Brazzers
Jillian Janson, Charles Dera Pic(s)
The opulent penthouse suite, usually a stage for uninhibited celebration, was unnervingly silent, save for the frantic popping of stray champagne bubbles underfoot. Jillian Janson, her designer dress clinging to her damp frame, stood frozen in the center of the room, her wide eyes fixed on the chaotic scene. Empty magnums of vintage Dom Pérignon lay toppled like fallen soldiers, their golden contents still fizzing in a growing puddle on the marble floor. Across from her, Charles Dera, his tuxedo jacket discarded and bowtie hanging loose, ran a hand through his disheveled hair in sheer disbelief. The entire space was a glistening, sticky sea of spilled champagne, with iridescent orbs clinging to the velvet curtains and the crystal chandelier overhead. Just an hour prior, the air had been thick with laughter and the celebratory clinking of glasses, a triumphant party for a closed business deal. Now, the only evidence of that revelry was this bizarre, effervescent flood and the lingering, sweetly acidic scent of expensive ruin. “I just turned my back for one minute,” Jillian whispered, her voice trembling as she gestured toward the still-flowing fountain, which someone had mischievously stuffed with a rag. Charles cautiously stepped forward, his polished shoes making a soft, squelching sound with each step on the saturated Persian rug. The central mystery, however, remained utterly perplexing: who, or what, had caused this deluge of bubble trouble, transforming their sophisticated soiree into a surreal, sodden crime scene?
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