Blonde waves fall past my shoulders, creased from the bun. I swipe on the lip gloss. It does almost nothing, but at least my mouth looks less like it's been making out with bleach fumes.
I point at my reflection. "We're aiming for 'alive' and 'not covered in chemicals.' Anything above that is bonus content."
My reflection does not look convinced.
The door swings open.
Sylvie bursts in like she just got announced by a trumpet.
Little black dress. Heels. Lipstick. A grin that could probably start a small cult.
"Thea!"
She barrels into me. I grunt, then hug her back.
She smells like vanilla, wine, and trouble. So, Sylvie.
"You came," she says.
"I said one drink. I'm not a liar. I'm just chronically exhausted."
"You look pretty!"
I snort. "I look like a maid who lost a fight with a linen closet."
"No." She pulls back and actually looks at me. "You look like you forgot you're hot."
"I've never known that."
"Liar." She grabs my hand. "Come on. The bar is insane tonight."
"Insane with what?"
"People with money."
"That is everyone in this hotel."
"Exactly."
She drags me out before I can change my mind.
I follow because I miss her. Because I'm lonely. Because sometimes, when your world gets too small, even a bad idea looks like a door you're willing to kick open.
The Belvedere bar glows gold and warm, all velvet chairs, low lighting, and crystal glasses. Men in suits sprawl like they own the skyline.
"This is very not my scene," I murmur.
"That's because your scene is sad soup and romance audiobooks," Sylvie says.
"Romance is not sad."
"Your soup is."
"Wow," I say. "Roasting me in public. Bold choice for someone who still owes me fifty bucks."
She snorts and steers me toward a table in the back. Two concierge girls, Mia and Janie, are already there. Polished, glossy, the kind of women who can wear white pants and trust the universe.
A man stands beside them.