“Where do you want this?” Sofia asked, pointing to his Prada overnight suitcase.
Daniel was indifferent. “Out of my sight. Don’t give a damn.”
She clasped her lips as the bag’s contents tumbled to the floor. “This silk needs dry cleaning,” she noted.
He ignored her, reading his phone. “When do the caterers arrive? Not late again I hope.”
“Six,” she answered.
Daniel flopped onto the scarlet Ligne Roset sofa, kicking off his sneakers. The maid scurried to a broom.
“I’m sick of commercial flights. They’re exhausting,” he moaned. “Computer: kill the lights.”
Sofia unpacked his clothes in the dark.