There are retreats… and then there are death traps with complimentary cucumber water.
The bus smelled like air-conditioned stress and diluted ambition. Camille sat at the front with a clipboard like we were on a school trip, only instead of kids with snack boxes, she had adults with corporate trauma and under-eye bags so deep they had their own zip code. Outside, the road curved through forest-lined hills until we arrived at a place that looked like a magazine ad for emotionally repressed wellness. Glass walls. Infinity pools. Pine-scented silence. It screamed peaceful i********: collapse.
And I was already regretting everything.
The second we stepped into the marble-tiled lobby, Camille clapped her hands like she was about to sacrifice someone.
“Room assignments are up,” she said. “Ch
