HAZEL
By the time people have finished with the clothes, I mean really finished, the presidential suite looks like a fashion battlefield after an apocalypse.
Garment bags are empty. Hangers are bare. The staff keep thanking me as I’ve personally solved their financial problems for the next decade. I lie back on the chaise lounge in a silk robe that may very well cost more than my first apartment, eyes closed, while warm oil is worked into my shoulders.
“This pressure okay?” one of the therapists asks softly.
“Perfect,” I murmur.
I hear Nico exhale sharply from somewhere near the door and smirk to myself.
Hands move over me with practised ease. Hot stones follow. A facial mask cools my skin. Someone brushes my hair. Someone else massages my feet. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I let the
