Arrabella
So will Patrick.
She tosses the damp towelette into the basket and opens her clutch.
Her hands are jittery and she bumps the purse, causing its contents to scatter across the counter.
A few items roll to the edge, and she hears some drop on the floor.
She curses and crouches down to gather up a lipstick and a compact.
She stuffs them back into her purse, but realizes her EpiPen is missing.
She presses her lips together to set the red shade. This color always feeds her inner power. It’s the perfect foil against her pale complexion, and it makes the color of her eyes pop.
Focus, Arra, she whispers, turning sideways for one last check in the gilt mirror of the sumptuous bathroom.
You’re a fucking goddess, girl. You got this.
Feeling more composed, back in control, Arrabella quickly texts Patrick.
Hey love,
I’m going back to the room. Bad headache—need to call it a night. Not feeling well suddenly. Must be the heat, stress, cocktails on empty stomach. Also think I left my EpiPen in the suite and need to find it. Take your time. See you later.
A.
XOXO