The Fontainebleau penthouse hung over the Atlantic like a tomb with a view. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed an ocean that didn't give a damn. Marble floors reflected dead presidents and worse regrets. The air? A cocktail of ozone, stale champagne, and the ghost of too many bad decisions. Somebody buried their guilty conscience under gold leaf and called it luxury.
Charlotte collapsed face-first onto Italian leather that cost more than a human soul. Her Louboutins dug in like grave markers. Phone dead? Strategically dead. Easier than facing the wolves – boardroom hyenas, tabloid vultures, and scavengers who'd smelled blood in the water long before tonight.
