The atmosphere in the room curdled from "exclusive party" to "high-end depravity" in the span of a single heartbeat. My intuition had been screaming it since we walked past the meat lockers, but seeing it was different. This was some "Diddy-level" insanity—a playground for the untouchable, where the laws of the outside world simply ceased to exist at the door.
It was Epstein Island without the plane ride, a windowless sanctuary where the world's most recognizable faces shed their public personas like dead skin.
Across the room, the "Disney" starlet was already pressed against the velvet wallpaper, her mask discarded, as two men in tailored suits explored her with a frantic, public hunger. There was no shame here. No one was looking for a private bedroom because the entire room was their private theater. The scent of expensive cologne began to mix with the heavy, salt-and-copper musk of a room losing its inhibitions.
