He sat on the black leather couch, a stack of Zenin financial reports spread across the glass coffee table, a half-empty glass of whiskey sweating condensation into the polished wood.

The digital clock on the marble mantelpiece read just past 1 AM.

Then the front door clicked, creaked open, and stumbled shut.

A soft, drunken giggle echoed through the hallway.

The black rhinestone dress clung to her like it had been painted on, catching the dim light and scattering it across the room in tiny, glittering bursts. Her hair was slightly tousled, her cheeks flushed a warm pink.

She was smiling, but it was that lazy, unsteady sort of smile.