The personal gym bled into the bath like a lover's sigh, the bath unfurled into the bedroom suite with invitation, and the bedroom suite dissolved seamlessly into the closet.
On paper, the design had been clean, deliberate, almost arrogantly symmetrical—a quiet flex of perfection.
Reality, however, had a delightfully wicked sense of humor.
This particular morning, three corridors east of where mom held court at her vanity like a queen surveying her dominion, and four corridors south of wherever Madison was still dramatically pretending to sleep like the little gremlin she was.
I drifted through the gym wing wrapped in a soft black robe that had been pre-warmed with almost scandalous care.
The air itself felt bespoke. Temperature, scent, even the quality of silence tuned to a frequency that whispered obscene wealth with every breath.
I reached my bedroom door only to pause.
