The sun filtered through lacy white curtains as Madeline stirred beneath the pink silk sheets. Her robe lay half-draped across her, the rest tangled at the foot of the bed like a casualty of war. She stretched like a cat who knew she was admired, rolled over, and checked her phone with a lazy flick of her manicured hand.
One text from Maggie:
Wakey wakey, champagne and scheming await.
Madeline smiled—a slow, dangerous curve—and rolled out of bed. She padded to her vanity, swiping on concealer, blush, and her signature pink lipstick with the precision of a woman preparing for battle. Final touch: oversized sunglasses. A queen should wear armor.
By the time she arrived at Salon du Soleil, Maggie was already mid-manicure, sipping a lavender latte and flipping through a celebrity gossip ma
