The villa at 9 AM looked like a crime scene.
Isabella was in the master suite with the curtains drawn, a cold compress over her eyes. She hadn't spoken since 7:45 AM, when she'd whispered "If anyone makes a sound louder than breathing, I will have them killed" and rolled over. The woman who had once commanded the European financial system was brought low by a Miami nightclub.
Victoria was claiming to be "completely fine" while visibly dying. "Sterlings don't get hangovers," she said, then burped and put her head in her hands.
Cassandra was green. She was lying on the bathroom floor, having consumed exactly two drinks and somehow being more hungover than anyone. "I think it's the strobe lights. They're still in my eyes."
