"Miss Barrett." I stopped with the grocery bag at my hip and turned toward the voice. "Yes?" I said, wiping a smear of juice from my thumb with the hem of my shirt. A silver Rolls idled at the curb, shiny enough to blind anyone who'd lived under neon and laundry lines for years. A driver in a crisp suit leaned out the window and bowed his head a fraction. "Our young master wishes to speak with you," he said. "I don't know you," I answered before I could think of the right politeness. My voice sounded too loud after a day of livestream practice and delivery runs. "You have a delivery this evening," the driver said. "He asked we bring it to him. Please, Miss Barrett." He said my name like a confirmation from a list. People on the riverwalk glanced over. A couple paused mid-bite of street food. A kid pointed at the car, whispering. The city already had a habit of recording everything; someone lifted a phone toward us. I tightened my grip on the peaches. "Who is 'your young master'?" I asked. The driver smiled with small, easy confidence. "Master Franz Perry." I let out a laugh that felt thin. "Franz Perry? You mean Franz Perry from Perry Pictures?" "He is the man who requested your peaches," the driver said. "Please." "Why would he want peaches?" I asked. "He wanted to thank you personally." "Thank me?" I blinked. "For what?" The driver said