Ada’s heels click on the parquet flooring in her Parisian apartment, an unlit cigarette in one hand and a baggie in the other. She tosses it onto the coffee table before you, sitting on the arm of the couch. “For us. Celebrating a job well done, on my part.” She plucks a niche perfume bottle off a mirrored tray and slides the tray over towards you. Once her (significant) checks hit, Ada has a tendency to indulge, to party a bit. All the better for you, since that just means you get to be spoiled rotten. This month, that means a hedonistic week of lounging around in matching La Perla slips together, ignoring the outside world.