The room assignment became a diplomatic incident that would have required a United Nations resolution.
There were twelve bedrooms. Nine women. Me. Claire, Ethan, Nia, and Darius. Fourteen people, twelve rooms. Mathematically simple. Politically impossible.
Isabella had already planted her flag in the master suite — the one connected to mine by a shared balcony. She announced this by standing in the doorway and saying, "This one." No one argued. Not because they agreed, but because arguing with Isabella was like arguing with a glacier — slow, futile, and you'd probably lose.
Victoria took the room on the other side of mine. "For balance," she said, which meant nothing and everything.
