An arcade. There was definitely an arcade.
I try to sit up again and immediately flop back down, clutching my head.
"Okay," I whisper. "We're going to approach this like a recipe."
Because when your life is falling apart, structure helps.
Harper's Morning-After Checklist:
- Location: Bellagio penthouse (concerning)
- Outfit: Sparkly teal dress, post-apocalyptic edition
- Face: One false eyelash clinging to my cheek like it's fighting for survival
- Feet: Still in stilettos (for some God-forsaken reason)
- Left hand: Carrying the GDP of a small nation
I stare at the ceiling, and my phone buzzes again.
MARGOT: Harp answer
MARGOT: If you're alive send literally anything
I type with one eye open.
ME:
MARGOT: WHAT DOES THAT MEAN
MARGOT: WHERE ARE YOU
AMELIA: it means she's alive and suffering
AMELIA: classic
I huff out a weak laugh that immediately turns into a wince, gaze drifting back to the ring, to the weight of it, to the implication of it.
And that's when I hear the sound of a nearby shower turn off, and every muscle in my body goes on high alert.
Okay, so I’m definitely not dead after all.
Because the afterlife wouldn't include the sound of running water and the sudden, visceral awareness that I am not alone in this hotel suite.
The bathroom door opens in a cloud of steam.
And out walks an angel.
At least, that's what my tequila-soaked brain registers first.
Because the man emerging from the bathroom in nothing but a white hotel towel is objectively, undeniably, categorically ethereal-looking.
His dark hair is still damp, pushed back from his forehead in a way that makes his face look sharper—harder. Water tracks down his chest in distracting lines, over a body that appears to have been engineered by a team of very ambitious Italian sculptors.
Broad shoulders. Lean waist. The sort of torso that can only exist thanks to a personal trainer, a private chef, and an allergy to carbohydrates.
My eyes dip lower before I can stop them—following the water as it runs down the center of his torso, over the ridges of his abs, collecting in the hollow of his navel before disappearing beneath the terry cloth.
