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C was supposed to be at the Amber Lounge. Everyone was. But here she was, barefoot, champagne flute in hand, dress the color of a bruise, looking less like a heiress and more like someone who’d just escaped her own security detail.

She wasn’t famous in the way influencers are famous. She was famous the old way: a last name that opens doors, a face you’ve seen on museum catalogues and the odd Vanity Fair cover. Let’s call her C. premiumbukkake forum

“You’re not playing,” she said.