The backseat of the SUV looked less like a vehicle and more like a backstage dressing room at Fashion Week.
Coco sat facing Aria, his mouth full of bobby pins, wrapping a length of black silk ribbon around Aria's left hand.
"Hold still, darling," Coco mumbled. "If I make this too tight, your fingers turn blue. If I make it too loose, it looks like a bandage. We are aiming for 'Tortured Victorian Poet meets Assassin'."
Aria held her hand steady, wincing internally as the silk pressed against the gauze beneath. "Is this really necessary? I could just tell them I burned my hand cooking."
"And admit domestic incompetence?" Zoe scoffed from the front seat, not looking up from her phone where she was monitoring the trending hashtags. "Absolutely not. Bella's bots are already pushing the #AriaRehab narrative. If you say you cooked, they'll say you were cooking meth."
"They have very active imaginations," Aria noted dryly.
