That monstrous white shitstain, Sacré-Cœur, scars Paris like an ideological pimple. I loathe it. Tourists trample the steps, confusing it with Notre-Dame, snapping selfies amid the throng. Panties flash. Cleavages…
I slammed the phone down in my corner office, tears stinging. Tenth voicemail to Anna. The blonde bitch ignored me since our scorching office fling. Leather seat creaked as I…
Our exclusive summer villa perches on a sun-drenched island off France, mere minutes from the mainland. Blue shutters frame ocean views. Teak loungers cradle my body under a cashmere throw.…