The soft glow of dawn kisses the Spireline Hotel's glass façade as the car pulls into the private valet circle. The city hasn't woken up yet, but its pulse is rising. The streets are quiet. The sky is shimmering a pale gold, freckled with peach-pink clouds that hang like puffs of marshmallow in the air.
The car slows down to a halt before quickly lurching forward and doing two more laps of the valet circle.
It finally inches to a halt and the door swings open with a click.
Vaela steps out, half-stumbling onto the curb. Her black gown wrinkled in places it hadn't been hours earlier. Her heels in one hand, her lips swollen from kissing, and her hair, once a glossy wave, is now a mess of sensual chaos and a telling sign of titillation.
