Page 542 of Bad Prince
The second we stepped inside, she looked up, recognized Tristan, then me, and did the sort of subtle professional recalibration that means yes, she absolutely knew who we were, and no, she planned to act like she didn’t.
Tristan gave our names.
She handed us robes and quietly said, “Your private recovery suite is ready.”
Private suite.
I turned to look at him.
“You really did solve this.”
He glanced down at me.
“I tipped enough that if anyone leaks anything, they’ll probably lose a kidney.”
I laughed so hard my sore abs protested.
“Tristan.”
“What?”
“That’s insane.”
He reached out and hooked a finger briefly under the collar of my hoodie.
“So are you. Keep moving.”
The suite was unreal.
Not spa-frilly.
Not candles-and-whale-music absurd.
Athlete heaven.
A treatment room with two massage tables.
A stone plunge pool sunk into the floor.
A cedar sauna glowing amber.
A glass steam room with eucalyptus drifting through it.
Heated towels stacked in cubbies.
Recovery tools lined up with military precision.
It should have felt indulgent.
Instead it felt like the first exhale after weeks of clenching.
The massage therapist came in first—a woman built like she had once broken somebody in judo and still occasionally considered doing it again. She introduced herself as Mira, shook both our hands, and asked us what hurt.
I almost kissed her on the mouth.
“Everything,” I said.
She nodded like that was a useful starting point.
