Even the demons in the deepest pits of Hell get a break sometimes; they grab a glass of lava, take a sulfur bath, and relax. But not me.
My punishment is to wander as an invisible shadow in Lola's bubblegum-pink world and watch her "self-destruction" attempts on a 24/7 live feed.
Do you want to know what she's doing right now? Just because that 'Emerald-Eyed Disaster'—a.k.a. Adam—smokes, she bought a pack of those heavy, lung-scorching cigarettes she's detested her whole life.
She's holding the box between her fingers like a holy relic, like some ancient grimoire. And that's not all. Just because Adam once mentioned he "likes caramel," she's sipping on a Venti Caramel Mocha so sugary it could put a literal elephant into a diabetic coma.
"Asti..." I whispered, aching for my husband Astaroth's stern, authoritative, and (most importantly) logical presence back in Hell.
