Amara slumped in the passenger seat of Marisol's sleek black car, watching the world blur by as they made their way to Elara's apartment. The dread that had settled in her stomach since the night before had only grown. Going to Elara's house was like marching into the lion's den except in this case, the lion was an actress with a grudge the size of a small planet.
Marisol, naturally, looked as calm and collected as ever, her hands perfectly manicured and resting on the steering wheel. Amara shot her a side-eye glance, wondering how someone could exude that much "I've got my life together" energy at such an ungodly hour.
"So," Amara started, attempting to sound casual, "what exactly am I supposed to say when we get there? Because I feel like 'Hey, remember me? The woman you hate? I'm managing your career now' won't go over well."
Marisol didn't even blink. "You're there to be professional. This is about business, not your personal drama."
