Peach was sprawled on the living room couch like a discarded doll, one leg dangling off the edge, her body soaked in sweat and wrapped in a fleece blanket someone must've thrown over her during the night. Her skin burned. Everything ached. Even blinking felt like a betrayal, and the young woman hated herself for it.
Once dawn kissed San-Destro, everyone else who had come for the party left the mansion—except Peach, who had drowned herself in all kinds of alcohol and was left behind by her sister.
The sun pouring in through the windows made her eyes squint. She groaned, curling further into the pillow beneath her cheek, her face sticky with last night's makeup. Mascara had smudged halfway across her temple. She barely noticed; she had bawled her eyes out the previous night. Now her throat felt like she'd swallowed a cactus.
