Wrapped up, Camila shrugged. "Nah, it's cool. Once those blisters burst, they'll feel better."

Isaac fretted. "Does it hurt though?"

"No."

She shook her head.

After a soak, Camila seemed less worn out.

"Oh, Isaac."

She remembered the business card and passed it to him.

"Some woman handed me this, no intro, just digits and an address."

Isaac glanced, then binned it without a second thought.

Camila was puzzled. "Why chuck it? Wasn't that rude?"

"It's not a personal card. It's club stuff."

Camila prodded, asking, "What sort of club?"

Isaac smirked. "A rich wives’ hangout. A snazzy get-together for the well-heeled ladies."

Camila had had a hunch about it.

She'd caught glimpses on TV-rich wives sipping black tea, hitting social scenes, and splurging on shopping sprees.

"These ladies, they're loaded and bored, so they gather to dish dirt. It's their jam."

Isaac laid down the law. "There's no way you're getting mixed up in that club scene."

Camila scratched her head. "Why the ban?"

Isaac dropped a cryptic bomb. “You're too young for that crowd. Those joints are for seasoned ladies."

Camila couldn't wrap her head around it.