>Mara Bryce
It was the weekend, and the busy city was buzzing in its usual glamour as I stood against the glass wall of the skyscraper that housed my condo. I was still in a loose white robe, the fabric brushing softly against my skin, a glass of wine balanced lazily in my left hand. Below me, the city glittered, unaware that I had every intention of spending another day free from responsibilities—free from the suffocating idea of becoming anyone's successor. I took a sip of the wine.
What a life.
Then, suddenly, my phone buzzed.
I let out a small sigh before pushing myself off the glass and walking toward the table where I'd left it. I picked the phone up, plopped onto the sofa, and pressed the answer button, bringing it to my ear with casual laziness.
"Yes?" I muttered, reaching blindly with my free hand to grab the TV remote, clicking buttons to find something mindless to watch.
