The smell of expensive coffee and something distinctly breakfast-like pulled me from the bed. My stomach reminded me that even gods needed fuel, especially after transforming their entire genetic structure in a hotel bathtub.
*
The dining area looked like the kind of scene you'd see in a glossy lifestyle magazine—if that family portrait also featured a traumatized Korean trafficking survivor cooking, a billionaire CEO in crisis, her recently-topless mother, and two women who'd been sharing me without complaint. Dysfunction packaged as luxury.
Margaret wouldn't meet my eyes. She'd found clothes—silk blouse, flawless cut, price tag obscene—but her cheeks stayed crimson like she'd swallowed a sun. Every time she reached for something, she glanced at me, then looked away so fast you'd think the sight of me burned or as if my eye contact itself might undress her again.
She was behaving like a teenager minimizing porn when the door opens.
