The penthouse suite looked like a rapper overdosed on Pinterest — floor-to-ceiling windows flexing Miami's skyline like it was OnlyFans bait, marble everything polished to 'don't touch that with your broke fingers' levels, and a bar that probably cost more than a starter home in Ohio.
Charlotte collapsed onto the white leather couch like a Gucci-clad cadaver. Madison, meanwhile, was already raiding the champagne like she'd been personally sponsored by alcoholism.
"To the worst fucking day of my professional life," Charlotte croaked, raising her glass with the elegance of a actress mid-scandal. "My company's down forty-two percent, my reputation's destroyed, and professors I've never met are calling me a fraud on every news channel in America."
"Cheers to that," I said, clinking my glass way too enthusiastically for a man whose patterner just got ratioed harder than Will Smith's dignity post-Oscars.
