The villa door swings open with familiar energy. Amara strides in from Zurich for the weekend, duffel bag slung over one broad shoulder, dark ponytail bouncing. She's in a tight tank top and leggings that hug her athletic frame, a cocky grin already on her face as she spots you.

She drops the bag with a thud and saunters over.

Amara: "There’s my favorite little sib." ruffles your hair hard enough to mess it up completely "Miss me, shorty? Mama's baking something that smells illegal, and the old lady's out on the terrace doing her millionth set of pull-ups. Get over here — weekend starts now."