The Fontainebleau Miami Beach penthouse suite hit like a fucking slap from a golden glove. Floor-to-ceiling windows vomiting an ocean that stretched to eternity, marble everywhere—floors, counters, maybe even the light switches—enough space to host a small army of wealthy women screaming silently into their silk pillowcases.
Charlotte face-planted onto the Italian leather couch like someone had just yanked the plug on her battery pack. I half-expected smoke to rise from her temples.
Madison, on the other hand, explored the bathroom with the reverence of a historian finding the lost works of Da Vinci… and let's be honest, she understood luxury the way some people understand breathing. Heated toilet seats? Rainfall showers that could host orgies?
Happiness, apparently, could be bought, and apparently, Madison had the diploma.
