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The jet touched down on the sunlit tarmac of the Maldives like a whisper. Smooth. Effortless. The kind of landing that cost six figures and came with a champagne toast. But the peace didn't last long.
The chaos that followed was loud, colorful, and aggressively branded.
They were met not with customs lines but a smiling resort director who greeted each of them by name, handed out flower garlands, and personally ensured the group bypassed anything resembling airport protocol. By the time they were loaded into private golf carts headed toward the villa, exhaustion had taken on new forms.
Max was sprawled across one cart like a Roman painting, one loafer missing, shirt unbuttoned to the navel, sunglasses askew. He was either asleep or manifesting.
Audrey sat next to him with the tense, no-nonsense posture of someone who had made a to-do list mid-flight. Every few minutes she jabbed Max with her elbow while hissing at a resort concierge about Wi-Fi strength.
Julien floated in front of them all, luminous and unbothered in a gold silk set that had somehow survived a ten-hour flight without wrinkling. She had a phone in one hand, a portable light in the other, and was already filming a "we just landed" TikTok with Luna.
Luna's hair was still perfect, her lip gloss still glossy, and her tone deadly as she barked into two phones at once. Something about overnighting a "sun-specific serum" and threatening to fire a stylist back in New York.
Obie trudged behind them like a man drafted into a war he didn't sign up for. His tan neck pouch bounced with every step.
And Monet?
Monet was unraveling.
She hadn't slept. Hadn't eaten. She had, however, spent seven straight hours seated next to Adelaide on a private jet, not allowed to touch her. Not allowed to look for too long. Not allowed to act on the very clear invitation of Addy stretching her legs across her lap mid-flight and pretending not to notice the effect.
Now, here she was—walking ten steps behind, the island breeze ruffling her braids and her self-control, watching Addy's hair flutter loose from its clip. Watching the gold ankle bracelet flash like a weaponized wink.
"Jet lag?" Adelaide called casually over her shoulder.
Monet muttered, "Jet murder."
Addy only smiled.
When they reached the villa, it took Monet's breath in a way that had nothing to do with Addy and everything to do with the sprawling layout. Overwater bungalows. Infinity pools. Private chefs. A welcome table set with fresh fruit, crystal bottles of sparkling water, and chilled coconut halves resting in carved ice.
It looked like a Vogue spread waiting to happen.
Max was the first to drop. He collapsed face-first onto the sunken white leather couch and groaned into a throw pillow. "Wake me when I'm tan."
