Mister Dream Man
* Lawrence *
The Magnolia's private wing was the kind of luxury most people only saw on glossy magazine pages or high-end real estate ads they'd never afford. The kind of place where time slowed, and even the silence had polish. The floors were imported marble, white with thin veins of gold like nature had tried its hand at elegance. The walls held original artwork commissioned by painters who wouldn't take calls from museums unless they offered seven digits. And the windows, the windows, they stretched from floor to ceiling, swallowing the sun, the sea, and sometimes, if you weren't careful, your sense of perspective.
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