"Who the hell's idea was it," Vaela groans, her voice like crushed velvet dipped in acid, "to play strip royal flush the night before the most important pitch of our lives?"
A half-naked Lucien and an equally shirtless Thalos, both seated cross-legged on the carpet with rumpled hair and matching hangovers, point at the same time toward the chaise lounge.
Lilith, in nothing but a silky robe and a smug grin, raises a hand lazily.
"Guilty."
She lifts her mimosa to toast no one in particular. "But you weren't complaining last night, babe. Especially not while sipping champagne off my—"
"Don't!" Vaela snaps, pointing a threatening nail in her direction, still half-buttoned in a sleek blazer that clashes wildly with the pajama shorts she's somehow still wearing.
