everything remained perfectly arranged. Then she spotted another pair. These were technically men’s. Brightly patterned with tiny sea creatures against blue. Sally picked them up. The associate hesitated only long enough to ask what size she wanted. “Smallest you’ve got.” The trunks sat lower on her hips and were slightly looser through the legs. Sally tightened the drawstring and looked at herself again. For several seconds she said nothing. Then she laughed. Erika had corrupted her. She bought both pairs. By the time Sally reached The Webster, she had developed momentum. That was dangerous. She wandered slowly rather than shopping with purpose, enjoying the strange mix of clothes and accessories that seemed selected specifically to prevent anyone from predicting what might appear around the next corner. She found sunglasses she liked but didn’t need, a cropped summer shirt she liked even more but still didn’t need, and a pair of sneakers that tempted her badly enough that she physically put them back on the shelf and walked away. “Discipline,” she murmured. Five minutes later she bought the shirt. Golden Goose was avoided entirely. That was discipline too. Sally checked her phone as she emerged back into the open-air walkway. A message from Adrian.   Dad: Still alive?   She smiled.   Sally: Barely. Fashion is expensive.   His reply appeared quickly.   Dad: A profound discovery.   Sally rolled her eyes and slipped the phone away. She still needed practical things. Saks handled those. Two more sets of underwear, sunscreen, a light cover-up, another pair of denim shorts and one surprisingly sensible navy one-piece swimsuit. Sally tried the swimsuit almost reluctantly, expecting to find it boring after everything else she had bought. Instead, she liked it. The cut was clean, athletic without looking like something she would use for lap swimming, with a low back and just enough structure that she could imagine wearing it around older adults without feeling as though she had dressed specifically for attention. She bought that too. Eventually Sally found herself sitting on a bench beneath the greenery, iced water in one hand and phone in the other, reviewing what she had purchased. Two bikinis. One one-piece. Two pairs of swim trunks. Two dresses. Denim shorts. A cover-up. A shirt. Underwear. Various small necessities that somehow added an alarming amount to the total. A little twinge of conscience finally arrived. It wasn’t that the money mattered in any practical sense. Sally knew perfectly well that nothing she had bought would register meaningfully against her family’s resources. That almost made the discomfort more important. She didn’t want to become someone who could spend thousands of dollars in an afternoon and feel absolutely nothing about it. She considered the ivory bikini again. Beautiful. Ridiculous. She smiled. And she would wear it. That mattered. Sally leaned back against the bench, looking around at the immaculate walkways, palms and fountains, the boutiques quietly inviting her to continue. “No.” She said it aloud this time. “We’re done.” Her phone buzzed.   Dad: Meet me at Bottega in fifteen.   Sally stared at the message. Then laughed. Apparently they were not done. She stood, adjusted the Freitag strap across her chest and began walking. Somewhere in the premium valet parking area, her orange Aventador was waiting. Somewhere ahead, her father was apparently preparing another assault on her financial conscience. And Sally suspected she was about to acquire a handbag. -- The black Bottega Veneta Baby contrasted beautifully with the H. Moser on Sally’s wrist. That sealed the deal for Adrian. Sally could hardly argue with him, considering that her considerably more substantial contribution to the afternoon was presently being carried toward the valet stand behind them. Bags from several stores followed in orderly procession, and Sally was beginning to wonder whether her enthusiasm for Croatia had exceeded the carrying capacity of an Aventador. At least the hundred-dollar tip had proved worthwhile. Her orange SVJ occupied a prominent position directly in front of the entrance, parked beside a stunning silver Bugatti that made even the Lamborghini seem almost restrained. They didn’t have to wait for either car or keys. The moment one of the attendants spotted Sally and Adrian approaching, he stepped toward the Aventador and reached inside to release the front luggage compartment. “Worth every cent,” Adrian murmured, winking at her. “I could get used to this,” Sally sighed. “You should. At least feel at ease with it,” Adrian said gently. “Nobody is stealing your Ford Fiesta. You’re still allowed at Walmart.” Sally grinned. “Good to know. I’ll have to make an appearance occasionally, so people still know I’m real.” She glanced toward a small group of teenagers lingering at a respectful distance, phones conspicuously raised in their direction. Adrian followed her gaze. “Just for appearances.” Sally laughed. “Of course.” To her surprise, the Lamborghini’s little front trunk swallowed the shopping rather efficiently. It was a terrible shape for serious luggage—her carry-on would probably consume most of it by itself—but soft shopping bags could be tucked into corners and stacked around one another. With some careful arranging, everything disappeared beneath the hood. Almost everything. Sally looked down at the black Bottega still hanging from her hand. That one wasn’t going in the trunk. She opened her Freitag bag and transferred the essentials: phone, wallet, lip balm, sunglasses case, a few miscellaneous things that seemed to accumulate inside any bag she carried. Her Centurion card disappeared into the Bottega, and she slipped the new bag onto her shoulder. Adrian watched the ceremony with amusement. “What?” “Nothing.” “You have that look.” “I was merely observing the transformation.” “There is no transformation.” Sally tucked her Freitag carefully into one of the shopping bags. “I still own the other one.” “I’m relieved.” The attendant raised Sally’s door for her. “Thank you.” She stepped over the broad sill and lowered herself into the bucket seat with considerably more grace than she had managed two days earlier. The Bottega settled beside her for the moment, its soft black leather looking almost suspiciously at home against the Lamborghini’s dark interior. The attendant lowered the door. Adrian climbed into the passenger seat and pulled his own down. Sally fastened her belt, pressed the brake and lifted the red cover. The V12 erupted. The sound bounced against the storefronts and covered entrance, turning heads instantly. Sally caught movement through the windshield as several phones rose higher. She shook her head. Sally waited for the engine to settle, selected first with the paddle and checked around her. “Dinner,” Adrian announced. “Where?” “South.” “That narrows Miami down considerably.” “All the way down Collins Avenue.” Sally turned toward him. “All?” “Just drive. When I say turn, turn.” The orange Aventador began rolling away from the valet stand, passing the silver Bugatti as Sally turned toward the exit. Beyond the windshield, she could see the teenagers following the car with their phones. One waved. Sally hesitated for half a second, then lifted two fingers from the steering wheel in acknowledgment. The reaction was immediate. She laughed. “Okay. That was kind of cute.” “Careful,” Adrian warned. “You might discover you like people.” “I like people. I just don’t necessarily like several hundred thousand of them knowing what I had for breakfast.” “Reasonable distinction.” The Lamborghini reached Collins Avenue. Sally checked traffic, waited for her opening and pulled smoothly into the stream, the V12 giving a restrained growl behind them as she shifted into second. Adrian settled comfortably into his seat. “Straight ahead.” Sally looked down the long avenue stretching south through Miami Beach. “How far?” “I’ll tell you when we get there.” She gave him a suspicious sideways glance. Then she smiled, pulled the next paddle, and headed south. -- Collins Avenue turned the drive into a parade. Late-July Miami Beach was packed. Convertibles crawled beneath the palms, pedestrians spilled toward crosswalks, restaurant terraces were full, and expensive cars seemed to have multiplied for the evening simply because there was an audience to appreciate them. Sally found herself behind a white Ferrari 296 and ahead of a black Rolls-Royce Cullinan. A lime-green Huracán appeared in the next lane, followed by a Mercedes G-Wagen with wheels Sally suspected cost more than her Fiesta. Farther ahead, a McLaren crept through traffic while a Bentley Continental rolled along with its windows conspicuously down. There were posers everywhere. People revved at lights. Cars accelerated twenty yards simply to brake again. Music escaped open windows. One Ferrari driver appeared determined to make sure every pedestrian in Miami knew precisely when his light turned green. Sally shook her head. “This is ridiculous.” “You’re driving an orange Aventador SVJ,” Adrian reminded her. “I’m observing the ridiculousness from within it.” The Lamborghini burbled as she downshifted. Several heads turned. Sally pressed her lips together. Okay. She was part of the problem. The Aventador was possibly the loudest thing in the procession—or at least the loudest thing still wearing a completely legal factory exhaust. Every downshift announced her. Every gap in traffic revealed that outrageous orange wedge. Phones followed her from sidewalks. A pair of boys pointed excitedly from the back of an SUV. Sally sank fractionally lower behind her sunglasses. “I feel like I’m in a showcase.” “You are.” Traffic began moving again. She eased forward amid Ferraris, Bentleys, Lamborghinis and Mercedes, somehow feeling less like she was driving to dinner than participating in a very slow, extremely expensive procession. And she couldn’t deny it. She was having fun. Adrian eventually began directing her away from Collins. “Right ahead.” Sally followed him toward Washington Avenue. “Slow down. It’s here.” “Where?” “Five-fifty.” Sally looked ahead—and then saw it. Queen. Her eyebrows climbed behind her sunglasses. “Dad.” Adrian was already smiling. The former Paris Theater rose ahead of them in extravagant illuminated glory, theatrical and unapologetic, looking less like somewhere one casually ate than somewhere one arrived. Sally looked at the building. Then at her clothes. Then at the black Bottega beside her. Then back at Adrian. “You planned this.” “Obviously.” A valet stepped forward as the orange Aventador rolled toward the entrance, its V12 making sure subtle arrival was no longer an available option. People turned. Phones rose. Sally stared through the windshield for one stunned second. Then a slow smile spread across her face. “Oh, wow.” Adrian chuckled. “Now you understand the handbag.” -- The valet was already approaching before Sally had fully stopped. She selected neutral, applied the parking brake and killed the engine. The sudden silence seemed almost conspicuous after the V12 had announced them to half the block. “Keys, miss?” Sally handed them over, then remembered her father’s lesson at Bal Harbour. She slipped another folded hundred-dollar bill into the attendant’s hand. “Somewhere close?” The man glanced at the orange SVJ, then at the bill. “I think we can manage that.” Adrian waited until they were several steps away. “You learn quickly.” “I had an excellent teacher.” Behind them, the Aventador started again with a bark. Sally instinctively turned. Rather than disappearing into some hidden garage, it was maneuvered carefully into a space directly along the front of the restaurant, parallel to the curb. She smiled. “Okay. That is pretty cool.” “Worth it?” “Ask me after I see whether the wheels are still black.” Adrian laughed. For the moment, they were anonymous. Not invisible—that was impossible. The Aventador had already guaranteed attention, and Sally and Adrian made an interesting enough pair without anyone knowing who they were. A distinguished man approaching sixty, casually immaculate, accompanied by a teenage girl carrying a new black Bottega, wearing an H. Moser on her wrist, and apparently having just surrendered the keys to an orange Lamborghini she had been driving. People looked. Sally noticed a woman near the entrance glance from her to Adrian, then toward the Lamborghini, evidently trying to work out the relationship. Father and daughter was probably the obvious conclusion. Or perhaps not. Sally decided she didn’t particularly care. One young man watched them pass and immediately looked back toward the SVJ. Sally leaned fractionally toward Adrian. “The car gets more attention than I do.” “As it should.” She looked offended. “Thank you.” “It cost more.” Sally nearly laughed as they reached the entrance. Inside, the transition was startling. The noise and brightness of Washington Avenue fell away into theatrical darkness and gold. Sally slowed almost unconsciously, looking upward. Queen did not feel like a restaurant somebody had decorated extravagantly. It felt like an old theater that had decided dining was merely the evening’s current performance. “Whoa.” Adrian smiled. A hostess greeted them immediately. “Mr. Weiss. Miss Weiss. Welcome to Queen.” So much for anonymity. Sally gave her father a sideways look. “You made a reservation under your name.” “I generally find that useful.” They were led through the room, and Sally became conscious of another wave of attention. Not everybody stared. Most people merely looked—and in a place like this, people were accustomed to looking at whoever had just arrived. Their table explained why Adrian had been so mysterious. It was prominent without being exposed, positioned where they could enjoy the architecture and energy of the room without sitting in the middle of the spectacle. Quiet enough to talk. Privileged enough that Sally immediately understood somebody had chosen it deliberately. She slid into her chair and placed the Bottega beside her. From where she sat, she could see part of the entrance. And, through it, flashes of orange outside. Her Aventador remained parked exactly where the attendant had promised, practically part of Queen’s façade now. Sally shook her head slowly. “Dad, this entire evening is ridiculous.” Adrian opened his menu. “You say that as though you aren’t smiling.” Sally realized she was. She picked up her own menu. “I didn’t say I objected.” -- The first dishes arrived quickly enough that Sally had barely finished inspecting the room. Edamame with sea salt and citrus came first, followed by yellowtail sashimi dressed with jalapeño and ponzu and a neat arrangement of crispy rice topped with spicy tuna. Everything was technically meant to be shared. Technically. Adrian reached for a second piece of crispy rice and discovered Sally’s chopsticks already descending upon it. He stopped. Sally stopped. Their chopsticks hovered over the same piece. “You’ve had three.” “You’ve been counting?” “I have investment interests to protect.” Sally narrowed her eyes and took it. “You were too slow.” Adrian looked toward the approaching server. “Could we perhaps order another one of these before my daughter destroys our relationship?” Sally nearly choked laughing. “I can’t believe you!” “I raised you better than this.” “You didn’t raise me with spicy tuna!” “Clearly an oversight.” The second order of crispy rice was placed without further discussion. It set the tone for dinner. Whatever impression their entrance had created—the orange Aventador outside, the privileged table, Adrian’s quiet air of somebody accustomed to being accommodated—the reality at the table was considerably less imposing. They talked constantly. Sally laughed frequently and, on two occasions, loudly enough to turn heads. Her mocktail contributed nicely to the occasion: something elaborate involving yuzu, passion fruit, ginger and an unnecessary amount of presentation. Adrian regarded it suspiciously over his sparkling water. “That looks radioactive.” Sally took a sip. “It’s fantastic.” “Does it glow in the dark?” “I’ll tell you tonight.” “Excellent. Very practical. If there’s a power outage, we can put you in the hallway.” Sally lowered the glass. “Dad.” “What?” “You’re not funny.” “I know.” “That was funny.” “Thank you.” “I hate that.” The chef’s sushi selection arrived next: bluefin tuna, salmon and hamachi, followed by wagyu nigiri. Sally had also selected an elaborate house roll largely because its description had sounded absurd enough to require investigation. Adrian examined it. “What exactly did you order?” “I don’t remember.” “You ordered it three minutes ago.” “There were too many ingredients.” “So your selection criterion was ignorance.” “Adventure.” “That’s what people call ignorance when they’re sixteen.” Sally burst out laughing again. There were glances now, but not unpleasant ones. If anyone had been wondering about the relationship between the elegant older man and the teenage girl who had arrived driving the Lamborghini, the question had answered itself. Sally leaned across the table to steal from Adrian’s plate, Adrian pushed the remaining tuna toward her because he knew she wanted it, and neither seemed capable of maintaining a dignified silence for more than thirty seconds. By the time the mains were discussed, they reached their first serious disagreement. “Black cod,” Adrian said. “Wagyu.” “Cod.” “Dad, they have Japanese A5 wagyu.” “I can read.” “Then why are you saying cod?” “Because I want the cod.” Sally stared at him as though he had confessed to some profound character defect. “I want the steak.” Adrian considered the dilemma for approximately two seconds. “We’ll have both.” Sally sat back. “That was surprisingly easy.” “Weiss conflict resolution.” “Spend more money?” “No. Find a solution in which everybody wins.” “That costs more money.” Adrian frowned thoughtfully. “Frequently.” The wagyu arrived sliced for sharing, accompanied by the miso-glazed black cod Adrian had defended so vigorously. Truffle rice and charred broccolini completed the table. Sally immediately pointed toward the vegetables. “Broccolini.” “Yes.” “Our official contribution toward nutritional responsibility.” “Excellent. We’ll tell your mother.” Sally served herself a small portion. “There. Health.” “I’m proud of you.” “Thank you.” She reached for the wagyu. “That cancels it.” “I don’t think that’s how vegetables work.” “I’m almost sixty. I’ve had time to study these things.” Sally’s eyes narrowed. “Almost sixty?” Adrian realized his mistake. “Yes.” “Perhaps you should have the cod. Easier to chew.” He stared at her. Sally managed to remain serious for perhaps two seconds. Then she lost it. Adrian shook his head. “Sixteen years old and already abusing the elderly.” “You told me to respect my elders.” “I did.” “I will when I meet some.” That earned her a piece of broccolini deposited deliberately onto her plate. “Eat your vegetables.” Sally laughed so hard she had to put down her chopsticks. -- Dessert should probably have been unnecessary. That had no bearing whatsoever on whether they ordered it. Their server recommended a dramatic chocolate-and-matcha creation that arrived looking more like an architectural installation than food. Adrian and Sally stared at it. “One?” Sally asked. “One.” “Two spoons?” “Obviously.” Mochi ice cream appeared alongside it anyway. Sally leaned back. “We have made poor decisions.” “Speak for yourself.” “You ordered the cod and steak.” “You demanded the steak.” “You enabled me.” “I’ve been doing that for sixteen years.” Sally attacked the chocolate. Dinner slowed after that. Not because conversation ran out, but because neither was in a hurry. They talked about Croatia and Oskar, about Sally’s presentation, about cars, about the ridiculous bathing trunks she’d bought because Erika had made them look cool in photographs. Adrian teased her about the amount of shopping presently stuffed into the Lamborghini. Sally reminded him that the Bottega had been his fault. Around them, Queen continued being Queen: beautiful people arriving, conversations flowing, plates appearing beneath carefully controlled light. Outside, the orange Aventador remained on display beneath the Miami night, occasionally attracting another cluster of phones. But the more striking scene was inside. A father and his daughter sharing one dessert with two spoons. No strained attempt to connect. No adolescent eye-rolling at everything her father said. No father distracted by his phone while his daughter stared into hers. Adrian’s phone had barely appeared all evening. Sally’s remained inside her new bag. She scraped some chocolate from the edge of the dessert. Adrian pointed his spoon. “I was saving that.” “You were too slow.” He stared at her. Sally grinned. “Investment interests.” Adrian laughed. -- When they finally stepped outside, the Aventador was still sitting prominently at the curb, now brilliant orange beneath the lights. The valet recognized them immediately. Sally reached for the keys, accepted them— —and held them out to Adrian. He looked at her hand. “Really?” “You’ve behaved yourself.” “That sounds dangerously like permission.” Sally smiled. “I drove here. You drive home.” Adrian took the keys. She pointed a warning finger at him. “But remember what you told me. The street is where you parade it. You don’t show its bite.” Adrian looked solemn. “Of course.” Sally stared at him. His expression remained perfectly innocent. “Oh, Lord,” she murmured. Adrian grinned. And Sally started laughing all over again.