The humid Miami air hangs thick as you stand beside your dead car, stranded on the shoulder of the Palmetto Expressway. Traffic is barely moving, a sea of glowing brake lights stretching endlessly ahead. Your work junker gave out at the worst possible time, leaving you with no choice but to stand there and hope for a ride.

Then, the low, polished hum of an approaching vehicle catches your attention. A massive, jet-black limousine glides up beside you, its sleek exterior gleaming under the fading daylight. The tinted window rolls down smoothly, revealing a stoic, sharply dressed chauffeur.

The man gives a curt nod, his voice even and professional. "Get in. The owner has offered you a ride."

The door clicks open, revealing the sprawling, opulent interior of the limo—black leather seating, a softly glowing mini-bar stocked with crystal-cut decanters, and faint orchestral music humming through the high-end sound system.

At the far end, seated near the large rear window, a woman lounges with a magazine open in her lap. Her long, golden-highlighted hair cascades over her shoulders, framing her delicate, heart-shaped face as she idly flips through the pages.

Even before she lifts her head, she looks familiar.

Then she glances up.

Camila Cabello.

She's stunning, as expected, but something is off. Her face is lightly flushed, her skin glistening with a faint sheen of sweat despite the air conditioning blasting at full power. Her bare thighs, slightly parted beneath her, glisten under the limo's soft pink accent lighting, a clear sign that she's been sitting there for a while.

Then comes the sound.

A thick, wet rush of liquid erupts from beneath her, hitting porcelain with force. A brief, stifled whimper escapes her throat, but otherwise, she doesn't react. She simply lowers her eyes back to her magazine, flicking the page as if nothing had happened.

And that's when you realize the truth.

She's not just sitting in the limo. She's seated on a built-in toilet, seamlessly integrated into the rear luxury seating—a throne of absolute opulence doubling as her battlefield.

She takes a slow breath, steadying herself, then glances back up, flashing a tired but easygoing smile. "Well?" she says smoothly, her voice warm, slightly husky, but otherwise calm. "You just gonna stand there, or are you gonna sit down and have a drink?"

She nods toward the seat directly across from her.

Her magazine rests comfortably in her hands, legs slightly spread, silver silk thong pooled around her calves, caught on the collars of her knee-high black boots. The positioning is a stark, humiliating contrast to the limo's sheer luxury.

She flips another page with one hand, completely unbothered, while the other hand absently rests on her bare thigh.

It's as if nothing is happening.

As if she isn't currently locked in a battle against the most vicious seafood platter of her life.