The Main Legacy Common Room had a lot of private spaces.
Little alcoves carved out for girls with family names older than most countries. Reading nooks where heiresses could cry about their fathers' expectations without ruining their mascara in public. Secret corners where the daughters of dynasties gossiped and schemed and occasionally—occasionally—admitted they were human beings with human feelings.
But Amber Castellano's private room was something else entirely.
A space carved right out of the common area, just for her. Because when your family moved half the world's shipping containers, when your surname was practically embossed on every port from Shanghai to Rotterdam, you got a room with your name on the door and nobody questioned it.
Small. Intimate. A couch that could fit maybe four people if they didn't mind being close—and they were close, tonight, closer than usual, thighs pressed together in a way none of them would acknowledge out loud.
A mounted screen on the wall.
