The doorman's white-gloved hands push open ridiculously heavy glass doors, and I step into a lobby that's several tax brackets above my salary range. Crystal chandeliers drip. Marble floors gleam.
"Damn," Penelope whispers at my side. "I feel like I should curtsy or something."
I snort. "Right? It's like Versailles and Fort Knox had a baby, then bathed it in liquid gold."
We navigate around a fountain that could double as a small lake, complete with honest-to-god swans gliding across its surface. Because nothing says 'tasteful wealth' like forcing waterfowl to be living decorations.
"Ten bucks says those birds shit gold nuggets," Penelope mutters.
"Twenty says some poor bastard's job is to fish them out and resell them."
A concierge approaches, his smile so plastered it could hold up drywall. "Good evening, ladies. How may I assist you?"
