The penthouse felt like a gilded cage after surviving a fucking warzone. Hours ago, we'd dragged Soo-Jin from trafficking survivor to trust-fund chameleon; in between, I'd endured brutal cross-examination about my strawberry milk dependency.
Apparently, grown men aren't supposed to chug it straight from the carton. Who knew?
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, Miami's skyline pulsed like a neon nervous system—a circuit board wired for vice and vertigo. My own kingdom back home buzzed at the edge of my mind. Time to check the gates.
Soo-Jin had vanished into a guest suite, probably mainlining the silence after her extreme makeover. Who could blame her? Surviving requires processing. That meant ghosts. And solitude.
Madison and Amanda claimed the living area like they'd conquered it. Technically, Amanda had—squatting rent-free while her life detonated in slow motion. Madison just radiated ownership by default. War brides sharing the spoils.
