Fiona flopped backward onto her bed with enough drama to qualify as a stage performance, one arm thrown over her forehead like life itself had personally offended her.
"Ugh... back to this again." She groaned, kicking her legs against the mattress. "I hate weekends."
After a moment, she pushed herself up, resting on her elbows as her brows furrowed thoughtfully.
"Wait... I can't be the only one in this house."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Maybe Amira's upstairs..."
Then she froze.
Fiona suddenly sat upright, her brows knitting together as a disturbing thought crossed her mind.
"Wait a minute..." she muttered.
She tapped her chin dramatically.
"Now that I think about it... he's never—not once—taken any of his girls upstairs."
Her eyes slowly widened.
"Not... once."
She pointed at nothing in particular, as if connecting invisible clues.
