The Voyeur Wellness Center looked exactly like what would happen if modern architecture had sex with discretion and their baby was raised by money. Black geometric angles jutted into the sky, sharp lines stacked in impossible symmetry.
Floor-to-ceiling glass wrapped the structure, revealing light but no secrets, while warm recessed strips glowed along its edges like a halo for the damned.
A wide staircase climbed one side, lit subtly as if each step was designed to say exclusive, not accessible. Palm trees and minimalist landscaping framed the entrance, the whole thing screaming precision and wealth.
The parking lot didn't just confirm it—it flaunted it.
Bentleys, Maseratis, a fucking Bugatti. These weren't desperate housewives. These were desperate millionaire billionaire wives.
