Head to club

The limo rolls up to the velvet rope of AVANT, the newest, most impossible-to-get-into club on the Sunset Strip. The line snakes halfway down the block: girls in sequins and desperation, phones out, praying for a miracle.

The bouncer spots Emma first instant recognition, instant respect. Then you. Then Riley. The rope unhooks before you even slow your stride. A chorus of whiny “that’s not fair” follows you inside, but the bass drowns it out.

You’re escorted past the main floor (past the mortals) up a private staircase lit in electric violet. The VIP room is a glass box suspended above the dance floor: one-way mirrors on three sides, plush white leather banquettes, a private bar glowing sapphire.

The male bartender tall, tatted, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass is already pouring.

“Evening, ladies. Name’s Jaxon. Whatever you want, it’s on the house tonight.”

The waitress petite redhead in a black bodysuit that leaves nothing to the imagination sets down three chilled glasses of something pink and lethal.

“I’m Lila. If you need anything drinks, lines, privacy, just snap.”

Emma slides into the center of the sectional like she owns gravity, legs crossed, backless dress riding high. Riley hops up on the table itself, kicking off her heels and pouring tequila straight into her mouth from the bottle Jaxon offers.

You settle between them, surveying the kingdom.

Emma raises her glass. “To ruining lipstick and egos.”

Riley whoops. “And to making every girl downstairs wish she were us.”

You clink, sip, and grin.

Below, the dance floor throbs. Up here, the three of you are untouchable.

Game on.