Under the dusky blush of sunset the Venetian was a spectacular beacon, polished inside and out—a true Las Vegas gem. The air was sweet with late-summer blooms. Inside, the marble floors echoed as Danica Blue marched—anyone who knew her knew she didn’t simply walk or strut or glide, but instead marched—to her destination within the grand hotel. The engraved invitation was to an elegant late-afternoon tea, but Danica didn’t harbor a shred of doubt that a raunchy bachelorette party awaited. At the double doors of the Renaissance suite, she paused, going over a mental checklist. The chiffon-green tea-length dress she wore was simple and strapless, designed for just this occasion—so she had no concern there. Despite the sunshiny afternoon, she’d driven to the Venetian with the top of her silver Porsche Boxster up to protect her wispy bangs and side-swept braid from the wind. With hair and makeup on point, that left her posture. From the time Danica had been four and toddling around in her mother’s high heels, trying to fill Temperance Blue’s shoes even then, she’d been warned that sloppy posture ruined any look.
