"Before my mom died, she told me: never trust men. Money is a woman's only eternal support."
Ava nodded slowly. Then she slammed on the gas and sped toward the Royal Club.
When we arrived, I threw a black card onto the reception desk. The manager bowed and scraped, ushering us into the most luxurious private suite and lining up rows of handsome men for inspection.
Ten minutes later, Ava and I were sipping vintage red wine while a model with sculpted abs knelt before us, massaging our calves, calling us "Big Sister" with every breath.
Men are trash. As long as you have money, there will always be plenty of pretty faces willing to crawl at your feet.
The models were mid-laugh when a commotion erupted next door. Through the thin walls, three words pierced my ears.
*Sara Graves.*
I walked into the corridor.
A massive banner was draped across the adjacent suite's entrance. Gilded letters proclaimed: *"Celebrating Sara Graves on the Joyous Birth of her Precious Son and Daughter."*
Inside, voices rang out—loud, boisterous, grating.
"Sara, you really are the best! No morning sickness, your figure is still perfect, and you became a mother without a single stretch mark!"