The party was still a storm of champagne bubbles and whispered sins, but my attention kept drifting to the rectangular weight in my pocket. Amanda's hotel key card. A plastic invitation to burn Harold's paper-thin world down from the inside.
The Appreciation Society chat wouldn't stop buzzing, my phone pulsing with half-drunk goddesses firing off increasingly explicit promises. Vivienne already wanted me in her gallery vault. Anastasia was drafting chemistry experiments no FDA would approve. Celeste wanted to curate me like a priceless artifact.
But Amanda? Silent. No winking emojis. No playful promises. Just absence. Which told me she wasn't typing because she was preparing. And that silence made my enhanced instincts hum like a predator catching the heartbeat of prey before the kill.
"Madison," I murmured, pulling her aside while Margaret spun stories about Miami real estate like a queen disguising smuggling routes as networking anecdotes.
