Aston Martin Is Trying To Win Back My Love With A Luxury High Rise

A few months ago, Aston Martin and I got into a little tiff. I didn’t tell you about it because I didn’t want you to worry.

Basically, I wanted an Aston Martin Vulcan cut out of a single diamond for my personal use. I wanted it to catch the light as only a finely cut diamond can. I didn’t see anything wrong with this.


I was told this would be impossible. That a diamond that big simply doesn’t exist. That the Vulcan is a track car and those shouldn’t be made from diamonds at all.

I didn’t take the news well. After stringing the offending Aston Martin rep up by his thumbs for two days and still not getting my car, I filled my Aston Martin boat up with gunpowder and gasoline, towed it out to the middle of the bay and lit that bitch on fire with a flaming arrow shot by a trusted servant. I smoked two unfiltered cigarettes and watched her burn and sink against a fiery sunset. And then I sent the ensuing news report to Aston Martin.

I heard nothing back. That was fine. I could wait. It was their move, anyway.

Yesterday, they folded. I got a surprise house call from a different Aston Martin rep (it’s hard to hold a phone with no thumbs). They were reaching to tell me that they built a brand-new luxury residential high rise in Miami just for me. I was welcome to move in as soon as it was ready.


“How many floors is it?” I asked. A servant fanned me gently with a large peacock feather fan. Another stood in the distance, sweeping my private beach flat.


“Sixty-six, Madame.”


“But of course.”


Good. There is no other way to live. The more you look down on the poor people the better. “Private pools? Marble flooring?”

“Only the best.”

I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “And where will I park my yacht?”


“We have an exclusive yacht marina, Madame.”

There was a flash of orange at the corner of my vision. I glanced over quickly, but it was only the tiger padding softly into the room. “Pet friendly?”



I ran my fingers through the tiger’s thick fur while I considered. Its deep purring reverberated through the air. I didn’t actually need more real estate, but a penthouse in Miami with yacht access was hard to pass up, even for me.


I had also heard the quaver in the rep’s voice when he spoke to me. They were afraid, that much was clear. This was fear no amount of money in the world could buy. And I owned it.

“Arrange a trip for me, I’d like to come out and see this penthouse,” I finally said. “The company plane is available tomorrow, correct?”


“Madame? The plane is currently undergoing repairs—”

Fix it faster, then,” I snarled, letting the tiniest bit of steel creep into my tone. Even over the phone, I could hear the blanching.


“Right away, Madame, the plane will be ready by tomorrow afternoon.” He paused. “And... Madame?”


“Would-would you, at least, try not to burn the plane or the building if they do not suit your needs?”


I stretched in my chair, yawning. “I can’t make any promises.”


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About the author

Kristen Lee

Writer at Jalopnik and consumer of many noodles.