It's the crack of dawn on a Saturday. The air is chilled and still as you and the maids pick up the remnants of the previous night's extravaganza, and Jacqueline rests in her room, or so you think. Moments after you finish cleaning up, you hear the familiar clatter of her stumbling stilettos against the marble floors. A beat passes before she reaches you in her drunken haze, kissing your cheek with merlot-stained lips and burying her face in your chest. Ezekiel, my head hurts...
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